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“DEAR TWIDDEL,—I regret to inform you that the patient, Francis Beveridge, whom you placed under my care, has escaped from Clankwood. We have made every inquiry consistent with strict privacy, but unfortunately have not yet been able to lay our hands upon him. We only know that he left Ashditch Junction in the London express, and was seen walking out of St Euston’s Cross.
“May I ask, Dr Twiddel, what you know of the gentleman you just named?” he said, with perfect politeness. The conscience-smitten doctor gazed at him blankly, and the colour suddenly left his face. But Welsh’s nerves were stronger; and, as he looked hard at the stranger, a jubilant light leaped to his eyes.
“And hadn’t we better find out whether anything more is known at Clankwood?” suggested Twiddel. “Dr Congleton wrote a month ago; perhaps they have caught him by this time.” “Hardly likely, I’m afraid; he’d have written to you if they had. Still, we can but ask.” “But, I say!” the doctor suddenly exclaimed, “people may find out that I’m back without him.” Welsh was equal to the emergency.
“But I—I didn’t like the idea, you see; and so—in fact—Welsh suggested that I should take him instead.” “While you locked me up in Clankwood?” “Yes.” “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mr Bunker, “I must say it was a devilish humorous idea.” At this Twiddel began to take heart again. “I am very sorry, sir, for——” he began, when the Baron interrupted excitedly. “Zen vat is your name, Bonker?”
“No, I assure you, Mr Essington,” said Twiddel, eagerly; “I give you my word.” “I shall judge by the circumstances rather than your word, sir. It is perhaps unnecessary to inform you that you have had your trouble for nothing.” He looked at them both as though they were curious animals, and then continued: “You, Mr Welsh, are a really wonderfully typical rascal. I am glad to have met you.
“Hang it,” he said in the evening, “I haven’t had a decent dinner since we came back. Mr Bunker can go to the devil for to-night, I’m going to dine decently. I’m sick of going round pubs, and not even stopping to have a drink.” “So am I,” replied Twiddel, cordially; “where shall we go?”
As the full meaning of this predicament burst upon Welsh, his face underwent a change by no means pleasant to watch. For a full minute he swore, and then an ominous silence fell upon the room. Twiddel was the first to recover himself. “Let me see the letter,” he said; “I haven’t finished it.” Welsh read it aloud—
“Ah,” cried Welsh, “this looks devilish comfortable.” “A letter for me,” said Twiddel; “from Billson, I think.” He read it and threw it to his friend, remarking, “I call this rather cool of him.” Welsh read— “DEAR GEORGE,—I am just off for three weeks’ holiday. Sorry for leaving your practice, but I think it can look after itself till you return.
Welsh’s first effort, as soon as they were established in their new quarters, was to induce his friend to go down to Clankwood and make further inquiries, but this Twiddel absolutely declined to do. “My dear chap,” he answered, “supposing anything were found out, or even suspected, what am I to say?
In the morning the consulting-room blinds were still down, and the house looked as deserted as ever. He waited till lunch, and then he went out boldly and pulled the doctor’s bell. The same little maid appeared, but she evidently did not recognise the fashionable patient who disappeared so mysteriously in the demure-looking clergyman at the door. “Is Dr Twiddel at home?”
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