"That's his secret," said Dick Pemberton, "nobody knows; queer yarn, isn't it?"
"Very," said Nestley, deeply interested. "I should like to study the case. Does he live by himself?"
"No, his cousin, Una Challoner, lives with him," interposed Blake hurriedly, the colour flushing in his face.
"Ah," thought Beaumont, noting this, "case of love, I see. I suppose Miss Challoner does not believe in his mad theories?" he added aloud.
"Hardly," said Dick contemptuously, "she's too sensible."
At this moment Job Kossiter entered the room, and, after slowly surveying the group, addressed himself to Reginald:
"If I may make so bold, Mr. Blake, sir," he said, in his thick voice, "would you ask the vicar to go to the old squire?"
"He's very ill, sir, as Munks says," said Kossiter, scratching his head, "and Doctor Bland, sir, he's ill, too, sir, and can't go, so as there ain't a doctor to see him, I thought the vicar----"
"Not a doctor?" interposed Beaumont, quickly. "Nonsense! This gentleman," indicating Nestley, "is a doctor, so he can go at once."
"Oh, I'll go," said Nestley, rising, rather glad of the opportunity to study the case.
"Then, sir, Munks is waiting outside with the cart," observed Kossiter, moving to the door.
"Who on earth is Munks?" asked Nestley, following the landlord.
"The squire's servant," cried Dick, "and a cross-grained old ass he is."
"I don't suppose as you need tell the vicar now, sir," said Mr. Kossiter to Reginald.
"No, of course not," replied Blake, "this gentleman will do more good; it's the doctor he needs--not the clergyman."
"I wouldn't be too sure of that, Reggy," said Dick, as they all went out. "He needs a little spiritual consolation."
"I think a strait waistcoat would be best," said Beaumont quietly, as they stood at the door, "judging from your story."
The two lads said good-night, and went homeward, while Mr. Beaumont retired into the inn, and Nestley, stepping up into the high dog-cart, drove off into the darkness of the night on his unexpected mission.
Mad? Not what the world calls madness--he is quiet Raves not about strange matters--curbs his tongue With wond'rous wisdom--ponders ere he speaks, And yet I tell you he is mad, my liege; The moon was regnant at his birth and all The planets bowed to her strong influence.