On tiptoe he crossed the intervening space, and peeped in through the open window.

It was a singular spectacle which met his eyes.
There stood upon the glass table some half-dozen large ingots of gold, which had been made the night before, but which had not been removed to the treasure-house.

On these the old man had thrown himself, as one who enters into his rightful inheritance.

He lay across the table, his arms clasping the bars of gold, his cheek pressed against them, crooning and muttering to himself.

Under the clear, still light, amid the giant wheels and strange engines, that one little dark figure clutching and clinging to the ingots had in it something both weird and piteous.
For five minutes or more Robert stood in the darkness amid the rain, looking in at this strange sight, while his father hardly moved save to cuddle closer to the gold, and to pat it with his thin hands.