In a certain fertile and well-wooded county of England there stands a high stone wall. On a sunny day the eye of the traveller passing through this province is gratified by the sparkle of myriads of broken bottles arranged closely and continuously along its coping-stone. Above these shining facets the boughs of tall trees swing in the wind and throw their shadows across the highway. The wall at last leaves the road and follows the park round its entire extent. Its height never varies; the broken bottles glitter perpetually; and only through two entrances, and that when the gates are open, can one gain a single glimpse inside: for the gates are solid, with no chinks for the curious.

The country all round is undulating, and here and there from the crest of an eminence you can see a great space of well-timbered park land within this wall; and in winter, when the leaves are off the trees, you may spy an imposing red-brick mansion in the midst.

Any native will inform you, with a mixture of infectious awe and becoming pride, that this is no less than the far-famed private asylum of Clankwood.

This ideal institution bore the enviable reputation of containing the best-bred lunatics in England. It was credibly reported that however well marked their symptoms and however well developed their delusions, none but ladies and gentlemen of the most unblemished descent were permitted to enjoy its seclusion. The dances there were universally considered the most agreeable functions in the county. The conversation of many of the inmates was of the widest range and the most refreshing originality, and the demeanour of all, even when most free from the conventional trammels of outside society, bore evidence of an expensive, and in some cases of a Christian, upbringing. This is scarcely to be wondered at, when beneath one roof were assembled the heirs-presumptive to three dukedoms, two suicidal marquises, an odd archbishop or so, and the flower of the baronetage and clergy. As this list only includes a few of the celebrities able or willing to be introduced to distinguished visitors, and makes no mention of the uncorroborated dignities (such as the classical divinities and Old Testament duplicates), the anxiety shown by some people to certify their relations can easily be understood.

Dr Congleton, the proprietor and physician of Clankwood, was a gentleman singularly well fitted to act as host on the occasion of asylum reunions. No one could exceed him in the respect he showed to a coroneted head, even when cracked; and a bishop under his charge was always secured, as far as possible, from the least whisper of heretical conversation. He possessed besides a pleasant rubicund countenance and an immaculate wardrobe. He was further fortunate in having in his assistants, Dr Escott and Dr Sherlaw, two young gentlemen whose medical knowledge was almost equal to the affability of their manners and the excellence of their family connections.

One November night these two were sitting over a comfortable fire in Sherlaw’s room. Twelve o’clock struck, Escott finished the remains of something in a tumbler, rose, and yawned sleepily.

“Time to turn in, young man,” said he.

“I suppose it is,” replied Sherlaw, a very pleasant and boyish young gentleman. “Hullo! What’s that? A cab?”

They both listened, and some way off they could just pick out a sound like wheels upon gravel.

“It’s very late for any one to be coming in,” said Escott.

The sound grew clearer and more unmistakably like a cab rattling quickly up the drive.

“It is a cab,” said Sherlaw.

They heard it draw up before the front door, and then there came a pause.

“Who the deuce can it be?” muttered Escott.

In a few minutes there came a knock at the door, and a servant entered.

“A new case, sir. Want’s to see Dr Congleton particular.”

“A man or a woman?”

“Man, sir.”

“All right,” growled Sherlaw. “I’ll come, confound him.”

“Bad luck, old man,” laughed Escott. “I’ll wait here in case by any chance you want me.”

He fell into his chair again, lit a cigarette, and sleepily turned over the pages of a book. Dr Sherlaw was away for a little time, and when he returned his cheerful face wore a somewhat mystified expression.

“Well?” asked Escott.

“Rather a rum case,” said his colleague, thoughtfully.

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who was it?”

“Don’t know that either.”

Escott opened his eyes.

“What happened, then?”

“Well,” said Sherlaw, drawing his chair up to the fire again, “I’ll tell you just what did happen, and you can make what you can out of it. Of course, I suppose it’s all right, really, but-well, the proceedings were a little unusual, don’t you know.

“I went down to the door, and there I found a four-wheeler with a man standing beside it. The door of the cab was shut, and there seemed to be two more men inside. This chap who’d got out-a youngish man-hailed me at once as though he’d bought the whole place.

" ‘You Dr Congleton?’

" ‘Damn your impertinence!’ I said to myself, ’ringing people up at this hour, and talking like a bally drill-sergeant.’

“I told him politely I wasn’t old Congers, but that I’d make a good enough substitute for the likes of him.

" ‘I tell you what it is,’ said the Johnnie, ’I’ve brought a patient for Dr Congleton, a cousin of mine, and I’ve got a doctor here, too. I want to see Dr Congleton.’

" ‘He’s probably in bed,’ I said, ’but I’ll do just as well. I suppose he’s certified, and all that.’

" ‘Oh, it’s all right,’ said the man, rather as though he expected me to say that it wasn’t. He looked a little doubtful what to do, and then I heard some one inside the cab call him. He stuck his head in the window and they confabbed for a minute, and then he turned to me and said, with the most magnificent air you ever saw, like a chap buying a set of diamond studs, ’My friend here is a great personal friend of Dr Congleton, and it’s a damned - I mean it’s an uncommonly delicate matter. We must see him.’

" ‘Well, if you insist, I’ll see if I can get him,’ I said; ’but you’d better come in and wait.’

“So the Johnnie opened the door of the cab, and there was a great hauling and pushing, my friend pulling an arm from the outside, and the doctor shoving from within, and at last they fetched out their patient. He was a tall man, in a very smart-looking, long, light top-coat, and a cap with a large peak shoved over his eyes, and he seemed very unsteady on his pins.

" ‘Drunk, by George!’ I said to myself at first.

“The doctor-another young-looking man-hopped out after him, and they each took an arm, lugged their patient into the waiting-room, and popped him into an armchair. There he collapsed, and sat with his head hanging down as limp as a sucked orange.

“I asked them if anything was the matter with him.

" ‘Only tired,-just a little sleepy,’ said the cousin.

“And do you know, Escott, what I’d stake my best boots was the matter with him?”

“What?”

“The man was drugged!”

Escott looked at the fire thoughtfully.

“Well,” he said, “it’s quite possible; he might have been too violent to manage.”

“Why couldn’t they have said so, then?”

“H’m. Not knowing, can’t say. What happened next?”

“Next thing was, I asked the doctor what name I should give. He answered in a kind of nervous way, ’No name; you needn’t give any name. I know Dr Congleton personally. Ask him to come, please.’ So off I tooled, and found old Congers just thinking of turning in.

" ‘My clients are sometimes unnecessarily discreet’, he remarked in his pompous way when I told him about the arrival, and of course he added his usual platitude about our reputation for discretion.

“I went back with him to the waiting-room, and just stood at the door long enough to see him hail the doctor chap very cordially and be introduced to the patient’s cousin, and then I came away. Rather rum, isn’t it?”

“You’ve certainly made the best of the yarn,” said Escott with a laugh.

“By George, if you’d been there you’d have thought it funny too.”

“Well, good-night, I’m off. We’ll probably hear to-morrow what it’s all about.”

But in the morning there was little more to be learned about the new-comer’s history and antecedents. Dr Congleton spoke of the matter to the two young men, with the pompous cough that signified extreme discretion.

“Brought by an old friend of mine,” he said. “A curious story, Escott, but quite intelligible. There seem to be the best reasons for answering no questions about him; you understand?”

“Certainly, sir,” said the two assistants, with the more assurance as they had no information to give.

“I am perfectly satisfied, mind you-perfectly satisfied,” added their chief.

“By the way, sir,” Sherlaw ventured to remark, “hadn’t they given him something in the way of a sleeping-draught?”

“Eh? Indeed? I hardly think so, Sherlaw, I hardly think so. Case of reaction entirely. Good morning.”

“Congleton seems satisfied,” remarked Escott.

“I’ll tell you what,” said the junior, profoundly. “Old Congers is a very good chap, and all that, but he’s not what I should call extra sharp. I should feel uncommon suspicious.”

“H’m,” replied Escott. “As you say, our worthy chief is not extra sharp. But that’s not our business, after all.”