The Lunatic at Large | Page 5

a kind of nervous way, 'No name; you needn't give any
name. I know Dr Congleton personally. Ask him to come, please.' So
off I tooled, and found old Congers just thinking of turning in.
" 'My clients are sometimes unnecessarily discreet', he remarked in his

pompous way when I told him about the arrival, and of course he added
his usual platitude about our reputation for discretion.
"I went back with him to the waiting-room, and just stood at the door
long enough to see him hail the doctor chap very cordially and be
introduced to the patient's cousin, and then I came away. Rather rum,
isn't it?"
"You've certainly made the best of the yarn," said Escott with a laugh.
"By George, if you'd been there you'd have thought it funny too."
"Well, good-night, I'm off. We'll probably hear to-morrow what it's all
about."
But in the morning there was little more to be learned about the
new-comer's history and antecedents. Dr Congleton spoke of the matter
to the two young men, with the pompous cough that signified extreme
discretion.
"Brought by an old friend of mine," he said. "A curious story, Escott,
but quite intelligible. There seem to be the best reasons for answering
no questions about him; you understand?"
"Certainly, sir," said the two assistants, with the more assurance as they
had no information to give.
"I am perfectly satisfied, mind you--perfectly satisfied," added their
chief.
"By the way, sir," Sherlaw ventured to remark, "hadn't they given him
something in the way of a sleeping-draught?"
"Eh? Indeed? I hardly think so, Sherlaw, I hardly think so. Case of
reaction entirely. Good morning."
"Congleton seems satisfied," remarked Escott.
"I'll tell you what," said the junior, profoundly. "Old Congers is a very

good chap, and all that, but he's not what I should call extra sharp. I
should feel uncommon suspicious."
"H'm," replied Escott. "As you say, our worthy chief is not extra sharp.
But that's not our business, after all."
CHAPTER II.
"By the way," said Escott, a couple of days later, "how is your
mysterious man getting on? I haven't seen him myself yet."
Sherlaw laughed.
"He's turning out a regular sportsman, by George! For the first day he
was more or less in the same state in which he arrived. Then he began
to wake up and ask questions. 'What the devil is this place?' he said to
me in the evening. It may sound profane, but he was very polite, I
assure you. I told him, and he sort of raised his eyebrows, smiled, and
thanked me like a Prime Minister acknowledging an obligation. Since
then he has steadily developed sporting, not to say frisky, tastes. He
went out this morning, and in five minutes had his arm round one of the
prettiest nurses' waist. And she didn't seem to mind much either, by
George!"
"He'll want a bit of looking after, I take it."
"Seems to me he is uncommonly capable of taking care of himself. The
rest of the establishment will want looking after, though."
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. Though his antecedents were
involved in mystery, so much confidence was placed in Dr Congleton's
discrimination that the unknown stranger was at once received on the
most friendly terms by every one; and, to tell the truth, it would have

been hard to repulse him for long. His manner was perfect, his
conversation witty to the extremest verge of propriety, and his clothes,
fashionable in cut and of unquestionable fit, bore on such of the buttons
as were made of metal the hall mark of a leading London firm. He wore
the longest and most silky moustaches ever seen, and beneath them a
short well-tended beard completed his resemblance--so the ladies
declared--to King Charles of unhappy memory. The melancholic Mr
Jones (quondam author of 'Sunflowers--A Lyrical Medley') declared,
indeed, that for Mr Beveridge shaving was prohibited, and darkly
whispered "suicidal," but his opinion was held of little account.
It was upon a morning about a week after his arrival that Dr Escott,
alone in the billiard-room, saw him enter. Escott had by this time made
his acquaintance, and, like almost everybody else, had already
succumbed to the fascination of his address.
"Good morning, doctor," he said; "I wish you to do me a trifling favour,
a mere bending of your eyes."
Escott laughed.
"I shall be delighted. What is it?"
Mr Beveridge unbuttoned his waistcoat and displayed his shirt-front.
"I only want you to be good enough to read the inscription written
here."
The doctor bent down.
" 'Francis Beveridge,'