"Let me be the first to congratulate the heir of Raynham on his renewed hopes," he said, quietly.
"Carrington!" cried Reginald; and then, after a pause, he asked, "What, in heaven's name, is the meaning of this masquerade?"
The surgeon removed his broad-brimmed hat, and wiped his forehead with a hand that looked brown, wizen, and wrinkled as the hand of an old man. Nothing could have been more perfect than his disguise.
The accustomed pallor of his face was changed to the brown and sunburnt hue produced by constant exposure to all kinds of weather. A network of wrinkles surrounded the brilliant black eyes, which now shone under shaggy eyebrows of iron-grey.
"I should never have recognized you," said Reginald, staring for some moments at his friend's face, completely lost in surprise.
"Very likely not," answered the surgeon, coolly; "I don't want people to recognize me. A disguise that can by any possibility be penetrated is the most fatal mistake. I can disguise my voice as well as my face, as you will, perhaps, hear by and by. When talking to a friend there is no occasion to take so much trouble."
"But why have you assumed this disguise?"
"Because I want to be on the spot; and you may imagine that, after having eloped with the lady of the house, I could not very safely show myself here in my own proper person."
"What need had you to return? Your scheme is accomplished, is it not?"
"Well, not quite."