The Lunatic at Large | Page 3

some way----" He paused, deep in reflection. "How would it do," he remarked in a minute, "if I were to go in your place?"
Twiddel laughed and shook his head.
"Couldn't be managed?"
"Couldn't possibly, I'm afraid."
"No," said Welsh. "I foresee difficulties."
He fished a pipe out of his pocket, filled and lit it, and leaned back in his chair gazing at the ceiling.
"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. Somehow or other he felt that he was already a kind of Guy Fawkes. There was something so unlawful in Welsh's expression.
They sat there without speaking for about ten minutes, and then all of a sudden Welsh sprang up with a shout of laughter, slapping first his own leg and then the doctor's back.
"By Gad, I've got it!" he cried. "I have it!"
And he had; hence this tale.


PART I.

CHAPTER I.
In a certain fertile and well-wooded county of England there stands a high stone wall. On a sunny day the eye of the traveller passing through this province is gratified by the sparkle of myriads of broken bottles arranged closely and continuously along its coping-stone. Above these shining facets the boughs of tall trees swing in the wind and throw their shadows across the highway. The wall at last leaves the road and follows the park round its entire extent. Its height never varies; the broken bottles glitter perpetually; and only through two entrances, and that when the gates are open, can one gain a single glimpse inside: for the gates are solid, with no chinks for the curious.
The country all round is undulating, and here and there from the crest of an eminence you can see a great space of well-timbered park land within this wall; and in winter, when the leaves are off the trees, you may spy an imposing red-brick mansion in the midst.
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. It was credibly reported that however well marked their symptoms and however well developed their delusions, none but ladies and gentlemen of the most unblemished descent were permitted to enjoy its seclusion. The dances there were universally considered the most agreeable functions in the county. The conversation of many of the inmates was of the widest range and the most refreshing originality, and the demeanour of all, even when most free from the conventional trammels of outside society, bore evidence of an expensive, and in some cases of a Christian, upbringing. 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. As this list only includes a few of the celebrities able or willing to be introduced to distinguished visitors, and makes no mention of the uncorroborated dignities (such as the classical divinities and Old Testament duplicates), the anxiety shown by some people to certify their relations can easily be understood.
Dr Congleton, the proprietor and physician of Clankwood, was a gentleman singularly well fitted to act as host on the occasion of asylum reunions. No one could exceed him in the respect he showed to a coroneted head, even when cracked; and a bishop under his charge was always secured, as far as possible, from the least whisper of heretical conversation. He possessed besides a pleasant rubicund countenance and an immaculate wardrobe. He was further fortunate in having in his assistants, Dr Escott and Dr Sherlaw, two young gentlemen whose medical knowledge was almost equal to the affability of their manners and the excellence of their family connections.
One November night these two were sitting over a comfortable fire in Sherlaw's room. Twelve o'clock struck, Escott finished the remains of something in a tumbler, rose, and yawned sleepily.
"Time to turn in, young man," said he.
"I suppose it is," replied Sherlaw, a very pleasant and boyish young gentleman. "Hullo! What's that? A cab?"
They both listened, and some way off they could just pick out a sound like wheels upon gravel.
"It's very late for any one to be coming in," said Escott.
The sound grew clearer and more unmistakably like a cab rattling quickly up the drive.
"It is a cab," said Sherlaw.
They heard it draw up before the front door, and then there came a pause.
"Who the deuce can it be?" muttered Escott.
In a few minutes there