  Dr Twiddel, meanwhile, was no less anxious to make the Rev. Alexander Butler’s acquaintance than the Rev. Alexander Butler was to make his. Not that he was aware of that gentleman’s recent change of identity and occupation; but most industrious endeavors to find a certain Mr Beveridge were made in the course of the next few days. He and Welsh were living modestly and obscurely in the neighbourhood of the Pentonville Road, scouring the town by day, studying a map and laying the most ingenious plans at night. Welsh’s first effort, as soon as they were established in their new quarters, was to induce his friend to go down to Clankwood and make further inquiries, but this Twiddel absolutely declined to do. “My dear chap,” he answered, “supposing anything were found out, or even suspected, what am I to say? Old Congleton knows me well, and for his own sake doesn’t want to make a fuss; but if he really spots that something is wrong, he will be so afraid of his reputation that he’d give me away like a shot.” “How are you going to give things away by going down and seeing him?” “If they have guessed anything, I’ll give it away. I haven’t your cheek, you know, and tact, and that sort of thing; you’d much better go yourself.” “I? It isn’t my business.” [pg 206]“You seem to be making it yours. Besides, Dr Congleton thinks it is. You passed yourself off as the chap’s cousin, and it is quite natural for you to go and inquire.” Welsh pondered the point. “Hang it,” he said at last, “it would do just as well to write. Perhaps it’s safer after all.” “Well, you write.” “Why should I, rather than you?” “Because you’re his cousin.” Welsh considered again. “Well, I don’t suppose it matters much. I’ll write, if you’re afraid.” It was these amiable little touches in his friend’s conversation that helped to make Twiddel’s lot at this time so pleasant. In fact, the doctor was learning a good deal about human nature in cloudy weather. With great care Welsh composed a polite note of anxious inquiry, and by return of post received the following reply:— “My dear Sir,—I regret to inform you that we have not so far recovered your cousin Mr Beveridge. In all probability, however, this cannot be long delayed now, as he was seen within the last week at a country house in Dampshire, and is known to have fled to London immediately on his recognition, but before he could be secured. He was then clean shaved, and had been passing under the name of Francis Bunker. We are making strict inquiries for him in London. “Nobody can regret the unfortunate circumstance of his escape more than I, and, in justice to myself and my institution, I can assure you that it was only through the most unforeseen and remarkable ingenuity on your cousin’s part that it occurred. [pg 207]“Trusting that I may soon be able to inform you of his recovery, I am, yours very truly, “Adolphus S. Congleton. Their ardour was, if possible, increased by Dr Congleton’s letter. Mr Beveridge was almost certainly in London, and they knew now that they must look for a clean-shaved man. Two private inquiry detectives were at work; and on their own account they had mapped the likeliest parts of London into beats, visiting every bar and restaurant in turn, and occasionally hanging about stations and the stopping-places for ’buses. It was dreadfully hard work, and after four days of it, even Welsh began to get a little sickened. “Hang it,” he said in the evening, “I haven’t had a decent dinner since we came back. Mr Bunker can go to the devil for to-night, I’m going to dine decently. I’m sick of going round pubs, and not even stopping to have a drink.” “So am I,” replied Twiddel, cordially; “where shall we go?” “The CafÉ Maccarroni,” suggested Welsh; “we can’t afford a West-end place, and they give one a very decent dinner there.” The CafÉ Maccarroni in Holborn is nominally of foreign extraction,—certainly the waiters and the stout proprietor come from sunnier lands,—and many of the diners you can hear talking in strange tongues, with quick gesticulations. But for the most part they are respectable citizens of London, who drink Chianti because it stimulates cheaply and not unpleasantly. The white-painted [pg 208] The hour at which the two friends entered was later than most of the habituÉs dine, and they had the room almost to themselves. They faced each other across a small table beside the wall, and very soon the discomforts of their researches began to seem more tolerable. “We’ll catch him soon, old man,” said Welsh, smiling more affably than he had smiled since they came back. “A day or two more of this kind of work and even London won’t be able to conceal him any longer.” “Dash it, we must,” replied Twiddel, bravely. “We’ll show old Congleton how to look for a lunatic.” “Ha, ha!” laughed Welsh, “I think he’ll be rather relieved himself. Waiter! another bottle of the same.” The bottle arrived, and the waiter was just filling their glasses when a young clergyman entered the room and walked quietly towards the farther end. Welsh raised his glass and exclaimed, “Here’s luck to ourselves, Twiddel, old man!” At that moment the clergyman was passing their table, and at the mention of this toast he started almost imperceptibly, and then, throwing a quick glance at the two, stopped and took a seat at the next table, with his back turned towards them. Welsh, who was at the farther side, looked at him with some annoyance, and made a sign to Twiddel to talk a little more quietly. [pg 209]To the waiter, who came with the menu, the clergyman explained in a quiet voice that he was waiting for a friend, and asked for an evening paper instead, in which he soon appeared to be deeply engrossed. At first the conversation went on in a lower tone, but in a few minutes they insensibly forgot their neighbour, and the voices rose again by starts. “My dear fellow,” Welsh was saying, “we can discuss that afterwards; we haven’t caught him yet.” “I want to settle it now.” “But I thought it was settled.” “No, it wasn’t,” said Twiddel, with a foreign and vinous doggedness. “What do you suggest then?” “Divide it equally—£250 each.” “You think you can claim half the credit for the idea and half the trouble?” “I can claim all the risk—practically.” “Pooh!” said Welsh. “You think I risked nothing? Come, come, let’s talk of something else.” “Oh, rot!” interrupted Twiddel, who by this time was decidedly flushed. “You needn’t ride the high horse like that, you are not Mr Mandell-Essington any longer.” With a violent start, the clergyman brought his fist crash on the table, and exclaimed aloud, “By Heaven, that’s it!” |
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