The nurse could only reply that she had no ideas on the subject, and had hardly spoken when the sound of wheels outside brought a look of relief to her face.

“That’s the ice,” she said, rejoicingly.  “We sent for it to Pengarth this afternoon.”

And she fled on light steps to the front door.

“Sent whom? My man—­My cart!” growled Melrose, following her, to verify the outrage with his own eyes.  And there indeed at the steps stood the light cart, the only vehicle which the master of the Tower possessed, driven by his only outdoor servant, Joe Backhouse, who had succeeded Dixon as gardener.  It was full of packages, which the nurse was eagerly taking out, comparing them with a list she held in her hand.

“And of course I’m to pay for them!” thought Melrose furiously.  No doubt his credit has been pledged up to the hilt already for this intruder, this beggar at his gates by these impertinent women.  He stood there watching every packet and bundle with which the nurse was loading her strong arms, feeling himself the while an utterly persecuted and injured being, the sport of gods and men; when the sight of a motor turning the corner of the grass-grown drive, diverted his thoughts.

The doctor—­the arch-villain of the plot!

Melrose bethought himself a moment.  Then he went along the corridor to his library, half expecting to see some other invader ensconced in his own chair.  He rang the bell and Dixon hurriedly appeared.

“Show Doctor Undershaw in here.”

And standing on the rug, every muscle in his tall and still vigorous frame tightening in expectation of the foe, he looked frowning round the chaos of his room.  Pictures, with or without frames, and frames without pictures; books in packing-cases with hinged sides, standing piled one upon another, some closed and some with the sides open and showing the books within; portfolios of engravings and drawings; inlaid or ivory boxes, containing a medley of objects—­miniatures, snuff-boxes, buttons, combs, seals; vases and plates of blue and white Nankin; an Italian stucco or two; a Renaissance bust in painted wood; fragments of stuff, cabinets, chairs, and tables of various dates and styles—­all were gathered together in one vast and ugly confusion.  It might have been a salone in one of the big curiosity shops of Rome or Venice, where the wrecks and sports of centuries are heaped into the piano nobile of some great building, once a palazzo, now a chain of lumber rooms.  For here also, the large and stately library, with its nobly designed bookcases—­still empty of books—­its classical panelling, and embossed ceiling, made a setting of which the miscellaneous plunder within it was not worthy.  A man of taste would have conceived the beautiful room itself as suffering from the disorderly uses to which it was put.

Only, in the centre, the great French table, the masterpiece of Riesener, still stood respected and unencumbered.  It held nothing but a Sevres inkstand and pair of candle-sticks that had once belonged to Madame Elisabeth.  Mrs. Dixon dusted it every morning, with a feather brush, generally under the eyes of Melrose.  He himself regarded it with a fanatical veneration; and one of the chief pleasures of his life was to beguile some passing dealer into making an offer for it, and then contemptuously show him the door.