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“Like lookin’ for a needle in a bloomin’ haystack,” he said to himself. “I might as well go back to Clankwood. ’E’s a good riddance, I say.” The Baron and Mr Bunker discussed their dinner with the relish of approving connoisseurs. Mr Bunker commended the hock, and suggested a second bottle; the Baron praised the entrées, and insisted on another helping.
“Well, well,” said he, “I’ll send a man to each of the three stations within walking distance; and whether he’s out or in, we’ll have him by to-morrow morning. I’ve always taken care that he had no money in his pockets.” But what is a doctor’s care against a woman’s heart? For many to-morrows Clankwood had to lament the loss of the gifted Francis Beveridge.
“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.
“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?”
Any native will inform you, with a mixture of infectious awe and becoming pride, that this is no less than the far-famed private asylum of Clankwood. This ideal institution bore the enviable reputation of containing the best-bred lunatics in England.
My name,” he drew a card-case from the pocket of his fur coat, “is, as you see, Dr Escott of Clankwood.” Meanwhile Moggridge, after hurriedly investigating the platform he was on, suddenly spied a tall fur-coated figure on the opposite side. Without a moment’s hesitation he sprang on to the rails, and had just mounted the other side as the station-master and two porters appeared.
This is scarcely to be wondered at, when beneath one roof were assembled the heirs-presumptive to three dukedoms, two suicidal marquises, an odd archbishop or so, and the flower of the baronetage and clergy. Dr Congleton, the proprietor and physician of Clankwood, was a gentleman singularly well fitted to act as host on the occasion of asylum reunions.
“You can perhaps believe, Moggridge,” said Mr Beveridge, reflectively, “that one doesn’t often have the chance of talking confidentially to a man of sense in Clankwood.” “No, sir, I should himagine not.” “And so one has sometimes to talk to oneself.” This was said so sadly that Moggridge began to feel uncomfortably affected.
She mounted lightly, said a brief farewell, and, forgetting all about the call at Clankwood she had ostensibly come to pay, turned her horse’s head towards the lodge. “Well, I’m blowed!” said Moggridge. “They do blow one,” his patient assented. Naturally enough the story of this equestrian adventure soon ran through Clankwood.
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