That was Mr Bunker’s first and last meeting with the Rev. John Duggs, and he took no small credit to himself for having so effectually incensed his neighbour, without, at the same time, bringing suspicion on anything more pertinent than his sobriety.

And yet sometimes in the course of the next three days he would have been thankful to see him again, if only to have another passage-of-arms. The time passed most wearily; the consulting-room blinds were never raised; no cabs stopped before the doctor’s door; nobody except the little servant ever moved about the house.

He could think of no plan better than waiting; and so he waited, showing himself seldom in the streets, and even sitting behind the curtain while he watched at the window. After writing at some length to the Baron he had no further correspondence that he could distract himself with; he was even forced once or twice to dip into the [pg 199] theological works. Mrs Gabbon had evidently “’eard sommat” from Mr Duggs, and treated him to little of her society. The boredom became so excessive that he decided he must make a move soon, however rash it was.

The only active step he took, and indeed the only step he saw his way to take, was a call on Dr Twiddel’s locum. But luck seemed to run dead against him. Dr Billson had departed “on his holiday,” he was informed, and would not return for three weeks. So Mr Bunker was driven back to his window and the Baron’s cigars.

It was the evening of his fourth day in Mrs Gabbon’s rooms. He had finished a modest dinner and was dealing himself hands at piquet with an old pack of cards, when he heard the rattle of a cab coming up the street. The usual faint flicker of hope rose: the cab stopped below him, the flicker burned brighter, and in an instant he was at the window. He opened the slats of the blind, and the flicker was aflame. Before the doctor’s house a four-wheeled cab was standing laden with luggage, and two men were going up the steps. He watched the luggage being taken in and the cab drive away, and then he turned radiantly back to the fire.

“The curtain is up,” he said to himself. “What’s the first act to be?”

Presently he put on his wide-awake hat and went out for a stroll. He walked slowly past the doctor’s house, but there was nothing to be seen or heard. Remembering the room at the back, he was not surprised to find no chink of light about the front windows, and thinking it better not to run the risk of being seen lingering there, he walked on. [pg 200] He was in such good spirits, and had been cooped up so continually for the last few days, that he went on and on, and it was not till about a couple of hours had passed that he approached his rooms again. As he came down the street he was surprised to see by the light of a lamp that another four-wheeler was standing before the doctor’s house, also laden with luggage.

Two men jumped in, one after another, and when he had come at his fastest walk within twenty yards or so, the cabman whipped up and drove rapidly away, luggage and men and all.

He looked up and down for a hansom, but there were none to be seen. For a few yards he set off at a run in pursuit, and then, finding that the horse was being driven at a great rate, and remembering the paucity of stray cabs in the quiet streets and roads round about, he stopped and considered the question.

“After all,” he reflected, “it may not have been Dr Twiddel who drove away; in fact, if it was he who arrived in the first cab, it’s any odds against it. Pooh! It can’t be. Still, it’s a curious thing if two cabs loaded with luggage came to the house in the same evening, and one drove away without unlading.”

With his spirits a little damped in spite of his philosophy, he went back to his rooms.

In the morning the consulting-room blinds were still down, and the house looked as deserted as ever.

He waited till lunch, and then he went out boldly and pulled the doctor’s bell. The same little maid appeared, but she evidently did not recognise the fashionable patient [pg 201] who disappeared so mysteriously in the demure-looking clergyman at the door.

“Is Dr Twiddel at home?”

“No, sir, he ain’t back yet.”

“He hasn’t been back?”

“No, sir.”

Mr Bunker looked at her keenly, and then said to himself, “She is lying.”

He thought he would try a chance shot.

“But he was expected home last night, I believe.”

The maid looked a little staggered.

“He ain’t been,” she replied.

“I happen to have heard that he called here,” he hazarded again.

This time she was evidently put about.

“He ain’t been here—as I knows of.”

He slipped half-a-crown into her hand.

“Think again,” he said, in his most winning accents.

The poor little maid was obviously in a dilemma.

“Do you want him particular, sir?”

“Particularly.”

She fidgeted a little.

“He told me,” he pursued, “that he might look in at his rooms last night. He left no message for me?”

“What name, sir?”

“Mr Butler.”

“No, sir.”

“Then, my dear,” said Mr Bunker, with his most insinuating smile, “he was here for a little, you can’t deny?”