  The Dover express was nearing town: evening had begun to draw in, and from the wayside houses people saw the train roar by like a huge glowworm; but they could hardly guess that it was hurrying two real actors to the climax of a real comedy. From the opposite sides of a first-class carriage these two looked cheerfully at one another. The Channel was safely behind them, London was close ahead, and the piston of the engine seemed to thump a triumphal air. “We’ve done it, Twiddel, my boy!” said the one. “Thank Heaven!” replied the other. “And myself,” added his friend. “Yes,” said Twiddel; “you played your part uncommonly well, Welsh.” “It was the deuce of a fine spree!” sighed Welsh. “The deuce,” assented Twiddel. “I’m only sorry it’s all over,” Welsh went on, gazing regretfully up at the lamp of the carriage. “I’d give the remains of my character and my chance of a public funeral to be starting again from Paris by the morning train!” Twiddel laughed. “With the same head you had that morning?” [pg 180]“Yes, by George! Even with the same mile of dusty gullet!” “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? Now, I’m plain Robert Welsh, whose uncles, as far as I am aware, don’t know a baronet among ’em.” He smiled a little sardonically. “And the baron at Fogelschloss,” said Twiddel. “Who insisted on learning my pedigree back to Alfred the Great! Gad, I gave it him, though, and I doubt whether the real Essington could have done as much. I’d rather surprise some of these noblemen if I turned up again in my true character!” “Thank the Lord, we’re not likely to meet them again!” exclaimed the doctor, devoutly. “No,” said Welsh; “here endeth the second lesson.” His friend, who had been well brought up, looked a trifle uncomfortable at this quotation. “I say,” he remarked a few minutes later, “we haven’t finished yet. We’ve got to get the man out again, and hand him back to his friends.” “Cured,” said Welsh, with a laugh. “I wonder how he is?” “We’ll soon see.” [pg 181]They fell silent again, while the train hurried nearer and nearer London town. Welsh seemed to be musing on some nice point, it might be of conscience, it might also conceivably be of a more practical texture. 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. “I’ll see you get your share, old man,” he answered, easily. “But what share?” “You suggested £100, I think.” “Out of £500—when I’ve done all the deceiving and told all the lies! Come, old man!” “Well, what do you want?” “Do you remember a certain crisis when we’d made a slip——” “You’d made a slip!” “We had made a slip, and you wanted to chuck the game and bolt? Do you remember also the terms I proposed when I offered to beard the local god almighty in his lair and explain it all away, and how he became our bosom pal and we were saved?” [pg 182]“Well?” “£300 to me, “Rot, old man. I’ll share fairly, if you insist. £250 apiece, will that do?” Welsh said nothing, but his face was no longer the countenance of the jovial adventurer. “It will have to, I suppose,” he replied, at length. It was with this little cloud on the horizon that they saw the lights of London twinkle through the windows, and were carried into the clamour of the platforms. They both drove first to Twiddel’s rooms; and as they looked out once more on the life and lights and traffic of the streets, their faces cleared again. “We’ll have a merry evening!” cried Welsh. “A little supper,” suggested Twiddel; “a music-hall——” “Et cetera,” added Welsh, with a laugh. The doctor had written of their coming, and they found a fire in the back room, and the table laid. “Ah,” cried Welsh, “this looks devilish comfortable.” “A letter for me,” said Twiddel; “from Billson, I think.” He read it and threw it to his friend, remarking, “I call this rather cool of him.” Welsh read— “Dear George,—I am just off for three weeks’ holiday. Sorry for leaving your practice, but I think it can look after itself till you return. “You have only had two patients, and one fee between them. The second man vanished mysteriously. I shall [pg 183] “I am looking forward to hearing the true tale of your adventures. Good luck to you.—Yours ever, Thomas Billson.” “Boned a bill?” exclaimed Welsh. “What bill, I wonder?” “Something that came when I was away, I suppose. Hang it, I think Billson might have looked after things better!” “It sounds queer,” said Welsh, reflectively; “I wonder what it was?” “Confound Billson, he might have told me,” observed the doctor. “But, I say, you know we have something more practical to see to.” “Getting the man out again?” “Yes.” “Well, let’s have a little grub first.” Twiddel rang the bell, and the frowsy little maid entered, carrying a letter on a tray. “Dinner,” said he. “Please, sir,” began the maid, holding out the tray, “this come for you near a month agow, but Missis she bin and forgot to send it hafter you.” “Confound her!” said Twiddel, taking the letter. He looked at the envelope, and remarked with a little start of nervous excitement, “From Dr Congleton.” “News of Mr Beveridge,” laughed Welsh. The doctor read the first few lines, and then, as if he had got an electric shock, the letter fell from his hand, and an [pg 184] “Heavens!” he ejaculated, “it’s all up.” “What’s up?” cried Welsh, snatching at the letter. “He’s run away!” Welsh looked at him for a moment in some astonishment, and then burst out laughing. “What a joke!” he cried; “I don’t see anything to make a fuss about. We’re jolly well rid of him.” “The fee! I won’t get a penny till I bring him back. And the whole thing will be found out!” As the full meaning of this predicament burst upon Welsh, his face underwent a change by no means pleasant to watch. For a full minute he swore, and then an ominous silence fell upon the room. Twiddel was the first to recover himself. “Let me see the letter,” he said; “I haven’t finished it.” Welsh read it aloud— “Dear Twiddel,—I regret to inform you that the patient, Francis Beveridge, whom you placed under my care, has escaped from Clankwood. We have made every inquiry consistent with strict privacy, but unfortunately have not yet been able to lay our hands upon him. We only know that he left Ashditch Junction in the London express, and was seen walking out of St Euston’s Cross. How he has been able to maintain himself in concealment without money or clothes, I am unable to imagine. “As no inquiries have been made for him by his cousin Mr Welsh, or any other of his friends or relatives, I am writing to you that you may inform them, and I hope that this letter may follow you abroad without delay. I may [pg 185] “Trusting that you are having a pleasant holiday, I am, yours very truly, Adolphus S. Congleton.” 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?” “I must catch him! Do you suppose I let him loose? “You must catch him, all the same.” “I shan’t bother my head about him,” answered Twiddel, with the recklessness of despair. “You won’t? You want to have the story known, I suppose?” “I don’t care if it is.” Welsh looked at him for a minute: then he jumped up and exclaimed, “You need a drink, old man. Let’s hurry up that slavey.” With the first course their countenances cleared a little, with the second they were almost composed, by the end of dinner they had started plot-hatching hopefully again. “It’s any odds on the man’s still being in town,” said Welsh. “He had no money or clothes, and evidently he hasn’t gone to any of his friends, or the whole story would have been out. Now, there is nowhere where a man can lie low so well, especially if he is hard up, as London. I can answer from experience. He is hardly likely to be in the West End, or the best class of suburbs, so we’ve something to go upon at once. We must go to a private inquiry [pg 186] “And hadn’t we better find out whether anything more is known at Clankwood?” suggested Twiddel. “Dr Congleton wrote a month ago; perhaps they have caught him by this time.” “Hardly likely, I’m afraid; he’d have written to you if they had. Still, we can but ask.” “But, I say!” the doctor suddenly exclaimed, “people may find out that I’m back without him.” Welsh was equal to the emergency. “You must leave again at once,” he said decisively, rising from the table; “and there’s no good wasting time, either.” “What do you mean?” asked the bewildered doctor, who had not yet assimilated the criminal point of view. “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!” The unfortunate doctor sighed, and rose too. He was beginning to think that the nefarious acquisition of fees might have drawbacks after all. |
|
