He looked out of the window again. Professor Biggleswade suddenly
remembered the popular story of the great scientist's antecedents, and
reflected that as McCurdie had once run, a barefoot urchin, through the
Glasgow mud, he was likely to have little kith or kin. He himself envied
McCurdie. He was always praying to be delivered from his sisters and
nephews and nieces, whose embarrassing demands no calculated coldness
could repress.

"Children are the root of all evil," said he. "Happy the man who has his
quiver empty."

Sir Angus McCurdie did not reply at once; when he spoke again it was
with reference to their prospective host.

"I met Deverill," said he, "at the Royal Society's Soirée this year. One
of my assistants was demonstrating a peculiar property of thorium and
Deverill seemed interested. I asked him to come to my laboratory the
next day, and found he didn't know a damned thing about anything. That's
all the acquaintance I have with him."

Lord Doyne, the great administrator, who had been wearily turning over
the pages of an illustrated weekly chiefly filled with flamboyant
photographs of obscure actresses, took his gold glasses from his nose
and the black cigar from his lips, and addressed his companions.

"I've been considerably interested in your conversation," said he, "and
as you've been frank, I'll be frank too. I knew Mrs. Deverill's mother,
Lady Carstairs, very well years ago, and of course Mrs. Deverill when
she was a child. Deverill I came across once in Egypt--he had been sent