Mr Francis Beveridge, for such it appeared was his name, was distinguished even for Clankwood. Though his antecedents were involved in mystery, so much confidence was placed in Dr Congleton’s discrimination that the unknown stranger was at once received on the most friendly terms by every one; and, to tell the truth, it would have been hard to repulse him for long. His manner was perfect, his conversation witty to the extremest verge of propriety, and his clothes, fashionable in cut and of unquestionable fit, bore on such of the buttons as were made of metal the hall mark of a leading London firm. He wore the longest and most silky moustaches ever seen, and beneath them a short well-tended beard completed his resemblance—so the ladies declared—to King Charles of unhappy memory. The melancholic Mr Jones (quondam author of ‘Sunflowers—A Lyrical Medley’) declared, indeed, that for Mr Beveridge shaving was prohibited, and darkly whispered “suicidal,” but his opinion was held of little account. It was upon a morning about a week after his arrival that Dr Escott, alone in the billiard-room, saw him enter. Escott had by this time made his acquaintance, and, like almost everybody else, had already succumbed to the fascination of his address. “Good morning, doctor,” he said; “I wish you to do me a trifling favour, a mere bending of your eyes.” Escott laughed. “I shall be delighted. What is it?” Mr Beveridge unbuttoned his waistcoat and displayed his shirt-front. “I only want you to be good enough to read the inscription written here.” The doctor bent down. “ ‘Francis Beveridge,’ ” he said. “That’s all I see.” “And that’s all I see,” said Mr Beveridge. “Now what can you read here? I am not troubling you?” He held out his handkerchief as he spoke. “Not a bit,” laughed the doctor, “but I only see ‘Francis Beveridge’ here too, I’m afraid.” “Everything has got it,” said Mr Beveridge, shaking his head, it would be hard to say whether humorously or sadly. “ ‘Francis Beveridge’ on everything. It follows, I suppose, that I am Francis Beveridge?” “What else?” asked Escott, who was much amused. “That’s just it. What else?” said the other. He smiled a peculiarly charming smile, thanked the doctor with exaggerated gratitude, and strolled out again. “He is a rum chap,” reflected Escott.