After Lord Quorn--supposed to be Percy Peckover--had been carried to
Dr. Barton's surgery, he lay for several days in a state of now total,
now semi, unconsciousness. The astute Mr. Doutfire, pluming himself on
his neat capture, hovered about the unfortunate peer, drank whisky and
water with the much-bored medico, and discussed over sundry cigars the
chances of the patient's slipping through his fingers into the next
world. The object of his solicitude did slip through them, though not
quite so far as that. And it happened in this wise.
When Doutfire was not himself on guard (to the accompaniment of
nicotine sedatives and alcoholic tonics) he took care to post a
constable about the doctor's premises with instructions to keep a sharp
look-out for any sign of activity on the part of the lethargic
criminal. Then suddenly the police authorities of Bunbury and district
were thrown into a state of excitement by the news of a daring burglary
which had taken place at Mansetter Park, the seat of Sir James
Rumbelow, the importance of which crime was heightened by the fact that
the stout baronet, roused from his post-prandial nap by the news, had
unwisely attempted to pursue the thieves, who had by that time got four
or five miles' start, and had cut short the chase, so far as he was
concerned, by tripping over a croquet-hoop on the lawn and thereby
severely injuring himself.
It was clearly a case that called for the utmost activity on the part
of the representatives of the law; the Bunbury police force was on its
mettle, and the fussy Mr. Doutfire became in a moment the incarnation
of bustling importance. The comatose culprit at Dr. Barton's was
forgotten in the gravity of Sir James Rumbelow's stolen plate and
broken nose. And it so happened when the detective was reminded of him
it was by a communication from headquarters announcing that Peckover's
associate, Cutbush, had been arrested, and he had volunteered a
statement which made it appear that there might not be much of a case
against his dupe. Under the circumstances, Mr. Doutfire felt little
hesitation in withdrawing the guard and drafting him into the Mansetter
district, especially as the doctor assured him that he might be under
no uneasiness as to the likelihood of the patient's being in a
condition to get up and walk about.
Nevertheless, that is exactly what Lord Quorn did. Suddenly waking
from a lethargic sleep, he stretched himself, sat up, looked round in a
dazed fashion, and after a futile attempt to remember who and where he
was, feeling an irresistible longing for fresh air, he got up, shuffled
into his clothes, and walked unnoticed into the street.
It was market day; the noise and the bustle worried him, and in his
weak state the jostling of the yokels was more than he could stand. So
he turned into one of the quieter streets and thence wandered off into
the country, his mind still a blank as to what had recently happened to
him. Although the fresh air revived him and was grateful after the
drug-laden atmosphere of the doctor's dispensary, yet it did not quite
drive the fumes from his brain, and his existence and identity were, as
he strolled on, as much a puzzle to him as ever.
"Have a lift?" asked a good-natured farmer, overtaking him on the dusty
road, and noticing his dragging footsteps. Quorn mechanically got into
the cart, in his aimless, drifting state of mind; all he knew was he
had begun to feel tired and wanted to get right away from the place
whence he had come.
"Going far?" inquired the farmer, as they bowled along.
"Far as you like," was the dull answer.
The farmer stared at him, and then proceeded to cross-examine him, with
the result that he came to the conclusion that he had picked up an
escaped lunatic. With this idea he resolved to set his passenger down
at the first village they came to, which happened to be Staplewick.
Finding Quorn had no money, the good fellow took out a coin and gave it
him, in lieu, as it were, of taking him further, and drove off in a
state of cogitation.
Naturally Quorn had been set down opposite an inn, the sight of which,
combined with the touch of the silver in his hand, told him he was
hungry and more especially thirsty. He went in and called for
refreshment, and then took his seat in a room which had already two
occupants. They were no others than Messrs. Fanning and Purvis, who,
after their discomfiture at the Towers had dropped in at _The Pigeons_
to discuss their all-absorbing grievance.
Until Quorn's hunger and thirst were appeased he paid little attention
to his companions, but when he had pushed his plate away and lighted up
the churchwarden pipe that the house afforded, he fell to listening
lazily to the unrestrained emphasis of their remarks.
"Fi'pun note! Fi'pun note!" exclaimed Mr. Fanning almost tragically.
"And his blooming lordship, who didn't do nothin' more in the water
than a cat would 'a done, smothered with wealth, just because 'e
'appens to 'ave a 'andle to his name. Mean, I call it; low mean."
"That it is," agreed Purvis. "And 'im adding insult to injury telling
us to get a noo rig-out, and keep the change for our trouble. Noo
rig-out? I'll wear my old boots and breeches down to the last nail and
stitch first."
"Right!" exclaimed Fanning, with an energy which ignored the aesthetic
considerations which such a proceeding would involve. "Fi'pun note!"
he repeated, relapsing into his now chronic state of truculent
grievance. "Fi'pun note for us poor deserving 'eroes, and two hundred
thousand quid for that bit of gilt gingerbread, Lord Quorn."
"What?"
In a flash of enlightenment the real Lord Quorn jumped from his seat,
and stood staring at the two men with distended eyes. "By Gum! You
said Lord Quorn?"
"I did," Fanning declared, half defiantly, as not quite sure whether he
had not opened his mouth rather too wide and too often. "I said Lord
Quorn, and I meant Lord Quorn, but my grievance ain't agin 'is
lordship. I blame no man for takin' wot's offered. Wot I blame and
'ate and detest is the meanness of those 'oo call themselves gents and
reward a man not accordin' to the services rendered, but accordin' to
persition in life."
The trenchant pronouncement was entirely wasted on the person to whom
it was addressed.
"Lord Quorn!"
He had started to his feet with a great cry of self-recognition. The
word seemed to have pierced the mist of oblivion which clouded his
brain, and the incidents of the last hour of his former waking
existence came thronging to his memory. Lord Quorn? Why, of course,
he was Lord Quorn; although exactly what had happened to him in
consequence he could not make out. "Lord Quorn?" he demanded eagerly
of the astonished pair of grievance-nursers. "What about him?"
"Do you know his lordship?" Fanning asked suspiciously.
"I ought to."
"Well, then," said the butcher resentfully, "you know the man who has
earnt two 'undred thousand quid quicker and easier than any man ever
did before. Look 'ere!" Determined to speak his mind to his lordship
through his acquaintance, Fanning jumped up and tapped Quorn
impressively on the chest to emphasize his story. "Wot do you think o'
this, mister? Lord Quorn and a rich millionaire friend of 'is--I won't
call 'im a gentleman--goes out fishin' on the lake. They fools
themselves overboard into the water, and is within an ace of drownin'.
This gentleman," indicating Purvis who sat stolidly blinking with
conscious merit, "and me, goes to the rescue, and at the risk of our
lives pulls 'em out when they were just at the last gasp. What
'appens? My nobleman persuades 'is friend that it was 'e 'oo saved 'is
life, and ignores what me and this gentleman done. Again wot 'appens?
Millionaire, 'oo, in my opinion ain't fit to own two and sixpence, ups
and settles a couple of 'undred thousand sov'rins on his lordship, and
when me and this gentleman who 'ad risked our lives and ruined our best
suit of clothes 'appens to ask where we comes in--what do you
think?--'ee fobs us off with a beggarly fi'pun note."
"I wouldn't have taken it," Quorn commented wonderingly, as he
recovered from the extra hard slap with which the last words were
driven home.
Mr. Fanning waggled his greasy head knowingly. "P'raps you wouldn't,
mister. But you didn't catch me nor this gentleman playin' into 'is
'ands by refusin' it."
"That accounts for it," said Quorn, following his own train of thought
rather than Mr. Fanning's biassed narrative. "That accounts for it.
I've been half drowned. Funny I don't remember anything about it."
"You?" exclaimed Mr. Fanning.
"According to your story," Quorn maintained.
Mr. Fanning turned a glance on Mr. Purvis which suggested a grave doubt
as to their companion's sobriety. "Oh," he replied sarcastically, "and
'oo may you be?"
"Well," answered Quorn deliberately, "I rather think I'm Lord Quorn."
Again Mr. Fanning's glance sought Mr. Purvis', and this time it
indicated a diagnosis of more serious mental trouble than mere alcohol
would account for.
"Oh, you think that, do you?" he returned with gentle banter. "Then,"
he added mischievously, "I should recommend your lordship goin' up to
the Towers 'ere, and turnin' out the party 'oo is at present occupyin'
your position."
"Oh?" Quorn started up as a fresh puzzle took hold of his mind. "Is
that so?"
Instead of replying directly to his questioner, Mr. Fanning turned to
his friend, and somewhat exasperatingly repeated the enquiry to him.
"Is that so, Mr. Purvis?" Then with an exaggerated wink, he added,
"Yes, no doubt about it, there's a screw loose somewheres."
Quorn stared at him for a moment, and then turned to the door. "What's
the name of the place?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Your lordship's residence?" grinned Fanning. "Staplewick Towers."
And as the door shut upon their late companion the two aggrieved heroes
indulged in the first merriment they had found the heart for since it
had been borne in upon them that their gallantry was held so cheap.