Dr. Cairn was drumming his fingers on the table.
"You have a theory, Lord Lashmore," he said suddenly. "Let me hear it."
Lord Lashmore started, and glared across at the speaker with a sort of haughty surprise.
"I have a theory?"
"I think so. Am I wrong?"
Lashmore stood on the rug before the fireplace, with his hands locked behind him and his head lowered, looking out under his tufted eyebrows at Dr. Cairn. Thus seen, Lord Lashmore's strange eyes had a sinister appearance.
"If I had had a theory—" he began.
"You would have come to me to seek confirmation?" suggested Dr. Cairn.
"Ah! yes, you may be right. Sir Elwin Groves, to whom I hinted something, mentioned your name. I am not quite clear upon one point, Dr. Cairn. Did he send me to you because he thought—in a word, are you a mental specialist?"
"I am not. Sir Elwin has no doubts respecting your brain, Lord Lashmore. He has sent you here because I have made some study of what I may term psychical ailments. There is a chapter in your family history"—he fixed his searching gaze upon the other's face—"which latterly has been occupying your mind?"