“He won’t say not nuffin,” said the boy, in a tone which he hoped would settle the business; “You have no right to keep us.  Let us go.”

“Leave me with these persons,” said the Doctor, turning to the servants.  “We will see if the tongue of this wretched be really tied.  Go, all of you.”

In an instant the room was left to Doctor Mayhew and myself—­the idiot and his keeper.

“What is your name, my man?” enquired the physician in a soothing tone.  “Do not be frightened.  Nobody will hurt you here.  We are all your very good friends.  Tell me now, what is your name?”

The questioner took the poor fellow at the same time by the hand, and pressed it kindly.  The latter then looked round the room with a vacant stare, and sighed profoundly.

“Tell me your name,” continued the Doctor, encouraged by the movement.  The lips of the afflicted man unclosed.  His brick-red tongue attempted to moisten them.  Fixing his expressionless eyes upon the doctor, he answered, in a hollow voice, “Belton.”

“Well, I never!” exclaimed the boy.  “Them Silly Billies is the deceitfulest chaps as is.  He made out to mother that he couldn’t speak a word.”

“Take care what you are about, boy,” said Doctor Mayhew sternly.  “I tell you that I suspect you.”  Turning to the idiot, he proceeded.  “And where do you come from?”

The lips opened again, and the same hollow voice again answered, “Belton.”

“Yes, I understand—­that is your name—­but whither do you wish to go?”

“Belton,” said the man.

“Strange!” ejaculated the Doctor.  “How old are you?”

“Belton,” repeated the simple creature, more earnestly than ever.

“I am puzzled,” exclaimed Mr. Mayhew, releasing the hand of the idiot, and standing for a few seconds in suspense.  “However,” he continued, “upon one thing I am resolved.  The man shall be left here, and in my care.  I will be responsible for his safety until something is done for him.  We shall certainly get intelligence.  He has escaped from an asylum—­I have not the slightest doubt of it—­and we shall be able, after a few days, to restore him.  As for you, sir,” he added, addressing the young gypsy, “make the best of your way to your mother, and be thankful that you have come so well off—­fly.”

The boy began to remonstrate, upon which the doctor began to talk of the cage and the horsepond.  The former then evinced his good sense by listening to reason, and by selecting, as many a wiser man has done before him—­the smaller of two necessary evils.  He departed, not expressing himself in the most elegant terms that might have been applied to a leave-taking.