"Yes, Crichton. Do you know any member of my family by any chance? My cousin, Lord Wilmersley, has a place near here."
"No," she faltered, "I—I am quite a stranger in this part of the country."
He was sure she was lying, but what could be her object in doing so? And why had his name caused her such alarm? What unpleasant connection could she possibly have with it? The only male members of his family who bore it, were, a curate, serving his probation in the East End of London, and a boy at Eton.
"That is a pity," he said. "I hoped we might find some mutual friends who would vouch for my inoffensiveness. I can't tell you how sorry I am to have given you such a fright. It was unpardonably stupid of me. The fact is, I am rather absent-minded, and I should have been left behind if I had not tumbled in on you as I did. Please forgive me."
"On the contrary, it is I who should apologise to you for having made such a fuss about nothing. You must have thought me quite mad." She laughed nervously.
"Madam," he replied, with mock solemnity, "I assure you I never for a moment doubted your sanity, and I am an expert in such matters."
"Are you really?" She shrank farther from him.
"Really what?" he inquired, considerably puzzled.
"A—a brain specialist? That is what they are called, isn't it?"
He laughed heartily.