“And what is the peril, Mr. Fortescue?”

“Assassination.”

“Assassination!”

“Yes, assassination.  I told you a short time ago that I was once hunted by a pack of hounds.  I am hunted now—­have been hunted for two generations—­by a family of murderers.”

The thought occurred to me—­and not for the first time—­that Mr. Fortescue was either mad or a Munchausen, and I looked at him curiously; but neither in that calm, powerful, self-possessed face, nor in the steady gaze of those keen dark eyes, could I detect the least sign of incipient insanity or a boastful spirit.

“You are quite mistaken,” he said, with one of his enigmatic smiles.  “I am not mad; and I have lived too long either to cherish illusions or conjure up imaginary dangers.”

“I—­I beg your pardon, Mr. Fortescue—­I had no intention,” I stammered, quite taken aback by the accuracy with which he had read, or guessed, my thoughts—­“I had no intention to cast a doubt on what you said.  But who are these people that seek your life? and why don’t you inform the police?”

“The police!  How could the police help me?” exclaimed Mr. Fortescue, with a gesture of disdain, “Besides, life would not be worth having at the price of being always under police protection, like an evicting Irish landlord.  But let us change the subject; we have talked quite enough about myself.  I want to talk about you.”

A very few minutes sufficed to put Mr. Fortescue in possession of all the information he desired.  He already knew something about me, and as I had nothing to conceal, I answered all his questions without reserve.

“Don’t you think you are rather wasting your life?” he asked, after I had answered the last of them.

“I am enjoying it.”

“Very likely.  People generally do enjoy life when they are young.  Hunting is all very well as an amusement, but to have no other object in life seems—­what shall we say?—­just a little frivolous, don’t you think?”

“Well, perhaps it does; but I mean, after a while, to buy a practice and settle down.”

“But in the mean time your medical knowledge must be growing rather rusty.  I have heard physicians say that it is only after they have obtained their degree that they begin to learn their profession.  And the practice you get on board these ships cannot amount to much.”

“You are quite right,” I said, frankly, for my conscience was touched.  “I am, as you say, living too much for the present.  I know less than I knew when I left Guy’s.  I could not pass my ‘final’ over again to save my life.  You are quite right:  I must turn over a new leaf.”

“I am glad to hear you say so, the more especially as I have a proposal to make; and as I make it quite as much in my own interest as in yours, you will incur no obligation in accepting it.  I want you to become an inmate of my house, help me in my laboratory, and act as my secretary and domestic physician, and when I am away from home, as my representative.  You will have free quarters, of course; my stable will be at your disposal for hunting purposes, and you may go sometimes to London to attend lectures and do practical work at your hospital.  As for salary—­you can fix it yourself, when you have ascertained by actual experience the character of your work.  What do you say?”