‘Anything!’ said Wyndham. ‘Were you mad that you should take a—a person like that down to my house? A girl found lying on the Professor’s doorstep! Good heavens, man! what could you mean by it?’ He exaggerated a little when he said ‘my house.’ As a fact, he lived very little in the Cottage, only using it when he felt tired and overdone by work. His real home was to be found in rooms in Dublin—pleasant rooms in Upper Merrion Street. There he entertained his bachelor friends, and was highly regarded by his landlady. He was one of those men—more usual than the coming young lady believes—who thought a great deal more of their work, and their reading, and their golf, than of the opposite sex. ‘Well, sir, there’s this,’ said Denis, who had remained beautifully calm. ‘Besides tellin’ me I was to take her to a safe place, ye specially said as she was to be thrated as me own daughter. I remimber the words well. Now, ye know well, sir, havin’ bin intimate with me an’ Bridget since ye wur in yer first throusers, that we haven’t a child between us; an’ yet for all that I tuck it for manin’ that the young lady was to be given to Bridget.’ ‘You took a great deal upon yourself then,’ said Wyndham. ‘Maybe so,’ said Denis, pursing up his lips. ‘But ye said as how she was to be thrated like that; an’ if a girl was my daughter—why, I’d take her to Bridget.’ It was impossible to go into this involved affair. Wyndham dismissed him with a gesture; but Denis dallied at the door. ‘I suppose there’s something wrong, sir?’ persisted he. ‘Nothing,’ said Wyndham, putting a match to his cigar, ‘except that you are the most infernal ass I ever met.’ With a heavy heart Wyndham, assisted by a physician of great note, had gone through the Professor’s papers. There were few of them, and with regard to the experiment only a few useless notes here and there, principally written on the backs of envelopes. There was nothing connected—nothing that could be used. The Professor, it seemed, had been in the habit of writing on his brain, and on that only. Alas! there was nothing left wherewith to carry on the great discovery. Wyndham abandoned his search with a sigh. There was no doubt now that the wonderful experiment was lost to all time. With this sad ending of it he told himself he had closed one chapter in his life, but he made a mistake there; the chapter was only beginning. CHAPTER VI. ‘In her is highe beauty without pride, And youth withoute greenhood or folly. To all her workes virtue is her guide. Humbless hath slain in her all tyranny: She is the mirror of all courtesy, Her heart a very chamber of holiness, Her hand minister of freedom for almess.’ CHAUCER.