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
passed 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 button-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?"

"Quite," said Hoover, with a benign smile.

He was used to things like this, profoundly confidential communications
concerning claims to crowns and principalities, or grumbles about food.

He did not expect what followed.

"I am not going to grumble at your having me here," said Jones; "it's my
fault for playing practical jokes. I didn't think they'd go the length
of doping me and locking me up under the name I gave them."

"And what name was that?" asked Hoover kindly.

"Jones."

"Oh, and now tell me, if you are not Mr. Jones, who are you?"

"Who am I? Well, I can excuse the question. I'm the Earl of Rochester."

This was a nasty one for Hoover, but that gentleman's face shewed
nothing.

"Indeed," said he, "then why did you call yourself Jones?"

"For a joke. I slung them a yarn and they took it in. Then they gave me
a draught to compose my nerves, they thought really that I was dotty,
and I drank it--you must have seen the condition I was in when I got
here."

"Hum, hum," said Hoo