“Mr. Mudge has gone,” he said quietly to Barker, noticing his expression of alarm.

“He’s not taken his ’at with him, sir.”

“Mr. Mudge requires no hat where he is now,” continued the doctor, stooping to poke the fire.  “But he may return for it—­”

“And the humbrella, sir.”

“And the umbrella.”

“He didn’t go out my way, sir, if you please,” stuttered the amazed servant, his curiosity overcoming his nervousness.

“Mr. Mudge has his own way of coming and going, and prefers it.  If he returns by the door at any time remember to bring him instantly to me, and be kind and gentle with him and ask no questions.  Also, remember, Barker, to think pleasantly, sympathetically, affectionately of him while he is away.  Mr. Mudge is a very suffering gentleman.”

Barker bowed and went out of the room backwards, gasping and feeling round the inside of his collar with three very hot fingers of one hand.

It was two days later when he brought in a telegram to the study.  Dr. Silence opened it, and read as follows: 

    “Bombay.  Just slipped out again.  All safe.  Have blocked
    entrances.  Thousand thanks.  Address Cooks, London.—­MUDGE.”

Dr. Silence looked up and saw Barker staring at him bewilderingly.  It occurred to him that somehow he knew the contents of the telegram.

“Make a parcel of Mr. Mudge’s things,” he said briefly, “and address them Thomas Cook & Sons, Ludgate Circus.  And send them there exactly a month from to-day and marked ‘To be called for.’”

“Yes, sir,” said Barker, leaving the room with a deep sigh and a hurried glance at the waste-paper basket where his master had dropped the pink paper.