“DEAR GEORGE,—I am just off for three weeks’ holiday. Sorry for leaving your practice, but I think it can look after itself till you return. “You have only had two patients, and one fee between them. The second man vanished mysteriously. I shall tell you about it when I come back. He boned a bill, too, I fancy, but the story will keep. “I am looking forward to hearing the true tale of your adventures. Good luck to you.—Yours ever, THOMAS BILLSON.” “Boned a bill?” exclaimed Welsh. “What bill, I wonder?” “Something that came when I was away, I suppose. Hang it, I think Billson might have looked after things better!” “It sounds queer,” said Welsh, reflectively; “I wonder what it was?” “Confound Billson, he might have told me,” observed the doctor. “But, I say, you know we have something more practical to see to.” “Getting the man out again?” “Yes.” “Well, let’s have a little grub first.” Twiddel rang the bell, and the frowsy little maid entered, carrying a letter on a tray. “Dinner,” said he. “Please, sir,” began the maid, holding out the tray, “this come for you near a month agow, but Missis she bin and forgot to send it hafter you.” “Confound her!” said Twiddel, taking the letter. He looked at the envelope, and remarked with a little start of nervous excitement, “From Dr Congleton.” “News of Mr Beveridge,” laughed Welsh. The doctor read the first few lines, and then, as if he had got an electric shock, the letter fell from his hand, and an expression of the most utter and lively consternation came over his face. “Heavens!” he ejaculated, “it’s all up.” “What’s up?” cried Welsh, snatching at the letter. “He’s run away!” Welsh looked at him for a moment in some astonishment, and then burst out laughing. “What a joke!” he cried; “I don’t see anything to make a fuss about. We’re jolly well rid of him.” “The fee! I won’t get a penny till I bring him back. And the whole thing will be found out!” As the full meaning of this predicament burst upon Welsh, his face underwent a change by no means pleasant to watch. For a full minute he swore, and then an ominous silence fell upon the room. Twiddel was the first to recover himself. “Let me see the letter,” he said; “I haven’t finished it.” Welsh read it aloud— “DEAR TWIDDEL,—I regret to inform you that the patient, Francis Beveridge, whom you placed under my care, has escaped from Clankwood. We have made every inquiry consistent with strict privacy, but unfortunately have not yet been able to lay our hands upon him. We only know that he left Ashditch Junction in the London express, and was seen walking out of St Euston’s Cross. How he has been able to maintain himself in concealment without money or clothes, I am unable to imagine.