The mad-house kept by Dr. Swinton was a spacious building, with a large garden, surrounded by a high wall, at the back.

It was by no means a gloomy-looking place, although the casements were protected by iron bars: for to mitigate that prison-like effect, the curtains were of a cheerful colour, and the window-sills were adorned with flowers and verdant evergreens in bright red pots. Moreover, the front of the house was stuccoed; and wherever paint was used, the colours were of the gayest kind.

The front door always stood open during the day-time, because there was an inner door of great strength which led into the hall; and a porter in handsome livery was constantly lounging about at the entrance.

The Doctor himself was an elderly person, of highly respectable appearance, and of very pleasing manners when he chose to be agreeable: but no demon could exhibit greater ferocity than he, when compelled to exercise his authority in respect to those amongst his patients who had no friends to care about them.

It was between nine and ten o’clock in the evening of the day following the interview between Fitzgeorge and Heathcote’s head clerk, that a plain carriage and pair drove up to the door of Doctor Swinton’s establishment.

The porter immediately rushed forward to open the door and let down the steps of the vehicle; and two persons alighted.

One was a tall, handsome young man of genteel bearing, and handsomely dressed: the other was some years older, and might be described as respectable without having anything aristocratic in his appearance.

“Have the kindness to say that Mr. Smithson, accompanied by his friend Mr. Granby, requests an interview with your master,” were the words immediately addressed to the porter by the elder of the two visitors, while the other appeared to be gazing about him in a vacant and stolid manner.

“Walk in, gentlemen,” said the obsequious porter, with a low bow: he then rang a bell, and a footman in resplendent livery opened the inner door.

Mr. Granby and Mr. Smithson were now conducted through a spacious hall into an elegantly furnished parlour, lighted by a superb lustre suspended to the ceiling.

“The Doctor will be with you in a minute, gentlemen,” said the domestic, who immediately retired to acquaint his master with their arrival: but the moment the door had closed behind him, a smile of deep meaning instantly appeared upon the lips of the visitors, as they exchanged equally significant looks.

In a few minutes Dr. Swinton appeared—his countenance wearing such a benignant expression that if the Saints at Exeter Hall could only have bribed him to attend on the platform at their May Meetings, they would have secured a sufficiency of outward appearance of philanthropy to draw gold from the purses of even the most cynical. In fact, the doctor was precisely the individual from whose lips might be expected a most touching and lachrymose speech upon the “benighted condition” of the heathen, and the absolute necessity of procuring funds for the purpose of circulating a million of Bibles amongst the poor savages of the Cannibal Islands.

His thin grey hair was combed with precision over his high and massive forehead: a smile played on his lips, showing his well-preserved teeth;—and his eyes beamed with mildness—almost with meekness, as if he had succeeded, by long perseverance, in resigning himself to a profession which militated sadly against a natural benevolence of heart.

He was dressed in deep black; his linen was of the finest material and of snowy whiteness;—he wore a low cravat; and his enormous shirt-frill was prevented from projecting too much by means of a diamond pin that could not have cost less than fifty guineas.

The middle finger of his right hand was adorned with a ring of equal value; and a massive chain with a bunch of gold seals depended from his fob.

We should have observed that the Doctor wore black silk stockings and shoes—it being evening; and we have every cause to believe that the reader may now form a tolerably accurate idea of that gentleman’s personal appearance.

Leaning forward as he walked, and with a kind of mincing gait—half familiar, and half obsequious—Dr. Swinton advanced towards the visitors, only one of whom rose at his approach;—and this was Mr. Smithson, the elder of the two. The other remained in an apparent state of apathetic laziness on the sofa, where he had taken his seat.

“Your most obedient, Mr. Smithson,” said the Doctor, proffering his hand to the individual whom he thus addressed. “This is your friend Mr. Granby, I presume—the gentleman of whom you made mention when you honoured me with a visit this morning.”

“Yes. Doctor—that is indeed my unfortunate friend Granby,” responded Smithson, drawing the physician into the window-recess, and speaking in a whisper.

“He is a fine, handsome young man,” observed the mad-doctor, glancing towards the subject of his remark, and likewise adopting a low tone. “What a pity it is!” he added, turning towards Mr. Smithson, and placing his fore-finger significantly to his forehead.

“A thousand—thousand pities, Doctor!” was the reply, delivered in a mournful voice. “Such a splendid intellect to be thus clouded!—such a genius to be thus crushed—annihilated!”

“No—do not anticipate such a calamity,” hastily interposed the physician. “Rather let us hope that a judicious system—my system, Mr. Smithson—will eventually succeed in effecting a cure. But have you the regular certificates, my dear sir?—because you are well aware that a heavy responsibility rests upon gentlemen of my profession, who receive patients——”

“Everything is straightforward, Doctor,” interrupted Mr. Smithson, producing two papers from his pocket. “These certificates are signed by medical men of eminence, and whose honour is unimpeachable.”

“Oh! assuredly,” exclaimed Swinton, glancing over the documents: “Dr. Prince is an ornament to the profession—and Mr. Spicer is equally well known. I have not the pleasure of their personal acquaintance—but I am no stranger to their high reputation and rigid integrity. So far, so good, my dear sir,” continued the mad-doctor, restoring the certificates to Smithson. “And now, I think, we have little more to say in respect to arrangements——”

“Nothing that I am aware of,” interrupted Mr. Smithson. “When I saw you this morning, you told me that your usual terms for first-class patients were six hundred a-year——”

“Each quarter payable in advance, you will please to recollect, my dear sir,” said the physician, in a tone of bland insinuation. “It is a mere matter of form, you know—just the bare trouble of writing a cheque at the beginning instead of the close of the three months——”

“Oh! pray offer no apology for such an excellent regulation,” interrupted Smithson: “short accounts make long friends.”

“Ah! ah! very good—very good indeed!” said the Doctor, with a jocular cachinnation. “You are quite right, my dear sir—quite right. Shall I give you a stamped receipt?” he asked, as Smithson placed in his hands two bank notes—one for a hundred and the other for fifty pounds.

“You can send me the acknowledgment at your leisure,” answered Smithson. “And now, as I must take my leave, permit me to beseech you to bestow all possible attention upon my unhappy friend, and to spare no expense in rendering him as comfortable as possible. His relations, who have empowered me thus to place him in your establishment, are very wealthy, and will cheerfully augment the allowance, if required. No coercion is necessary with him: he is very tractable and by no means dangerous. At the same time, any thing resembling restraint would only induce him to move heaven and earth to escape. He cannot even endure to have his chamber-door locked at night; and you may safely trust him with a candle. Indeed, he will have a light. As for placing a keeper in his room, such a step would be as unwise as it is uncalled for. But I need not attempt to counsel a gentleman of your great experience and well-known skill——”

“Pardon me, my dear sir,” interrupted Dr. Swinton, drawing himself up at the compliment thus paid to his professional ability;—“but I am always delighted to receive any hints which the friends of my patients are kind enough to give me; and I can assure you that your suggestions shall be fully borne in mind. Of course you will call upon Mr. Granby occasionally?” asked the Doctor, in a tone which was as much as to imply that the less frequent such visits were, the better he thought it would be.

“Yes—I shall call now and then,” responded Smithson, catching the physician’s meaning in a moment: “but not too often—as the visits of friends are likely, no doubt, to produce an injurious effect on those minds which, under the influence of your admirable system, are becoming settled and tranquil. It is however my intention to return in a few days, just to assure myself that Granby is comfortable, and likewise that you are not displeased with your patient.”

“Very good,” said the Doctor; “I shall be delighted to see you. But will you not remain and partake of supper with us? You will then have an opportunity of judging how I treat my patients—for we all sit down to table together,—at least, those who belong to the first class, and who may be termed the parlour boarders. Besides, I forgot to mention to you this morning that the religious principles of my patients are not neglected, and that I keep a regular chaplain in the establishment. If you will stay to supper, you will have the pleasure of hearing him say grace before meat, and deliver a most soul-refreshing exhortation afterwards. Indeed, I may consider myself highly fortunate in having secured the spiritual services and the constant companionship of such a worthy man as the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks.”

“I should be much gratified by remaining to partake of your hospitality,” answered Smithson,—“and even still more rejoiced to form the acquaintance of such an estimable character as Mr. Sheepshanks; but, unfortunately, my time is precious—and I must depart at once.”

With these words Smithson turned away from the window; and approaching Mr. Granby, who was lounging upon the sofa, seemingly gazing on vacancy, he touched him on the shoulder, saying, “Good bye, my dear friend: you are going to stay here for a few days with Dr. Swinton—and you will find yourself very comfortable.”

“I am already very comfortable,” observed Granby, beginning to play with his fingers in a stolid, silly manner. “Can you talk with the hands, Smithson?”

“Oh! yes—and I will come to-morrow and hold a conversation with you by that method,” was the answer.

“Well—don’t forget,” said Granby; “and bring all my friends with you,—twenty—thirty—forty of them, if you like. I shall know how to entertain them.”

“In that case I will bring them all, my dear fellow,” returned Smithson: then, in a whisper to the Doctor, he observed, “You perceive how childish he is—but perfectly harmless.”

“Ah! I begin to fear with you that his cure will be no easy nor speedily-accomplished matter,” responded the physician, also in a low tone.

“But you will do your best, Doctor, I know,” said Smithson: then, turning once more to his friend, he exclaimed, “Good-bye, Granby—I am off.”

“Well, go—I don’t mean to accompany you,” answered the patient, without moving from his recumbent position, and without even glancing towards Smithson; but maintaining his eyes fixed upon his fingers, with which he appeared to be practising the dumb alphabet. “Go along, I say—I am very comfortable where I am.”

Mr. Smithson heaved a profound sigh, and, bidding the Doctor farewell, hurried to the carriage, with his cambric handkerchief to his eyes.

“Ah! he feels deeply for his afflicted friend,” thought Dr. Swinton, as he remained for a few moments on the threshold of the front door, looking forth into the mild, clear, and beauteous night: “but I shall be the greatest fool in existence if ever I allow Mr. Granby to recover his reason. An annuity of six hundred pounds is not to be thrown away in a hurry. But I must prevent this fellow Smithson from calling more than once or twice a-year at the outside—and then only on stated days, or else with a week’s notice. However, I shall get him here to supper in a short time, and will then cajole him into anything I propose. He is a soft-pated fool himself,—that I can see with half an eye.”

Having arrived at this complimentary conclusion in respect to Mr. Smithson, the Doctor returned to the room where Mr. Granby was still lying upon the sofa, and still playing with his fingers.