"I shouldn't have come to this fag-end of Christendom if I hadn't wanted very much to see you, you may depend upon it, Carrington," answered Reginald, sulkily. "What on earth makes you live in such an out-of-the-way hole?" "I am a student, and an out-of-the-way hole--as you are good enough to call it--suits my habits. Besides, this house is cheap, and the rent suits my pocket." "It looks like a doll's house," said Reginald, contemptuously. "My mother likes to surround herself with birds and flowers," answered the surgeon; "and I like to indulge any fancy of my mother's." Victor Carrington's countenance seemed to undergo a kind of transformation as he spoke of his mother. The bright glitter of his eyes softened; the hard lines of his iron mouth relaxed. The one tender sentiment of a dark and dangerous nature was this man's affection for his widowed mother. He opened the door of an apartment at the back of the house, and entered, followed by Mr. Eversleigh. Reginald stared in wonder at the chamber in which he found himself. The room had once been a kitchen, and was much larger than any other room in the cottage. Here there was no attempt at either comfort or elegance. The bare, white-washed walls had no adornment but a deal shelf here and there, loaded with strange-looking phials and gallipots. Here all the elaborate paraphernalia of a chemist's laboratory was visible. Here Reginald Eversleigh beheld stoves, retorts, alembics, distilling apparatus; all the strange machinery of that science which always seems dark and mysterious to the ignorant. The visitor looked about him in utter bewilderment. "Why, Victor," he exclaimed, "your room looks like the laboratory of some alchymist of the Middle Ages--the sort of man people used to burn as a wizard." "I am rather an enthusiastic student of my art," answered the surgeon. The visitor's eyes wandered round the room in amazement. Suddenly they alighted on some object on the table near the stove. Carrington perceived the glance, and, with a hasty movement, very unusual to him, dropped his handkerchief upon the object. The movement, rapid though it was, came too late, for Reginald Eversleigh had distinguished the nature of the object which the surgeon wished to conceal from him. It was a mask of metal, with glass eyes. "So you wear a mask when you are at work, eh, Carrington?" said Mr. Eversleigh. "That looks as if you dabble in poisons." "Half the agents employed in chemistry are poisonous," answered Victor, coolly. "I hope there is no danger in the atmosphere of this room just now?" "None whatever. Come, Reginald, I am sure you have bad news to tell me, or you would never have taken the trouble to come here." "I have, and the worst news. My uncle has married this street ballad-singer." "Good; then we must try to turn this marriage to account." "How so?"