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Updated: May 18, 2025
“And now,” he continued, turning to Twiddel, “you, doctor, seem to me a most unfortunately constructed biped; your nose is just long enough to enable you to be led into a singularly original adventure, and your brains just too few to carry it through creditably. Hang me if I wouldn’t have made a better job of the business!
“One dozen shirts,” he read, “four under-flannels, four pair socks, one dozen handkerchiefs, two sleeping-suits—marked Francis Beveridge! the account rendered to Dr G. Twiddel! What in the name of wonderment is the meaning of this?” He sat down with the bill in his hand and gazed hard at it. “Precisely my outfit,” he said to himself. “Am I—Does it——? What a rum thing!”
“My dear fellow,” Welsh was saying, “we can discuss that afterwards; we haven’t caught him yet.” “I want to settle it now.” “But I thought it was settled.” “No, it wasn’t,” said Twiddel, with a foreign and vinous doggedness. “What do you suggest then?” “Divide it equally—£250 each.” “You think you can claim half the credit for the idea and half the trouble?”
“We’ll put our luggage straight on to a cab, drive off to other rooms—I know a cheap place that will do—and if by any chance inquiries are made, people must be told that you are still abroad. Nobody must hear of your coming home to-night.” “Is it——” began Twiddel, dubiously. “Is it what?” snapped his friend. “Is it worth it?” “Is £500, not to speak of two reputations, worth it! Come on!”
“From this I conclude that Dr Twiddel is on the festive side of forty,” he reflected; “there are elements of mystery and a general atmosphere of alcohol about it, but that’s all, I’m afraid.” He put it back in the drawer, but the bill he slipped into his pocket. “And now,” thought he, “it is time I made the first move.”
“Twiddel, my boy,” he said at length, “will you give me a percentage of the fee if I think of a safe dodge for getting the money and preserving your throat?” Twiddel laughed. “Rather!” he said. “I am perfectly serious,” replied Welsh, keenly. “I’m certain the thing is quite possible.” He half closed his eyes and ruminated in silence. The doctor watched him—fascinated, afraid.
The waiters began to twitter, and Welsh, with an effort, pulled himself together. “My friend here,” he said, “is Dr Twiddel, a well-known practitioner in London. He can tell you that he certified this man as a lunatic, and that he afterwards escaped from his asylum. That is so, Twiddel?” “Yes,” assented Twiddel, whose colour was beginning to come back a little.
At last he said, “There’s just one thing, old man. What about the fee?” “I’ll get a cheque for it, I suppose,” his friend replied, with an almost excessive air of mastery over the problem. “Ha, ha!” laughed Welsh; “you know what I mean. It’s a delicate question and all that, but, hang it, it’s got to be answered.” “What has?” “The division of the spoil.” Twiddel looked dignified.
By a small caseful of medical treatises and a conspicuous stethoscope, the least experienced could see that it was labelled consulting-room. Dr Twiddel was enjoying one of those moments of repose that occur even in the youngest practitioner’s existence.
A frowsy little servant opened the door. “Is Dr Twiddel at home?” he asked. “Dr Twiddel’s abroad, sir,” said the maid. “No one in at all, then?” “Dr Billson sees ’is patients, sir—w’en there his any.” “When do you expect Dr Billson?” “In about an hour, sir, ’e usually comes hin.” “Excellent!” thought Mr Bunker. Aloud he said, “Well, I’m a patient. I’ll come in and wait.”
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