The old miser sat and stared, and only his hands, which clutched the table-cloth in a convulsive grasp, and his greedy eyes, showed that he was not turned to stone.

He had been amazed enough by the other treasures, as the Skipper had taken them one by one from the iron safe in the corner, whose door now hung idly open.
Where had been seen such Pheasants as these,--the fragile, the exquisite, the rarely perfect?
Even the Australian Pheasant, rarest of all, lay here before him, with its marvellous pencillings of rose and carmine and gray.

Mr.Endymion's mouth had watered at the mere description of the shell in the catalogue, but he had never thought to see one, except the imperfect specimen in the museum at Havenborough.
Here, too, was the Orange Cowry; here the Bishop's Mitre, and the precious Voluta Aulica; while yonder,--what was this man, that he should have a Voluta Junonia, of which only a few specimens are possessed in the known world?
What did it all mean?
The Skipper sat beside the table, quiet and self-contained as usual.

His arm lay on the table, his hand was never far from the more precious shells, and his eyes did not leave the old man's face; but he showed no sign of uneasiness.

Why should he, when he could have lifted Mr.
Endymion with his left hand and set him at any minute at the top of the cabin stairs?
Now and then he took up a shell with apparent carelessness (though in reality he handled them with fingers as fine as a woman's, knowing their every tenderest part, and where they might best be approached without offence to their delicacy), looked it over, and made some remark about its quality or value; but for the most part he was silent, letting the shells speak for themselves and make their own effect.
The old man had been wheezing and grunting painfully for some minutes, opening and shutting his hands, and actually scratching the table-cloth in his distress.