Greystoke had once been a manor-house and place of mark in the county of Hopshire. A long-fronted but compact mansion, with thick walls and a wide moat, it still looked capable of withstanding a siege. Not that there was any chance of one. Admission was not difficult to obtain, provided the usual formalities were observed. The thing was to get out again when you had once got in. The natural strength of the place made it nearly as secure as a prison. But no bolts or bars were needed; if the stout doors and numerous gates, deep moat, and broad haha had not sufficed, there was behind all the lynx-eyed watchfulness of the attendants.
 
Joe Hanlon was in high favour at Greystoke. In him—thanks to his long military training—prompt unhesitating obedience had come to be second nature. All orders he received he carried out implicitly, and to the letter. He was as plucky too as he was punctual; and he could always be relied on when there was an ugly job on hand. Hard, tough, and resolute, he was ready to tackle the most truculent patient, and brave his fiercest rage. ‘The Boy’s’ little weakness for refreshment might have done him harm at Greystoke, but his superiors at the asylum were not as keen in the detection of unsteadiness as the non-commissioned officers of the Duke’s Own; and when Joe was at all ‘on,’ he managed to keep the secret to himself. Perhaps, as a valuable servant, his masters were often conveniently blind.

[60]

As a person of some authority, Hanlon was at liberty to go where he pleased in the establishment. One morning he paid a visit to the female wing, and asked to see Miss Ponting.

‘Good morning, Mr. Hanlon.’

‘Morning, Miss. How is she to-day?’ he went on at once, and with no little excitement in his voice.

‘Her ladyship? Like a lamb. What’s amiss, Mr. Hanlon? You look peeked.’

Miss Ponting’s duties had lain for some years with the most aristocratic patients, and she cultivated a refinement of language and a fastidiousness of expression which imposed upon no one so much as herself. But for the firm lines of her mouth and steady eye—traits which proved her fitness for her present employment—she might have been set down as a fat foolish woman[61] of forty, with the airs and graces of girlhood, and the pretentiousness of one who sought to be considered superior to her station. She had a fine eye for the main chance, however, and this had led her to listen willingly enough to ‘the Boy’s’ blandishments. There was profit, perhaps, substantial and considerable, to be got out of the affair.

‘They’re coming over this very day,’ cried Hanlon. ‘Sir Rupert and the captain’—Joe had already given Herbert promotion, partly out of affection, and partly to impress Miss Ponting—‘and the whole kit of ’em.’

‘Well, what puts you in such a taking? We ain’t to be trampled upon like the sands of the seashore. We’re ready for anyone that chooses to come.’

‘But is she? The captain means to[62] have her out, and so I tell you; and it’ll all depend on how they find her. Is she fit to be seen?’

‘Never was better. Her appetite’s combsar, but her manner’s quite degagy, and her temper debonnair.’

‘Will it do to prepare her? Won’t it flurry her, as when you told her of the fight on the Coast?’

‘Best break it to her judgematically, and with—with—a composing draught. I’ll tell her too to hold her tongue—she is mindful of what I say, always—and answer only when she’s spoken to; and if I put her into a quiet dress, and keep my eye on her, she’ll come through all right, or call me Jenny Say Quoy.’

‘I’ll call you a brick, and a beauty, and Mrs. Hanlon, or anything you please,’ said ‘the Boy,’ in high glee. ‘You’re quite a[63] genius, Georgeyana, and I’ll fight the man who says you ain’t.’

The visitors arrived punctually at eleven. Dr. Fewster, the proprietor of the establishment, who had been briefly apprised by Sir Rupert, received them in state in his drawing-room. He was a man of a not uncommon type, but certain peculiar characteristics were very strongly developed in him. A superficial observer, after five minutes’ talk, would have thought him one of the pleasantest men in the world. The moment he met you, Dr. Fewster took possession of you, and began to dose you with oil—not that known in the profession as croton, cod-liver, or castor—but the metaphorical oil of compliment and flattery, very thinly disguised. If he had not taken to lunacy, he might have made a fortune in general practice, so honeyed were his accents, and reassuring his tone.

[64]

When Herbert was presented to him, Dr. Fewster put out his hand, and said with much feeling,

‘To shake hands with a hero is indeed an honour for us who never leave our armchairs at home. Let me tell you, Mr. Larkins, such deeds as yours send a thrill through the whole country, and we are proud—proud to call you one of ourselves.’

All this time he held Herbert’s hand, and was shaking it as though it was a bottle of his own medicine, very much to Herbert’s discomfort, who inwardly apostrophised him as an ass, a humbug, and a cad.

‘And you, Sir Rupert, how pained yet how pleased you must have been to welcome him home—to have thanked him for his devotion. Ah! would, would to Heaven it had been more successful—’

[65]

Dr. Fewster turned away, overcome with emotion, but Sir Rupert, who knew his man, said abruptly,

‘We have come on business, doctor.’

‘So I understood from your letter, although you did not exactly specify what. It is not then merely to visit my establishment, which by the bye I should be only too happy to show, but—’

‘To see Lady Farrington.’

‘Indeed! This gentleman is perhaps acquainted with, possibly interested in, the case?’

‘This Mr. Larkins,’ said Sir Rupert, not without bitterness, ‘is an old friend and protégé of her ladyship’s. He has not seen her for some years—in fact not since she has been here.’

‘To be sure, to be sure, I remember now,’ and the doctor looked at Herbert with a keen, cunning glance, wondering[66] whether there was anything to fear from that quarter.

‘I have not yet been my rounds,’ he said; ‘I cannot tell how her ladyship is this morning; but if she is presentable—there are times, you understand, when she is not quite, quite self-possessed, you know, and perhaps—’

‘Mr. Larkins thinks that there may be some mistake; that the poor lady is not what you, Dr. Fewster, and what we all imagine. He has heard that she is perfectly quiet and rational.’

‘May I ask from whom?’

Herbert did not reply. He was too much interested in the door, at which he was looking steadily. He was perhaps expecting some one.

‘Some one in the establishment,’ Sir Rupert answered for him.

[67]

‘In my establishment? Can it be possible that you would accept any evidence but my own? I forbear to ask who your informant may be’—in his own secret heart he was registering a vow to discover, and mentally promising the culprit a very short shrift—‘but I need hardly say that information surreptitiously obtained cannot always be quite relied upon. Nor, may I add, is any opinion of real value but that of those duly accredited; and I must maintain mine against all comers save and except the great lights and authorities of my own profession.’

At this moment a servant entered with a card, which Dr. Fewster took up carelessly, but as he looked at it his demeanour suddenly changed.

‘Where is he?’ he hurriedly inquired of the servant. ‘In my study? or has he[68] gone into the building? Gentlemen, pray forgive me, but this is a visitor whom I cannot neglect.............