id followed him--after taking his leave of Mrs. Rossiter who
accepted his polite sentences--a little stammered--with a slightly
pompous acquiescence--followed him to the library and then through a
curtained door down some steps into a great studio-laboratory,
provided (behind screens) with washing places, and full of
mysteries, with cupboards and shelves and further rooms beyond and a
smell of chloride of lime combined with alcoholic preservatives and
undefined chemicals. After a tour round this domain in which David
was only slightly interested--for lack of the right education
and imagination--so far he--or--she had only the mind of a
mathematician--Rossiter led him back into the library, drew out
chairs, indicated cigarettes--even whiskey and soda if he wanted
it--David declined--and then began to say what was at the back of
his mind:--

"We met first in the train, the South Wales Express, you remember? I
fancy you told me then that you had been in South Africa, in this
bungled war, and had been either wounded or ill in some way. In fact
you went so far as to say you had had 'necrosis of the jaw,' a thing
I politely doubted because whatever it was it has left no
perceptible scar. Of course it's damned impertinent of me to
cross-examine you at all, or to ask _why_ you went to and why you
left South Africa. But I don't mind confessing you inspire me with a
good deal of interest.

"Now the other day--as you know--I made the acquaintance of your
father in Wales--at Pontystrad. I told him I had shown a young
fellow some of those Gower caves and how his name was--like your
father's, 'Williams.' Of course we soon came to an understanding.
Then your father spoke of you in _high_ praise. What a delightful
nature was yours, how considerate and kind you were--don't blush,
though I admit it becomes you--Well you can pretty well guess how he
went on. But what interested me particularly was his next
admission: how different you were as a lad--rather more than the
ordinary wild oats--eh? And how completely an absence in South
Africa had changed you. You must forgive my cheek in dissecting your
character like this. My excuse is that you yourself had rather
vaguely referred to some wound or blood poisoning or operation, on
the jaw or the throat. Not to beat about the bush any more, the idea
came into my mind that _if_ in some way the knife or the enemy's
bullet had interfered with your thyroid gland--Twig what I mean? I
mean, that