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Two minutes later Moggridge was sitting bound hand and foot in the booking office, addressing an amused audience in a strain of perhaps excusable exasperation, which however merely served to impress the Ashditch officials with a growing sense of their address in capturing so dangerous a lunatic.
“They are wonderfully alike,” he reflected. About twenty minutes later he walked leisurely into Ashditch Junction, and having singled out the station-master, he accosted him with an air of beneficient consideration and inquired how soon he could catch a train for London. It appeared that the up express was not due for nearly three-quarters of an hour.
“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.
Somehow she felt immensely relieved at this hint of opposition. “I’m so glad you got away,” she whispered, and then repented in a flutter. “Not more so than I am,” he answered, pressing her hand. “And now,” he added, “I should like to know how near Ashditch Junction you propose to take me.” “Where are you going to, Mr Beveridge?”
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