Almost immediately after the departure of Mr. Smithson, supper was served up in a spacious and handsomely-furnished apartment.

The table literally groaned beneath the load of plate and China spread upon it: a splendid epergne, upon a large silver tray, occupied the middle of the board;—and numerous crystal decanters, containing choice wines of various sorts, sparkled in the flood of golden light poured forth from a magnificent lustre suspended to the ceiling.

Upwards of a dozen persons took their places at the table—all the first-class patients partaking of their meals in the delectable society of the Doctor.

That eminent individual seated himself at the head of the board; and our old friend, Mr. Sheepshanks, occupied the other extremity. The reverend gentleman, though now well stricken in years, was so little altered since the reader last found himself in his company, that no minute description of his personal appearance is again necessary: suffice it to say, that his long, pale countenance was as sanctimoniously hypocritical at ever,—his hair, now quite grey, was combed with its wonted sleekness over his forehead,—and his speech was as drawling in tone and as full of cant in respect to language, as when we beheld him holding forth to the members of the South Sea Islands Bible Circulating Society, or figuring so ignominiously in the Insolvents’ Court.

Mr. Granby, being a new-comer, was placed in the post of honour—namely, on the Doctor’s right hand: but the unfortunate young gentleman did not appear to understand, much lest appreciate the distinction—for he scarcely uttered a syllable, did but little justice to the succulent viands, and remained for the most part of the time gazing in listless vacancy straight before him.

We should however observe that, on first being introduced into the supper-room, he had darted a rapid and searching glance around,—embracing with that sweeping look the countenances of the dozen patients who were already assembled there: but immediately afterwards he resumed his stolid, meaningless expression, as if his mind were indeed a blank and mournful void.

“Now, Mr. Sheepshanks,” said the Doctor, when all were duly seated at the table, “will you ask the usual blessing?”

“With your permission, most respected sir,” replied the reverend gentleman: then, with a countenance as rueful as if he were about to go forth to the place of execution, he drawled out a lengthy grace in such a droning voice, that one of the lunatics fell fast asleep, and did not wake up again until the savoury odour of a plate of roast duck which was placed before him recalled to him his recollection and his supper.

“How do you find yourself this evening, Mr. Sheepshanks?” inquired Dr. Swinton, after having assured himself that all his guests were duly served. “You were complaining of a bilious attack this morning.”

“Alas! yes, kind sir,” responded the reverend gentleman, in a most doleful tone and with a profound sigh: “it pleased the Lord to ordain that the salmon of which I partook bountifully at yesterday’s dinner should disagree with me—or peradventure it was the cucumber;—but, by the aid of the Divine blessing and the black draught, my dear patron, I have pretty well come round again. Nevertheless, I feel my appetite failing me.”

And as he uttered these words, Mr. Sheepshanks helped himself to about a pound and a quarter of pigeon-pie—that being his second attack on the same dish.

“I shall be happy to assist you to some roast duck, Mr. Sheepshanks,” said the Doctor, after a pause of about seven minutes.

“It would be an act of rudeness to decline an offer which bespeaks such delicate attentions on your part, worthy sir,” returned the pious gentleman. “I have just managed to pick a morsel of this savoury pie; and I will endeavour to get through the wing of a duck, with heaven’s assistance.”

“So you shall,” said the Doctor. “In the meantime I recommend you to take a little wine—for your stomach’s sake.”

“Ah! that was salutary advice which Paul gave to Timothy—‘a little wine for the stomach’s sake,’” drawled out the excellent Mr. Sheepshanks;—and to prove that he really thought so, he filled a tumbler with claret and imbibed the delicious draught without a pause.

By this time a plate, containing the wing, leg, and part of the breast of a duck, was placed before him; and, with a hollow groan as if he thought he should never get through it all, he commenced the attack.

We may here observe that the Doctor, who was a widower, was fond of good living himself, and was well pleased when he found any one inclined to keep him company in the enjoyment of the pleasures of the table. For this reason he especially admired the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks; and he well knew that when his chaplain pretended to have no appetite at all, he was in reality prepared to do ample justice to every dish. Hence the copious supply of duck which the physician had sent him; and that hospitable gentleman heard with secret pleasure the groan which Mr. Sheepshanks had given, and which was a sure indication that the modesty of the reverend glutton would be so far overcome as to induce him to allow the Doctor to help him again presently.

And here we may likewise remark that Swinton was no niggard of his good cheer. If he kept an excellent table, he liked to see justice done to the viands served up; and, as he received handsome remuneration from the friends of his first-class patients, he could well afford to regale them sumptuously, and amass a splendid fortune out of them into the bargain.

In conversation of the trivial kind of which we have just recorded a specimen, did the Doctor and Sheepshanks pass the time during supper,—the patients all maintaining a profound silence, and conducting themselves with the most perfect propriety. Indeed, were it not for a certain vacancy in the eyes of some, and a peculiar but inexplicable expression in the looks of the rest, it were impossible for a stranger to believe that there were any lunatics at all in the room.

After supper Mr. Sheepshanks delivered himself of a long prayer;—but as his libations had been somewhat copious, in spite of his bilious attack, his voice was occasionally so thick as to be unintelligible,—and it appeared as if he at times fancied himself to be an Irvingite speaking in the unknown tongues. Towards the conclusion of his oration, which very much resembled a funeral sermon in those parts where the meaning and sense could be caught, the reverend gentleman became so much affected that he began to weep; and had a maliciously-disposed person been present, he would have probably entertained the derogatory notion that Mr. Sheepshanks was in that maudlin condition vulgarly termed “crying drunk.”

However, the affair passed off to the satisfaction of the worthy Doctor, who, as he thought of all that his chaplain had eaten and drunk during the evening, felt really proud of having beneath his roof a man of such splendid qualifications.

The after-supper oration being concluded, the keepers, all dressed in plain clothes, made their appearance to conduct the patients to their respective chambers; but as this was Granby’s first night in the house, the Doctor volunteered to show him to the apartment prepared for his reception.

The new inmate of the asylum immediately obeyed the hint which the physician gave him relative to the hour for retiring; and he was forthwith escorted up a handsome staircase to a long corridor on the second floor. From this passage, which was carpeted, adorned with statues in recesses, and lighted by lamps hanging to the ceiling, opened several rooms, the doors of which were numbered.

At the entrance to the passage the Doctor pulled a wire which communicated with a bell on the storey overhead; and a matronly, respectable-looking woman made her appearance in answer to the summons.

“Which chamber is Mr. Granby to occupy, Mrs. Probert?” said the Doctor to his housekeeper—for such was the situation filled by the female.

“I have moved the gentleman—you know whom I mean, sir—that was in Number 7——”

“Ah! I understand,” interrupted the physician, with some degree of impatience, as if he were afraid that his housekeeper was about to be more communicative than was necessary in the presence of the stranger. “Well—you have removed a certain person——”

“To Number 12, sir,” replied Mrs. Probert; “and therefore Mr. Granby will please to occupy Number 7.”

“Very good,” said the Doctor. “Now, Mr. Granby, my dear friend—have the kindness to follow me.”

The request was instantaneously obeyed; and the physician conducted his docile patient into the room that had been selected for him, and which was indeed the most spacious, airy, and elegantly furnished bed-chamber in the whole establishment. It was usually appropriated to any new-comer of the first class whose friends appeared to take an interest in him; so that on the occasion of their first visit after his location in the asylum, the doctor might be enabled to show them, with pride, and even triumph, the magnificent apartment in which the patient was lodged. It was afterwards an easy matter to remove him to another and inferior, though still comfortable chamber—so as to make room for another arrival; and it was very seldom that a lunatic ever thought of mentioning to his friends, when they visited him again, the change of apartments that had taken place.

Having introduced Mr. Granby into the elegantly furnished chamber, the Doctor placed the candle upon the table, wished the young gentleman a good night’s rest, and then retired—closing, but not locking, the door behind him.

The moment he had departed, a remarkable and signal change took place in the appearance and manner of Mr. Granby. His countenance lost its stolid vacancy of expression, and became animated with its natural intelligence; and, instead of seeming a dull, drivelling idiot, he stood erect—a fine intrepid young man, conscious of the possession of superior mental faculties, and prepared to carry out effectually the scheme which had already been so successfully commenced.

Indeed, all further mystery in this respect being unnecessary, we may as well at once declare that the fictitious Mr. Granby was the real Lord William Trevelyan—and that Smithson, who had so well performed the part of an afflicted and faithful friend, was none, other than the astute valet, Fitzgeorge.

The young nobleman had made confidants of his two friends, Dr. Prince and Mr. Spicer, who at his request had drawn up and signed the certificates necessary to procure his introduction into the abode of Dr. Swinton.

We must likewise here observe that when the short colloquy had occurred between the Doctor and his housekeeper, it instantly struck Trevelyan that allusion was made by them to Sir Gilbert Heathcote as being the individual whose sleeping-place had been changed from No. 7 to No. 12. He had noticed that the woman had observed a degree of mystery in referring, in the first instance, to the late occupant of the best bed-room—and that the Doctor, as if fearful that walls had ears, or that even a lunatic (such as he believed Trevelyan to be) might learn a dangerous secret, had hastily interposed to prevent Mrs. Probert from making a more direct allusion. All these circumstances induced Trevelyan to conjecture that the late occupant of his room was none other than Sir Gilbert; and, if this were the case, he had acquired the certainty that the baronet was the tenant of a neighbouring apartment in the same corridor.

It was now eleven o’clock; and the young nobleman resolved to wait until a much later hour ere he took any steps in pursuance of the clue which he believed himself to have gained relative to the chamber occupied by his persecuted friend.

He walked to the window, and looked forth through the iron bars, upon the mass of narrow lanes and squalid alleys constituting the suburb known as Globe Town, and all the features of which were brought vividly forward in the powerful moonlight,—for the atmosphere was as bright as if it were of transparent quicksilver.

But in a few minutes, Trevelyan grew wearied of the sameness of the prospect, so still and inanimate at that hour; and he began to examine, more minutely than at first, the chamber in which he found himself.

A massive wardrobe of dark mahogany, and elaborately carved, particularly attracted his notice; and, impelled by that curiosity which frequently seizes upon persons who seek to while away an hour or two by any means that opportunity or accident may afford, he opened the large and heavy doors. There were several shelves inside, filled with blankets and counterpanes, evidently deposited there during the summer-months, when the beds required less clothing than in winter.

Trevelyan was about to close the doors, when he suddenly caught sight of something that appeared to be a roll of papers thrust between the blankets. He drew forth the object of his attention, and found that his conjecture was correct; for he held in his hand a manuscript consisting of several folios of foolscap closely written upon in a genteel and fluent style.

A farther examination of the papers showed him, by means of certain dates, that the manuscript was only recently composed; and an indescribable feeling of interest, superior to any thing like vulgar curiosity, prompted him to read the documents that had thus strangely fallen into his possession.

Besides, he had determined to let a couple of hours slip away ere he took any step in pursuance of the design that had brought him to the mad-house; and he was by no means sorry at having discovered a mode of passing the interval otherwise than by restlessly pacing his chamber or gazing from the window.

He accordingly seated himself at the table, and commenced the perusal of the extraordinary document that will be found in the ensuing chapter.