I returned the cloak to the wardrobe, put the portrait into my pocket, and with it the letter, then went to Hume. He stood with his back to the window, and his hands behind his back, regarding me, as I entered the room, with a keenness very like impertinence. There was something hawk-like in his attitude, as if he was ready to pounce on me the instant he could find an opening. I had never had much pleasure in the man’s society; but this air of open resentment was new. It was as if out of Lawrence’s murdered body there had come a malicious spirit, which had entered into him, and inspired him with a sudden and unreasoning desire to work me mischief. That he meant to be disagreeable his first words made plain. I immediately made up my mind that, to the best of my ability, his intention should be persistently ignored. “No wonder, Ferguson, that you resented my inquiry as to the terms on which you parted last night with the dead man.” “Indeed? My dear chap, sit down. If you can manage it, don’t wear quite such an air of gravity. This affair of poor Lawrence’s seems to have affected you even more than it has me--which is odd.” “It is odd.” “Because I had always supposed that he was a more intimate acquaintance of mine than yours.” “Such seems to have been the case. How much did you owe him?” “Owe him! Hume, you seem disposed to ask some very odd questions.” “You think so? When a person is suspected of a crime, the first thing one looks for is a motive; you understand?” “I understand your bare words, but what is behind your bare words I do not understand.” “Presently you will. Before we part I will endeavour to make myself sufficiently plain. I repeat my question: How much did you owe him?” “Nothing.” “You lie.” “Hume, that is the second time you have used such language to me this morning, and the second time I have refrained from knocking you down.” “That is true. Perhaps my turn will come to be knocked down. I am aware that you are the sort of person who, for less cause, will do much more than knock a man down.” He inclined his head further towards me, his resemblance to a bird of prey becoming still more pronounced. “Ferguson, I’m a pathologist; a student of mental diseases. As such I have regarded you for some time with growing interest. Unless I err you are the victim of a form of aberration which is not so unusual as some may suppose; you suffer from mnemonic intervals.” “I have not the faintest notion what you mean.” Indeed, I was beginning to wonder if the doctor himself was not stark mad. He went on, in his quick, even tones, as if he were calculating what the effect of each word would be before he uttered it. “If you were to kill me where I am standing, I believe that you would be capable of forgetting what you had done directly I was dead; and quite possibly the consciousness of your action might never visit you again. That is what I mean.” “Hume!”