From thence I made my way to Mr. Pitt's little surgery near Gibraltar Terrace. The doctor was alone in it, and stood compounding pills behind the counter. "Bevere run away!" he exclaimed at my first words. "Why, what's the meaning of that? _I_ don't know anything about it. I was going to see him this afternoon." With my arms on the counter, my head bending towards him, I recounted to Pitt the particulars Mrs. Long had given me, and Scott's denial of having any finger in the pie. The doctor gave his head a twist. "Says he knows no more than the dead, does he! That may be the case; or it may _not_. Master Richard Scott's assertions go for what they are worth with me where Bevere's concerned: the two are as thick as thieves. I'll find him, if I can. What do you say?--that Bevere would not conceal himself from me? Look here, Johnny Ludlow," continued Pitt rapidly, bringing forward his face till it nearly touched mine, and dropping his voice to a low tone, "that young man must have got into some dangerous trouble, and has to hide himself from the light of day." Leaving Pitt to make his patients' physic, I went out into the world, not knowing whether to seek for Bevere in this quarter or in that. But, unless I found him, how could I carry out my promise of writing to Lady Bevere? I told Miss Deveen of my dilemma. She could not help me. No one could help, that I was able to see. There was nothing for it but to wait until the next week, when Bevere might perhaps make his appearance at the hospital. I dropped a note to Scott, asking him to let me know of it if he did. But of course the chances were that Bevere would not appear at the hospital: with need to keep his head en cachette, he would be no more safe there than in Mrs. Long's rooms: and I might have been hunting for him yet, for aught I can tell, but for coming across Charley Lightfoot. It was on the following Monday. He was turning out of the railway-station near Miss Deveen's, his uncle, Dr. Lightfoot, being in practice close by. Telling him of Roger Bevere's flight, which he appeared not to have heard of, I asked if he could form any idea where he was likely to have got to. "Oh, back to the old neighbourhood that he lived in before his accident, most likely," carelessly surmised Lightfoot, who did not seem to think much of the matter. "And where is that?" "A goodish distance from here. It is near the Bell-and-Clapper Station on the underground line." "The Bell-and-Clapper Station!" Lightfoot laughed. "Ironically called so," he said, "from a bell at the new church close by, that claps away pretty well all day and all night in the public ears." "Not one of our churches?" "Calls itself so, I believe. I wouldn't answer for it that its clergy have been licensed by a bishop. Bevere lived somewhere about there; I never was at his place; but you'll easily find it out." "How? By knocking at people's doors and inquiring for him?"