At that moment he heard the sharp crack of a branch behind him, and turning instantly he spied the uncompromising countenance of Moggridge peering round a tree about twenty paces distant. Lack of presence of mind and quick decision were not amongst Mr Beveridge’s failings. He struck a theatrical attitude at once, and began in a loud voice, gazing up at the tops of the trees, “He comes! A stranger comes! Yes, my fair friend, we may meet again. _Au revoir_, but only for a while! Ah, that a breaking heart should be lit for a moment and then the lamp be put out!” Meanwhile Moggridge was walking towards him. “Ha, Moggridge!” he cried. “Good day.” “Time you was goin’ in, sir,” said Moggridge, stolidly; and to himself he muttered, “He’s crackeder than I thought, a-shoutin’ and a-ravin’ to hisself. Just as well I kept a heye on ’im.” Like most clever people, Mr Beveridge generally followed the line of least resistance. He slipped his arm through his attendant’s, shouted a farewell apparently to some imaginary divinity overhead, and turned towards the house. “This is an unexpected pleasure,” he remarked. “Yes, sir,” replied Moggridge. “Funny thing your turning up. Out for a walk, I suppose?” “For a stroll, sir—that’s to say——” he stopped. “That on these chilly afternoons the dear good doctor is afraid of my health?” “That’s kind o’ it, sir.” “But of course I’m not supposed to notice anything, eh?” Moggridge looked a trifle uncomfortable and was discreetly silent. Mr Beveridge smiled at his own perspicacity, and then began in the most friendly tone, “Well, I feel flattered that so stout a man has been told off to take care of me. What an arm you’ve got, man.” “Pretty fair, sir,” said Moggridge, complacently. “And I am thankful, too,” continued Mr Beveridge, “that you’re a man of some sense. There are a lot of fools in the world, Moggridge, and I’m somewhat of an epicure in the matter of heads.” “Mine ’as been considered pretty sharp,” Moggridge admitted, with a gratified relaxation of his wooden countenance. “Have a cigar?” his patient asked, taking out his case. “Thank you, sir, I don’t mind if I do.” “You will find it a capital smoke. I don’t throw them away on every one.” Moggridge, completely thawed, lit his cigar and slackened his pace, for such frank appreciation of his merits was rare in a critical world. “You can perhaps believe, Moggridge,” said Mr Beveridge, reflectively, “that one doesn’t often have the chance of talking confidentially to a man of sense in Clankwood.” “No, sir, I should himagine not.” “And so one has sometimes to talk to oneself.” This was said so sadly that Moggridge began to feel uncomfortably affected. “Ah, Moggridge, one cannot always keep silence, even when one least wants to be overheard. Have you ever been in love, Moggridge?”