The Lunatic at Large | Page 6

" he said. "That's all I see."
"And that's all I see," said Mr Beveridge. "Now what can you read here?
I am not troubling you?"
He held out his handkerchief as he spoke.
"Not a bit," laughed the doctor, "but I only see 'Francis Beveridge' here
too, I'm afraid."

"Everything has got it," said Mr Beveridge, shaking his head, it would
be hard to say whether humorously or sadly. " 'Francis Beveridge' on
everything. It follows, I suppose, that I am Francis Beveridge?"
"What else?" asked Escott, who was much amused.
"That's just it. What else?" said the other. He smiled a peculiarly
charming smile, thanked the doctor with exaggerated gratitude, and
strolled out again.
"He is a rum chap," reflected Escott.
And indeed in the outside world he might safely have been termed
rather rum, but here in this backwater, so full of the oddest flotsam, his
waywardness was rather less than the average. He had, for instance, a
diverting habit of modifying the time, and even the tune, of the hymns
on Sunday, and he confessed to having kissed all the nurses and
housemaids except three. But both Escott and Sherlaw declared they
had never met a more congenial spirit. Mr Beveridge's game of billiards
was quite remarkable even for Clankwood, where the enforced leisure
of many of the noblemen and gentlemen had made them highly
proficient on the spot; he showed every promise, on his rare
opportunities, of being an unusually entertaining small hour,
whisky-and-soda raconteur; in fact, he was evidently a man whose
previous career, whatever it might have been (and his own statements
merely served to increase the mystery round this point), had led him
through many humorous by-paths, and left him with few restrictive
prejudices.
November became December, and to all appearances he had settled
down in his new residence with complete resignation, when that
unknowable factor that upsets so many calculations came upon the
scene,--the factor, I mean, that wears a petticoat.
Mr Beveridge strolled into Escott's room one morning to find the
doctor inspecting a mixed assortment of white kid gloves.
"Do these mean past or future conquests?" he asked with his smile.

"Both," laughed the doctor. "I'm trying to pick out a clean pair for the
dance to-night."
"You go a-dancing, then?"
"Don't you know it's our own monthly ball here?"
"Of course," said Mr Beveridge, passing his hand quickly across his
brow. "I must have heard, but things pass so quickly through my head
nowadays."
He laughed a little conventional laugh, and gazed at the gloves.
"You are coming, of course?" said Escott.
"If you can lend me a pair of these. Can you spare one?"
"Help yourself," replied the doctor.
Mr Beveridge selected a pair with the care of a man who is particular in
such matters, put them in his pocket, thanked the doctor, and went out.
"Hope he doesn't play the fool," thought Escott.
Invitations to the balls at Clankwood were naturally in great demand
throughout the county, for nowhere were noblemen so numerous and
divinities so tangible. Carriages and pairs rolled up one after another,
the mansion glittered with lights, the strains of the band could be heard
loud and stirring or low and faintly all through the house.
"Who is that man dancing opposite my daughter?" asked the Countess
of Grillyer.
"A Mr Beveridge," replied Dr Congleton.
Mr Beveridge, in fact, the mark of all eyes, was dancing in a set of
lancers. The couple opposite to him consisted of a stout elderly
gentleman who, doubtless for the best reasons, styled himself the
Emperor of the two Americas, and a charming little pink and flaxen

partner--the Lady Alicia à Fyre, as everybody who was anybody could
have told you. The handsome stranger moved, as might be expected,
with his accustomed grace and air of distinction, and, probably to
convince his admirers that there was nothing meretricious in his
performance, he carried his hands in his pockets the whole time. This
certainly caused a little inconvenience to his partner, but to be
characteristic in Clankwood one had to step very far out of the beaten
track.
For two figures the Emperor snorted disapproval, but at the end of the
third, when Mr Beveridge had been skipping round the outskirts of the
set, his hands still thrust out of sight, somewhat to the derangement of
the customary procedure, he could contain himself no longer.
"Hey, young man!" he asked in his most stentorian voice, as the music
ceased, "are you afraid of having your pockets picked?"
"Alas!" replied Mr Beveridge, "it would take two men to do that."
"Huh!" snorted the Emperor, "you are so d--d strong, are you?"
"I mean," answered his vis-à-vis with his polite smile, "that it would
take one man to put something in and