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Updated: May 18, 2025
Into the history of Mr Francis Beveridge, as supplied by the obliging candour of the Baron von Blitzenberg and the notes of Dr Escott, Dr Twiddel and his friend Robert Welsh make a kind of explanatory entry. They most effectually set the ball a-rolling, and so the story starts in a small room looking out on a very uninteresting London street.
I may add that the circumstances of his escape showed most unusual cunning, and could not possibly have been guarded against. “Trusting that you are having a pleasant holiday, I am, yours very truly, The two looked at one another in silence for a minute, and then Welsh said, fiercely, “You must catch him again, Twiddel. Do you think I am going to have all my risk and trouble for nothing?”
“Your bill, sare.” “My friend is paying.” “No, Mr Welsh,” cried the real Essington; “I think you had better pay for this dinner yourself.” Welsh saw the vigilant proprietor already coming towards him, and with a look that augured ill for Twiddel when they were alone, he put his hand in his pocket. “Ha, ha!” laughed Essington, “the inevitable bill!”
Bot, how? vat makes it here?” “My dear Baron, the most unfortunate mistake has occurred. Two men here——” But at this moment he stopped in great surprise, for the Baron was staring hard first at Welsh and then at Twiddel. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “Mr Mandell-Essington, I zink?” Welsh hesitated for an instant, and his hesitation was evident to all. Then he replied, “No, you are mistaken.”
“It’s all over now,” said Twiddel, philosophically, and yet rather nervously—“at least the amusing part of it.” “All the fun, my boy, all the fun. All the dinners and the drinks, and the touching of hats to the aristocratic travellers, and the girls that sighed, and the bowing and scraping. Do you remember the sporting baronet who knew my uncle?
“Ye—es,” stammered Twiddel, “certainly, sir.” “You may now retire—and the faster the better.” As the crestfallen doctor followed his ally out of the restaurant, the Baron exclaimed in disgust, “Ze cads! You are too merciful. You should punish.” “My dear Baron, after all I am obliged to these rascals for the most amusing time I have ever had in my life, and one of the best friends I’ve ever made.”
He handed the letter to Welsh, and then added, with a flutter of caution, “I haven’t made up my mind yet. There are drawbacks, as you’ll see.” Welsh opened the letter and read:— “DEAR TWIDDEL,—I am happy to tell you that I am at last able to put something in your way.
“Hang it, Welsh—er—the fact is I don’t altogether like the job.” Scruples of any kind always surprised Welsh. “Can’t afford to leave the practice?” he asked with a laugh. “That’s—ah—partly the reason,” replied Twiddel, uncomfortably. “Rot, old man! There’s a girl in the case. Out with it!” “No, it isn’t that. You see it’s the very devil of a responsibility.”
“No, Mr Welsh; if you go now, it will be in the company of that policeman you were so anxious to send for.” There was such an unmistakable threat in Mr Bunker’s voice and eye that Welsh hesitated. “We will talk it over, Mr Welsh,” Mr Bunker repeated distinctly. “Kindly sit down. I have several things to ask you and your friend Dr Twiddel.”
“No doubt an excellent man, Mrs Gabbon; but I should like to know of one as near at hand as possible. Now I see the name of a Dr Twiddel——” “I wouldn’t recommend ’im, sir,” said Mrs Gabbon, pursing her mouth. “Indeed? Why not?” “’E attended Mrs Brown’s servant-girl, sir,—she bein’ the lady as has the ’ouse next door,—and what he give ’er didn’t do no good. Mrs Brown tell me ’erself.”
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