‘I believe you,’ said Raphael. ‘I merely mention the course of my thoughts concerning you. I am fully convinced now that, despite certain unusual items connected with your visit, you are exactly what you said you were, and for my doubts I now offer apology. To tell you the truth, I inquired from the Williamson Company this morning as to you, and was quite reassured by what they said. But,’ Mr. Craig went on, with a very pronounced ‘but,’ interrupting Richard, who had embarked on some protest--‘but I have at the same time been forced to the conclusion, Mr. Redgrave, that my household, such as it is, and my ways, such as they are, have roused in you a curiosity which is scarcely worthy of yourself. I am a fairly good judge of character, and I know by infallible signs that you have a nature far above idle curiosity.’
‘Thanks for your good opinion,’ said Richard; ‘but, to deal with your suspicions in their order, may I ask why you thought at first that I was an agent of Scotland Yard? Were you expecting Scotland Yard at Queen’s Farm?’
Mr. Craig threw his cigar into the fireplace.
‘I was,’ said Raphael briefly, ‘and I will tell you why. Some time ago an uncle of mine died, at a great age, and left me a huge fortune. My uncle, Mr. Redgrave, was mad. For fifty years he had put all his savings into silver coins. He had once been in a Mexican silver-mine, and the experience in some mysterious way had affected his brain. Perhaps his brain was already affected. He lived for silver, and in half a century he collected more than half a million separate silver coins--all English, all current, all unused. This fortune he bequeathed to me. I was, in fact, his sole relative.’
‘A strange old fellow he must have been,’ Richard remarked.
‘Yes,’ said Raphael. ‘But I am equally strange. I have said that my uncle had a mania. I, too, have that mania, for I tell you, Mr. Redgrave, that I cannot bring myself to part with those coins. I have the same madness for silver that my uncle had. Away from the silver, I can see myself steadily, can admit frankly to myself that on that one point my brain is, if you like the term, “touched.” In the presence of the silver I exist solely for it, and can think of nothing else.’