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We had come down the wide staircase into the library, where we joined Myra, who was resting on a chaise-longue.

“I should like very much to have a talk with Dr. Goode,” suggested Craig.

“By all means,” agreed Myra eagerly. “I’ll go over to his office with you. It is only next door.”

“Then I’ll wait here,” said Lionel, rather curtly, I thought.

I fancied that there was a coolness that amounted to a latent hostility between Lionel and Dr. Goode, and I wondered about it.

Across the sparse lawn that struggled up under the deep shade of the trees stood a smaller, less pretentious house of a much more modern type. That was where Dr. Goode lived.

We crossed with Myra through a break in the hedge between the two houses. As we were about to pass between the two grounds, Kennedy’s foot kicked something that seemed to have rolled down from some rubbish on the boundary line of the two properties, piled up evidently waiting to be carted away.

Craig stooped casually and picked the object up. It was a queer V-shaped little porcelain cone. He gave it a hasty look, then dropped it into his pocket.

Dr. Goode, into whose office Myra led us, was a youngish man, smooth-shaven, the type of the new generation of doctors. He had come to Norwood several years before and had struggled up to a very fair practice.

“Miss Moreton tells me,” began Kennedy after we had been introduced, “that there is a theory that theirs is one of these so-called cancer houses.”

The doctor looked at us keenly. “Yes,” he nodded, “I have heard that theory expressed–and others, too. Of course, I haven’t had a chance to verify it. But I may say that, privately, I am hardly prepared to accept it, yet, as a case of cancer house.”

He was very guarded in his choice of words, but did not succeed in covering up the fact that he had a theory of his own.

I was watching both the young doctor and Myra. She had entered his office in a way that suggested that she was something more than a patient. As I watched them, it did not take one of very keen perception to discover that they were on very intimate terms indeed and thought very highly of each other. A glance at the solitaire on Myra’s finger convinced me. They were engaged.

“You don’t believe it, then?” asked Craig quickly.

The young man hesitated and shrugged his shoulders.

“You have a theory of your own?” persisted Craig, determined to get an answer.

“I don’t know whether I have or not,” he replied non-committally.

“Is it that you think it possible to produce cancer artificially and purposely?” shot out Craig.

Dr. Goode considered. I wondered whether he had any suspicions of which he would not speak because of professional ethics. Kennedy had fixed his eyes on him sharply and the doctor seemed uneasy under the scrutiny.

“I’ve heard of cases,” he ventured finally, “where X-rays and radium have caused cancerous growths. You know several of the experimenters have lost their lives in that way–martyrs to science.”

I could not help, somehow or other, thinking of Dr. Loeb. Did Dr. Goode refer indirectly to him? Loeb certainly was no martyr to science. He might be a charlatan. But was he a scientific villain?

“That may all be true,” pursued Craig relentlessly, evidently bound to draw the young man out. “But it is, after all, a question of fact, not of opinion.”

Myra was looking at him eagerly now and the doctor saw that she expected him to speak. It was more pressure than he could resist.

“I have long suspected something of the sort,” he remarked in a low, forced tone. “I’ve had samples of the blood of the Moretons examined. In fact I have found that their blood affects the photographic plate through a layer of black paper. You know red blood cells and serum have a distinct power of reducing photo-silver on plates when exposed to certain radiations. In other words, I have found that their blood is, apparently, radioactive!”