Simms, Cavendish, the fact that he had been doped, the place where he was, and the young man. He had been taken here in that conveyance, whatever it was; they had thought him mad--they had carted him off to a mad-house, this was a mad-house, that guy in the chair was an attendant.

He recognized these probabilities very clearly, but he felt no anger and little surprise. His mind, absolutely set up and almost renewed by profound slumber, saw everything clearly and in a true light.

It was quite logical that, believing him mad, they had put him in a mad-house, and he had no fear at all of the result simply because he knew that he was sane. The situation was amusing, it was also one to get free from--but there was plenty of time, and there was no room for making mistakes.

Curiously enough, now, the pa.s.sionate or almost pa.s.sionate desire to recover his own personality had vanished, or at least, was no longer active in his mind; his brain, renewed by that tremendous sleep, was no longer tainted by that vague dread, no longer troubled by that curious craving to have others believe in his story and to have others recognize him as Jones.

No, it did not matter to him just now whether he recovered his personality in the eyes of others; what did matter to him was the recovery of his bodily freedom. Meanwhile, caution. Like Brer Rabbit, he determined to "lie low."

"Say," said Jones.

The young man by the window started slightly, rose, and came to the bedside.

"What o'clock?" said the patient.

"It has just gone half past eight, sir," replied the other. "I hope you have slept well."

Jones noticed that this person did not "my Lord" him.

"Not a wink," said he, "tossed and tumbled all night--oh, say--what do _you_ think--"

The young man looked puzzled.

"And would you like anything now, sir?"

"Yes--my pants. I want to get up."

"Certainly, sir, your bath is quite ready," replied the other.

He went to the fire-place and touched an electric b.u.t.ton, then he bustled about the room getting Jones' garments together.

The bed-room had two doors, one leading to a sitting-room, one to a bath-room; in a minute the bath-room door opened and a voice queried, "Hot or cold?"

"Hot," said Jones.

"Hot," said the attendant.

"Hot," said the unseen person in the bath-room, as if registering the order in his mind. Then came the fizzling of water and in a couple of minutes the voice:

"Gentleman's bath ready."

Jones bathed, and though the door of the bath-room had been shut upon him and there was no person present, he felt all the time that someone was watching him. When he was fully dressed, the attendant opened the other door, and ushered him into the sitting-room, where breakfast was laid on a small table by the window. He had the choice between eggs and bacon and sausages, he chose the former and whilst waiting, attracted by the pleasant summery sound of croquet b.a.l.l.s knocking together, he looked out of the window.

Two gentlemen in white flannels were playing croquet; stout elderly gentlemen they were. And on a garden seat a young man in flannel trousers and a grey tweed coat was seated watching the game and smoking cigarettes.

He guessed these people to be fellow prisoners. They looked happy enough, and having noticed this fact he sat down to breakfast.

He noted that the knife accompanying his fork was blunt and of very poor quality--of the sort warranted not to cut throats, but he did not heed much. He had other things to think of. The men in flannels had given him a shock. Instinctively he knew them to be "inmates." He had never considered the question of lunatics and lunatic asylums before. Vague recollections of Edgar Allan Poe and the works of Charles Reade had surrounded the term lunatic asylum with an atmosphere of feather beds and brutality; the word lunatic conjured up in his mind the idea of a man obviously insane. The fact that this place was a house quite ordinary and pleasant in appearance, and these sane looking gentlemen lunatics, gave him a grue.

The fact that an apparently sane individual can be held as a prisoner was beginning to steal upon him, that a man might be able to play croquet and laugh and talk and take an intelligent interest in life and yet, just because of some illusion, be held as a prisoner.

He did not fully realise this yet, but it was dawning upon him. But he did fully realise that he had lost his liberty.

Before he had finished his eggs and bacon this recognition became acute.

The fear of losing his own personality had vanished utterly; all that haunting dread was gone. If he could escape now, so he told himself, he would go right back to the States. He had eight thousand pounds in the National Provincial Bank; no one knew that it was there. He could seize it with a clear conscience and take it to Philadelphia. The shadow of Rochester--oh, that was a thing gone forever, dissipated by this actual fact of lost liberty--so he told himself.

A servant brought up the _Times_ and he opened it, and lit a cigarette.

Then as he looked casually over the news and the doings of the day, an extraordinary feeling came upon him; all this printed matter was relative to the doings and ideas of free men, men who could walk down the street, if the fancy pleased them. It was like looking at the world through bars. He got up and paced the floor, the breakfast things had been removed, and the attendant had left the room and was in the bed-room adjoining.

Jones walked softly to the door through which the servant had carried away the things, and opened it gently and without noise. A corridor lay outside, and he was just entering it when a voice from behind made him turn.

"Do you require anything, sir?"

It was the attendant.

"Nothing," said Jones. "I was just looking to see where this place led to." He came back into the room.

He knew now that every movement of his was watched, and he accepted the fact without comment. He sat down and took up the _Times_ whilst the attendant went back to the bed-room.

He had said to himself on awaking, that a sane man, held as insane, could always win free just by his sanity. He was taking up the line of reasoning now and casting about him for a method.

He was not long in finding one. The brilliancy of the idea that had all at once struck him made him cast the paper from his knees to the floor.

Then, having smoked a cigarette and consolidated his plan, he called the attendant.

"I want to see the gentleman who runs this place."

"Dr. Hoover, sir?"

"Yes."

"Certainly, sir, I will ring and have him sent for."

He rang the bell, a servant answered and went off with the message.

Jones took up the paper again and resumed his cigarette. Five minutes pa.s.sed and then the door opened and a gentleman entered.

A pleasant faced, clean-shaven man of fifty, dressed in blue serge and with a rose in his b.u.t.ton-hole, such was Doctor Hoover. But the eye of the man held him apart from others; a blue grey eye, keen, sharp, hard, for all the smile upon the pleasant face.

Jones rose up.

"Dr. Hoover, I think," said he.

"Good morning," said the other in a hearty voice. "Fine day, isn't it?

Well, how are we this morning?"

"Oh, I'm all right," said Jones. "I want to have a little talk with you." He went to the bed-room door, which was slightly ajar, and closed it.

"For your sake," said Jones, "it's just as well we have no one listening, the attendant is in there--you are sure he cannot hear what we say, even with the door shut?"