"
Victor Carrington's countenance seemed to undergo a kind of
transformation as he spoke of his mother. The bright glitter of his
eyes softened; the hard lines of his iron mouth relaxed.
The one tender sentiment of a dark and dangerous nature was this man's
affection for his widowed mother.
He opened the door of an apartment at the back of the house, and
entered, followed by Mr. Eversleigh.
Reginald stared in wonder at the chamber in which he found himself. The
room had once been a kitchen, and was much larger than any other room
in the cottage. Here there was no attempt at either comfort or
elegance. The bare, white-washed walls had no adornment but a deal
shelf here and there, loaded with strange-looking phials and gallipots.
Here all the elaborate paraphernalia of a chemist's laboratory was
visible. Here Reginald Eversleigh beheld stoves, retorts, alembics,
distilling apparatus; all the strange machinery of that science which
always seems dark and mysterious to the ignorant.
The visitor looked about him in utter bewilderment.
"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.
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