would be requisite that she--"

He whispered the rest into the doctor's ear.

"Not at all, not at all. That is nonsense. I assure
you. Indeed, it is better as it is; I am quite certain of
that."

"Consider the matter well, Raymond. It's a great
responsibility. Something might go wrong; you would be a
miserable man for the rest of your days."

"No, I think not, even if the worst happened. As you
know, I rescued Mary from the gutter, and from almost certain
starvation, when she was a child; I think her life is mine, to
use as I see fit. Come, it's getting late; we had better go
in."

Dr. Raymond led the way into the house, through the
hall, and down a long dark passage. He took a key from his
pocket and opened a heavy door, and motioned Clarke into his
laboratory. It had once been a billiard-room, and was lighted
by a glass dome in the centre of the ceiling, whence there still
shone a sad grey light on the figure of the doctor as he lit a
lamp with a heavy shade and placed it on a table in the middle
of the room.

Clarke looked about him. Scarcely a foot of wall
remained bare; there were shelves all around laden with bottles
and phials of all shapes and colours, and at one end stood a