"Yes, and I am better," said Awdrey. "I came back because I thought perhaps Margaret--but by the way, why should I speak so much about myself? My wife was not well when I left her. I hope, doctor, that she consulted you, and that she is now much better." "Considering all things, Mrs. Awdrey is fairly well," said Rumsey. "And she has quite got over that delusion?" "Quite." The doctor's voice was full of decision. Margaret shuddered and turned away. Rumsey seated himself at a little distance from the fire, but Awdrey remained standing. He stood in such a position that the doctor could get a perfect view of him. Rumsey did not fail to avail himself of so excellent a moment for studying this queer case. He observed the wasted face of his patient; the unnaturally large and bright eyes; the lips which used to be firm as a line, and which gave considerable character to the face, but which had now become loose and had a habit of drooping slightly open; the brows, too, worked at times spasmodically, and the really noble forehead, which in old times betokened intelligence to a marked degree, was now furrowed with many lines. While Rumsey watched he also made up his mind. "I must tear the veil from that man's eyes at any cost," he said to himself. He gave Margaret a glance and she left the room. The moment she did so the doctor stood up. "I am glad you have returned," he said. "How strange of you to say that," answered Awdrey. "Do you not remember you were the man who ordered me away?" "I do remember that fact perfectly, but since I gave you that prescription a very marked change has taken place in your condition." "Do you think me worse?" "In one sense you are." Awdrey laughed. "How queer that you should say that," he said, "for to tell you the truth, I really feel better; I am not quite so troubled by inertia." "I must be frank with you, Awdrey. I consider you very ill." Awdrey started when Rumsey said this. "Pray speak out, doctor, I dislike riddles," he replied. "I mean to speak out very plainly. Awdrey, my poor fellow, I am obliged to remind you of the strange history of your house." "What do you mean?" said Awdrey--"the history of my house?" he continued; "there is a psychological history, which I dislike to think of; is it to that you refer?" "Yes, I refer to the queer condition of brain which men of your house have inherited for several generations. It is a queer doom; I am forced to say it is an awful doom. Robert Awdrey, it has fallen upon you." "I thought as much," said Awdrey, "but you never would believe it before." "I had not cause to believe it before. Now I fully believe it. That lapse of memory, which is one of its remarkable symptoms, has taken place in your case. You have forgotten a very important fact in your life."