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Dr Escott’s philosophical estimate of Mr Beveridge became considerably modified. “Thank the Lord, he can’t get out of the grounds,” he said to himself; “what a dangerous devil he is! But he’ll be sorry for this performance, or I’m mistaken.”
At sixteen minutes to five Mr Beveridge stood by the side of the Clankwood Avenue, comfortably wrapped in Dr Escort’s fur coat, and smoking with the greatest relish one of Dr Escott’s undeniable cigars. It was almost dark, the air bit keen, the dim park with its population of black trees was filled with a frosty, eager stillness.
November became December, and to all appearances he had settled down in his new residence with complete resignation, when that unknowable factor that upsets so many calculations came upon the scene,—the factor, I mean, that wears a petticoat. Mr Beveridge strolled into Escott’s room one morning to find the doctor inspecting a mixed assortment of white kid gloves.
“I should be much obliged,” he said, leaning on the door of his compartment and blowing the smoke of Dr Escott’s last Havannah lightly from his lips, “if you would be kind enough to keep that poor fellow in the station till to-morrow. It is rather too late to send him back now. Good night, and many thanks.”
And so there were only left the two men on the ice. For a little the lesson went on, and presently, leaving the doctor to practise, Mr Beveridge skated away by himself. He first paused opposite a seat on the bank over which hung Dr Escott’s great fur coat. This spectacle appeared to afford him peculiar pleasure. Then he looked at his watch. It was half-past four.
“Whoever is that tall fair man in front?” Dr Escott asked his partner as they crossed the hall. “Oh, that’s the Baron von Blitzenberg: such an amusing man! We are all in love with him already.” All through dinner the spurious Baron saw that Dr Escott’s eyes turned continually and curiously on him; yet never for an instant did his spirits droop or his conversation flag.
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