"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."