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“By Jove!” exclaimed Mr Bunker, “I’d forgotten all about her. I ought to have told you that I once met her before, when she showed sympathy—practical sympathy, I may add—for an unfortunate gentleman in Clankwood. That’s all.” “You do not loff her?” persisted the Baron. “I, my dear chap? No. You are most welcome to her—and the countess.” “Does she not loff you?” “On my honour, no.
Mr Beveridge took the whole scene in with, it is to be feared, a militant rather than an episcopal eye. Then he suddenly asked, “Are you alone?” “Yes.” “You drive back?” “Ye—es.” He took out his watch and made a brief calculation. “Go now, call at Clankwood or do anything else you like, and pass down the drive again at a quarter to five.”
But before you disappear from the company of gentlemen I must ask you to do one favour for me. First thing to-morrow morning you will go down to Clankwood, tell what lie you please, and obtain my legal discharge, or whatever it’s called. After that you may go to the devil—or, what comes much to the same thing, to Mr Welsh—for all I care. You will do this without fail?”
From this time forth the mysterious gentleman began to regularly take the air and to be remarked, and having once remarked him, people looked again. Mr Francis Beveridge, for such it appeared was his name, was distinguished even for Clankwood.
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.
To a gentleman of Mr Bunker’s sociable habits and active mind, the prospect of sitting day by day in the company of his theological treatises and talkative landlady, and watching an apparently uninhabited house, seemed at first sight even less entertaining than a return to Clankwood.
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?
He smiled so agreeably as he said this that Lady Alicia, though puzzled and a little hurt, could not refrain from smiling back. “Let me hear the rest,” she said. “It is no truer than the first part, but quite as entertaining. So, if you like, I shall endeavour to recall the series of painful episodes that brought me to Clankwood,” he answered, very seriously.
He had waited barely three minutes when the quick clatter of a pair of horses fell on his ears, and presently the lights of a carriage and pair, driving swiftly away from Clankwood, raked the drive on either side. As they rattled up to him he gave a shout to the coachman to stop, and stepped right in front of the horses.
I used this privilege freely in Clankwood, and, in a word, since I couldn’t tell the truth if I wanted to, I quenched the desire.” “You hombog!” said the Baron, not without a note of admiration. “I was, and I gloried in it. Baron, if you ever want to know how ample a thing life can be, become a certified lunatic! You are quite irresponsible for your debts, your crimes, and, not least, your words.
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