"I've studied the art of molding in soft metal. I have all the
books on it, and I've turned the boathouse into a sort of shop.
I've spent a hundred pounds - and I can't do it!"
He paused, his big face relaxed.
"The country thinks I'm mad, working with such outlandish
deviltry. But, curse the thing, I have set out to do it and I am
not going to throw it up."
And suddenly with an unexpected heat he damned the Buddha,
shaking his clenched hand before the box.
"Your pardon, Robin," he cried, the moment after. "But the
thing's ridiculous, you know. The ritual story would be sheer
rubbish. The beggars could not affect a metal casting with a
form of words."
I have tried to set down here precisely what my uncle said. It
was the last talk I ever had with the man in this world, and it
profoundly impressed me. He was in fear, and his jovial manner
was a ghastly pretence. I left him sitting by the fire drinking
neat whisky from a tumbler.
The old man-servant took me up to my room. It was a big room in
a wing of the house looking out on the garden and the sea. I saw
that it had been cleaned and made ready against my coming;
clearly the old man expected me.
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