“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.
“Trusting that I may soon be able to inform you of his recovery, I am, yours very truly,
“Adolphus S. Congleton.