little, and, as I say, quite without intending it.

Curiously enough I saw his face clear the moment I spoke.

"Oh," said he, with an air of relief, "it's the doctor you're wanting, is
it? Well, he's at home. Come in."

So the laird was a doctor? Of which sort, I wondered; medical,
theological, or what?

"I'm Mr. O'Brien," added my new acquaintance as he opened the front door
for me. "You're quite sure it's not me you're wanting?"

I had noticed more than a trace of accent in his own voice when he spoke,
and there was no doubt now what it was; a very palpable Irish brogue. As
he asked this question he looked at me with a curious mixture of humour
and defiance. It seemed to me that the humour was assumed and the
defiance genuine, but that may have been simply because the man impressed
me unfavourably.

"No," I replied with a continental bow, "I am not so fortunate."

And then suddenly a thought flashed across me. Ought I to have answered
in a very different key? But we were in the hall now and the next moment
another gentleman appeared.

"Here's Dr. Rendall," said Mr. O'Brien, and I bowed again.

"My name is Mr. Roger Merton," I explained. "I have taken the liberty of
calling upon you."