"You mean," inquired the Baron, anxiously, "that you vish to go to Egypt at vonce?"

"I had thought of it; though there is a difficulty in the way, I admit."

"You vill not stay zen here?" "My dear Baron, why should I? I have neither friends nor——"

He stopped abruptly.

"I do not like to zink I shall lose your company so soon."

"I admit," allowed Mr Bunker, "that this fortunate meeting tempts me to stay."

"Vy not?" said the Baron, cordially. "Can your fader not vait to see you?"

"I hardly think he will worry about me, I confess."

"Zen stay, my goot Bonker!"

"Unfortunately there is the same difficulty as stands in the way of my going to Egypt."

"And may I inquire vat zat is?"

"To tell you the truth," replied Mr Bunker, with an air of reluctant candour, "my funds are rather low. I had trusted to finding my father at home, but as he isn't, why——" he shrugged his shoulders and threw himself back in his chair.

The Baron seemed struck with an idea which he hesitated to express.

"Shall we smoke?" his friend suggested.

"Vaiter!" cried the Baron, "bring here two best cigars and two coffee!"

"A liqueur, Baron?"

"Ach, yah. Vat for you?"

"A liqueur brandy suggests itself."

"Vaiter! and two brandy."

"And now," said the Baron, "I haf an idea, Bonker."



CHAPTER II.

The Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg, as I have said, had a warm heart. He was, besides, alone in one hundred and twenty square miles of strangers and foreigners when he had happened upon this congenial spirit. He began in a tone of the most ingenuous friendliness—

"I haf no friends here. My introdogtions zey are gone. Bot I haf moch money, and I vish a, vat you say?—showman, ha, ha, ha! You haf too leetle money and no friends and you can show. You show and I will loan you vat you vish. May I dare to suggest?"

"My dear Baron!"

"My goot Bonker! I am in airnest, I assure. Vy not? It is vun gentleman and anozzer."

"You are far too kind."

"It is to myself I am kind, zen. I vant a guide, a frient. It is a loan. Do not scruple. Ven your fader goms you can pay if you please. It is nozing to me."

"Well, my dear Baron," said Mr Bunker, like a man persuaded against his will, "what can I say? I confess I might find a little difficulty in replenishing my purse without resorting to disagreeable means, and if you really wish my society, why——"

"Zen it is a bairgain?" cried the Baron.

"If you insist——"

"I insist. Vaiter! Alzo two ozzer liqueur. Ve most drink to ze bairgain, Bonker."

They pledged each other cordially, and talked from that moment like old friends. The Baron was thoroughly pleased with himself, and Mr Bunker seemed no less gratified at his own good fortune. Half an hour went quickly by, and then the Baron exclaimed, "Let us do zomzing to-night, Bonker. I burn for to begin zis show of London."

"What would you care to do, Baron? It is rather late, I am afraid, to think of a theatre. What do you say to a music-hall?"

"Music-hall? I haf seen zem at home. Damned amusing, das ist ze expression, yes?"

"It is a perfect description."

"Bot," continued the Baron, solemnly, "I must not begin vid ze vickedest."

"And yet," replied his friend, persuasively, "even wickedness needs a beginning."

"Bot, if I begin I may not stop. Zomzing more qviet ze first night. Haf you a club?"

Mr Bunker pondered for a moment, and a curious smile stole across his face. Then it vanished, and he answered readily, "Certainly, Baron, an excellent idea. I haven't been to my club for so long that it never struck me. Let us come."

"Goot!" cried the Baron, rising with alacrity.

They put on their coats (Mr Bunker's, it may be remarked, being a handsome fur-lined garment), the porter hailed a cab, and the driver was ordered to take them to the Regent's Club in Pall Mall. The Baron knew it by reputation as the most exclusive in London, and his opinion of his friend rose still higher.

They joined a jingling string of other hansoms and sped swiftly through the exhilarating bustle of the streets. To the Baron it seemed as if a great change had come over the city since he wandered disconsolately before dinner. Carried swiftly to the music of the little bells through the sharp air and the London night that is brighter than day, with a friend by his side and a good dinner within, he marked the most astonishing difference. All the people seemed to talk and laugh, and for his own part he found it hard to keep his tongue still.

"I know ze name of ze Regent's," he said; "vun club of ze best, is it not?"

"The very best club, Baron."

"Zey are all noble?"

"In many cases the receipts for their escutcheons are still in their pockets."

Though the precise significance of this explanation was not quite clear to the Baron, it sounded eminently satisfactory.

"Zo?" he said. "I shall be moch interested to see zem."

As they entered the club the porter stared at them curiously, and even made a movement as though he would step out and address them; but Mr Bunker, wishing him a courteous good evening, walked briskly up to the hat-and-cloak racks in the hall. A young man had just hung up his hat, and as he was divesting himself of his coat, Mr Bunker quickly took the hat down, glanced at the name inside, and replaced it on its peg. Then he held out his hand and addressed the young man cordially.

"Good evening, Transome, how are you?" said he, and, heedless of the look of surprise on the other's face, he turned towards the Baron and added, "Let me introduce the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg—Mr Transome. The Baron has just come to England, and I thought he couldn't begin better than by a visit to the Regent's. Let us come into the smoking-room."

In a few minutes they were all on the best of terms. A certain perplexity, and almost shyness, that the young man showed at first, vanished rapidly before the Baron's cordiality and Mr Bunker's well-bred charm of manner.

They were deeply engrossed in a discussion on the reigning sovereign of the Baron's native land, a monarch of whose enlightened policy that nobleman spoke with pardonable pride, when two elderly gentlemen entered the room.

"Who are these?" Mr Bunker whispered to Transome. "I know them very well, but I am always bad at names."

"Lord Fabrigas and General M'Dermott," replied Transome.

Instantly Mr Bunker rose and greeted the new-comers.

"Good evening, Lord Fabrigas; good evening, General. You have just come in time to be introduced to the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg, whom you doubtless know by reputation."

The Baron rose and bowed, and it struck him that elderly English gentlemen were singularly stiff and constrained in their manner. Mr Bunker, however, continued cheerfully, "We are just going to have a smoking concert. Will you begin, Baron?"

"I know not English songs," replied the Baron, "bot I should like moch to hear."

"You must join in the chorus, then."

"Certainly, Bonker. I haf a voice zat is considered—vat you call—deafening, yes?—in ze chorus."

Mr Bunker cleared his throat, and, just as the General was on the point of interposing a remark, struck up hastily; and for the first time in its long and honourable history the smoking-room of the Regent's Club reechoed to a popular music-hall ditty.

"They sometimes call 'em duckies, they sometimes call 'em pets, And sometimes they refer to 'em as dears They live on little matters that a gentleman forgets, In a little world of giggles and of tears; There are different varieties from which a man may choose, There are sorts and shapes and sizes without end, But the kind I'd pick myself is the kind you introduce By the simple title of 'my lady friend.' "

"Chorus, Baron!" And then he trolled in waltz time this edifying refrain—

"My lady friend, my lady friend! Can't you twig, dear boys, From the sound of the kisses She isn't my misses, She's only my lady friend!"

In a voice like a train going over a bridge the Baron chimed in—

"My laty vrient, my laty vrient! Cannot you tvig, mine boy, Vrom ze sound of ze kiss, He is not my miss, He is only mine laty vrient!"

"I am afraid," said Mr Bunker, as they finished the chorus, "that I can't remember any more. Now, General, it's your turn."

"Sir," replied that gallant officer, who had listened to this ditty in purple and petrified astonishment, "I don't know who the devil you are, but I can tell you, you won't remain a member of this club much longer if you come into it again in this state."

"I had forgotten," said Mr Bunker, with even more than his usual politeness, "that such an admirable music-hall critic was listening to me. I must apologise for my poor effort."

Wishing him courteously good-night, he took the Baron by the arm and walked out. While that somewhat perplexed nobleman was struggling into his coat, his friend rapidly and dexterously converted all the silk hats he could see into the condition of collapsed opera hats, and then picked a small hand-bag off the floor. The Baron walked out through the door first, but Mr Bunker stopped for an instant opposite the hall-porter's box, and crying, "Good night to you, sir!" hurled the bag through the glass, rushed after his friend, and in less time than it takes to tell they were tearing up Pall Mall in a hansom.

For a few minutes both were silent; then the Baron said slowly, "I do not qvite onderstand."

"My dear Baron," his friend explained gaily, "these practical jokes are very common in our clubs. They are quite part of our national life, you know, and I thought you ought to see everything."

The Baron said nothing, but he began to realise that he was indeed in a foreign country.



CHAPTER III.

"Vell, Bonker, vat show to-day?" said the Baron.

Mr Bunker sipped his coffee and smiled back at his friend.

"What would you like?" said he.

They were sitting in the Baron's private room finishing one of the renowned Hotel Mayonaise breakfasts. Out of the windows they could see the bright curving river, the bare tops of the Embankment trees, a file of barges drifting with the tide, and cold-looking clouds hurrying over the chaos of brick on the opposite shore. It was a bright breezy morning, and the Baron felt in high good-humour with his surroundings. On maturer consideration, the entertaining experience of the night before had greatly raised Mr Bunker in his estimation. He had chuckled his way through a substantial breakfast, and in such good company felt ready for any adventure that might turn up.

He lit a cigar, pushed back his chair, and replied blandly, "I am in your hands. I am ready to enjoy anyzing."

"Do you wish instruction or entertainment?"

"Mix zem, Bonker. Entertain by instrogtion; instrogt by entertaining."

"You are epigrammatic, Baron, but devilish vague. I presume, however, that you wish entertaining experience from which a man of your philosophical temperament can draw a moral—afterwards."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the Baron. "Excellent! You provide ze experiences—I draw ze moral."

"And we share the entertainment. The theory is perfect, but I'm afraid we need a programme. Now, on my own first visit to London I remember being taken—by the hand—to Madame Tussaud's Waxworks, the Tower, St Paul's Cathedral, the fishmarket at Billingsgate, the British Museum, and a number of other damnably edifying spectacles. You might naturally suppose that after such a round it would be quite superfluous for me ever to come up to town again. Yet, surprising as it may appear, most of the knowledge of London I hope to put at your disposal has been gained in the course of subsequent visits."

"Bot zese places—Tousaud, Tower, Paul's—are zey not instrogtif?"

"If you wish to learn that a great number of years ago a vast quantity of inconsequent events occurred, or that in an otherwise amusing enough world there are here and there collected so many roomfuls of cheerless articles, I can strongly recommend a visit to the Tower of London or the British Museum."

"In mine own gontry," said the Baron, thoughtfully, "I can lairn zo moch."

"Then, my dear Baron, while you are here forget it all."

"And yet," said the Baron, still thoughtfully, "somzing I should lairn here."

"Certainly; you will learn something of what goes on underneath a waistcoat and a little of the contents of a corset and petticoat. Also of the strange customs of this city and the excellence of British institutions."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the Baron, who thought that if his friend had not actually made a jest, it was at least time for one to occur. "I see, I see. I draw ze moral, ha, ha!"

"This morning," Mr Bunker continued, reflectively, "we might—let me see—well, we might do a little shopping. To tell you the truth, Baron, my South African experiences have somewhat exhausted my wardrobe."

"Ach, zo. Cairtainly ve vill shop. Bot, Bonker, Soud Africa? Vas it not Soud America?"

"Did I say Africa? America of course I meant. Well, let us shop if you have no objections: then we might have a little lunch, and afterwards visit the Park. For the evening, what do you say to a theatre?"

"Goot!" cried the Baron. "Make it tzos."

Mr Bunker's shopping turned out to be a pretty extensive operation.

"Loan vat you please of money," said his friend. "A gentleman should be dressed in agreement."

With now and then an apology for his extravagance, he took full advantage of the Baron's generosity, and ordered such an assortment of garments that his tailor could hardly bow low enough to express his gratification.

After an excellent lunch in the most expensive restaurant to be found, they walked arm-in-arm westwards along Piccadilly, Mr Bunker pointing out the various objects of historical or ephemeral interest to be seen in that thoroughfare, the Baron drinking in this information with the serious air of the distinguished traveller.

"And now we come to the Park," said Mr Bunker. "Guard your heart, Baron."

"Ha, ha, ha!" replied the Baron. "Zo instrogtion is feenished, and now goms entertainment, ha?"

"With the moral always running through it, remember."

"I shall not forget."

The sunshine had brought out a great many carriages and a sprinkling of walkers along the railings. The two friends strolled among them, eyeing the women and stopping now and then to look back at a carriage.

"I suppose," said the Baron, "zat vile you haf been avay your frients have forgot you."

As he spoke a young man looked hard at Mr Bunker, and even made a movement as though he would stop and speak to him. Mr Bunker looked blandly through him and walked on.

"Do you not know zat gentleman?"

"Which gentleman?"

"Ze young man zat looked so at you."

"Some young men have a way of staring here, Baron."

A few minutes later a lady in a passing carriage looked round sharply at them with an air of great surprise, and half bowed.

"Surely," exclaimed the Baron, "zat vas a frient of yours!"

"I am not a friend of hers, then," Mr Bunker replied with a laugh. "Her bow I think must have been aimed at you."

The Baron shook his head, and seemed to be drawing a moral.

"Baron," his friend exclaimed, suddenly, "let us go back; here comes one of our most popular phenomena, a London fog. We need not stay in the Park to observe it."

The sun was already obscured; there stole a most insidious chill through the air; like the changing of a scene on the stage they found themselves in a few minutes walking in a little ring of trees and road and iron railings instead of a wide sunny park; the roar of the streets came from behind a wall of mist that opened mysteriously to let a phantom carriage in and out, and closed silently behind it again.

"I like not zis," said the Baron, with a shiver.

By the time they had found Piccadilly again there was nothing at all to be seen but the light of the nearest lamp, as large and far away as a struggling sun, and the shadowy people who flitted by.

Their talk ceased. The Baron turned up his collar and sucked his cigar lugubriously, and Mr Bunker seemed unusually thoughtful. They had walked nearly as far as Piccadilly Circus when they were pulled up by a cab turning down a side-street. There was a lamp-post at the corner, and under it stood a burly man, his red face quite visible as they came up to his shoulder.

In an instant Mr Bunker seized the Baron by the arm, pulled him round, and began to walk hastily back again.

"Vat for zis?" said the Baron, in great astonishment.

"We have come too far, thanks to this infernal fog. We must cross the street and take the first turning on the other side. I must apologise, Baron, for my absence of mind."

* * * * *

The cab passed by and the red-faced man strolled on.

"Like lookin' for a needle in a bloomin' haystack," he said to himself. "I might as well go back to Clankwood. 'E's a good riddance, I say."



CHAPTER IV.

The Baron and Mr Bunker discussed their dinner with the relish of approving connoisseurs. Mr Bunker commended the hock, and suggested a second bottle; the Baron praised the entrees, and insisted on another helping. The frequent laughter arising from their table excited general remark throughout the room, and already the waiters were whispering to the other guests that this was a German nobleman of royal blood engaged in a diplomatic mission of importance, and his friend a ducal member of the English Cabinet, at present, for reasons of state, incognito.

"Bonker!" exclaimed the Baron, "I am in zat frame of head I vant a romance, an adventure" (lowering his voice a little), "mit a beautiful lady, Bonker."

"It must be a romance, Baron?"

"A novel, a story to tell to mine frients. In a strange city man expects strange zings."

"Well, I'll do my best for you, but I confess the provision of romantic adventures is a little outside the programme we've arranged."

"Ha, ha! Ve shall see, ve shall see, Bonker!"

They arrived at the Corinthian Theatre about the middle of the first act, for, as Mr Bunker explained, it is always well to produce a good first impression, and few more effective means can be devised than working one's way to the middle of a line of stalls with the play already in progress.

Hardly were they seated when the Baron drove his elbow into his friend's ribs (draped for the night, it may be remarked, with one of the Baron's spare dress-coats) and exclaimed in an excited whisper, "Next to you, Bonker! Ach, zehr huepsch!"

Even before this hint Mr Bunker had observed that the lady on the other side of him was possessed of exceptional attractions. For a little time he studied her out of the corners of his eyes. He noticed that the stall on the farther side of her was empty, that she once or twice looked round as though she expected somebody, and that she seemed not altogether unconscious of her new neighbours. He further observed that her face was of a type that is more usually engaged in attack than defence.

Then he whispered, "Would you like to know her?"

"Ach, yah!" replied the Baron, eagerly. "Bot—can you?"

Mr Bunker smiled confidently. A few minutes later he happened to let his programme fall into her lap.

"I beg your pardon," he whispered, softly, and glanced into her eyes with a smile ready.

His usual discernment had not failed him. She smiled, and instantly he produced his.

A little later her opera-glasses happened to slip from her hand, and though they only slipped slowly, it was no doubt owing to his ready presence of mind that their fall was averted.

This time their fingers happened to touch, and they smiled without an apology.

He leant towards her, looking, however, at the play. They shared a laugh over a joke that she might have been excused for not understanding; presently a criticism of some situation escaped him inadvertently, and she smiled again; soon after she gave an exclamation and he answered sympathetically, and at the end of the act the curtain came down on an acquaintance already begun. As the lights were turned up, and here and there men began to go out, she again looked at the entrances in some apparent concern, either lest some one should not come in or lest some one should.

"He is late," said Mr Bunker, smiling.

She gave a very enticing look of surprise, and consented to smile back before she coyly looked away again.

"An erring husband, I presume."

She admitted that it was in fact a husband who had failed her.

"But," she added, "I'm afraid—I mean I expect he'll come in after the next act. It's so tiresome of him to disappoint me like this."

Mr Bunker expressed the deepest sympathy with her unfortunate predicament.

"He has his ticket, of course?"

But it seemed that she had both the tickets with her, an arrangement which he immediately denounced as likely to lead to difficulties when her husband arrived. He further, in the most obliging manner, suggested that he should take the ticket for the other seat to the booking office and leave instructions for its being given to the gentleman on his arrival. The lady gave him a curious little glance that seemed to imply a mixture of doubt as to his motives with confidence in his abilities, and then with many thanks agreed to his suggestion. Mr Bunker took the ticket and rose at once.

"That I may be sure you are in good company while I am away," said he, "permit me to introduce my friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg."

And the Baron promptly took his vacant seat.

On his return Mr Bunker found his friend wreathed in smiles and engaged in the most animated conversation with the lady, and before the last act was over, he gathered from such scraps of conversation as reached his ears that Rudolph von Blitzenberg had little to learn in one department of a nobleman's duties.

"I wonder where my husband can be," the lady whispered.

"Ach, heed him not, fair lady," replied the Baron. "Am I not instead of a hosband?"

"I'm afraid you're a very naughty man, Baron."

"Ven I am viz you," the gallant Baron answered, "I forget myself all bot your charms."

These advances being made in the most dulcet tones of which the nobleman was master, and accompanied by the most enamoured expression, it is not surprising that the lady permitted herself to listen to them with perhaps too ready an ear. What Mr Bunker's arrangement with the booking clerk had been was never quite clear, but certainly the erring husband failed to make his appearance at all, and at the last fall of the curtain she was easily persuaded to let the Baron escort her home.

"I know I ought not, but if a husband deserts one so faithlessly, what can I do?" she said, with a very becoming little shrug of her shoulders and a captivating lift of her eyebrows.

"Ah, vat indeed? He desairves not so fair a consort."

"But won't it be troubling you?"

"Trouble? Pleasure and captivation!"

"Excuse me, Baron," said the voice of Mr Bunker at his elbow; "if you will wait here at the door I shall send up a cab."

"Goot!" cried the Baron, "a zouzand zanks!"

"I myself," added Mr Bunker, with a profound bow to the lady, "shall say good night now. The best of luck, Baron!"

In a few minutes a hansom drove up, and the Baron, springing in beside his charge, told the man to drive to 602 Eaton Square.

"Not too qvickly!" he added, in a stage aside.

They reached Trafalgar Square, matters inside going harmoniously as a marriage bell,—almost, in fact, too much suggesting that simile.

"Why are we going down Whitehall?" the lady exclaimed, suddenly.

"I know not," replied the Baron, placidly.

"Ask him where he is going!" she said.

The Baron, as in duty bound, asked, and the reassuring reply, "All right, sir," came back through the hole in the roof.

"I seem to know that man's voice," the lady said. "He must have driven me before."

"To me all ze English speak ze same," replied the Baron. "All bot you, my fairest, viz your sound like a—vat you call?—fiddle, is it?"

Though his charmer had serious misgivings regarding their cabman's topographical knowledge, the Baron's company proved so absorbing that it was not till they were being rapidly driven over Vauxhall Bridge that she at last took alarm. At first the Baron strove to soothe her by the most approved Teutonic blandishments, but in time he too began to feel concerned, and in a voice like thunder he repeatedly called upon the driver to stop. No reply was vouchsafed, and the pace merely grew the more reckless.

"Can't you catch the reins?" cried the lady, who had got into a terrible fright.

The Baron twice essayed the feat, but each time a heavy blow over the knuckles from the butt-end of the whip forced him to desist. The lady burst into tears. The Baron swore in five languages alternately, and still the cab pursued its headlong career through deserted midnight streets, past infrequent policemen and stray belated revellers, on into an unknown wilderness of brick.

"Oh, don't let him murder me!" sobbed the lady.

"Haf cheer, fairest; he shall not vile I am viz you! Gott in himmel, ze rascal! Parbleu und blood! Goddam! Vait till I catch him, hell and blitzen! Haf courage, dear!"

"Oh dear, oh dear!" wailed the lady. "I shall never do it again!"

They must have covered miles, and still the speed never abated, when suddenly, as they were rounding a sharp corner, the horse slipped on the frost-bound road, and in the twinkling of an eye the Baron and the lady were sitting on opposite sides of their fallen steed, and the cabman was rubbing his head some yards in front.

"Teufel!" exclaimed the Baron, rising carefully to his feet. "Ach, mine dearest vun, art thou hurt?"

The lady was silent for a moment, as though trying to decide, and then she burst into hysterical laughter.

"Ach, zo," said the Baron, much relieved, "zen vill I see ze cabman."

That individual was still rubbing his head with a rueful air, and the Baron was about to pour forth all his bottled-up indignation, when at the sight of the driver's face he started back in blank astonishment.

"Bonker!"

"It is I indeed, my dear Baron," replied that gentleman, politely. "I must ask a thousand pardons for causing you this trifling inconvenience. As to your friend, I don't know how I am to make my peace with her."

"Bot—bot vat means zis?" gasped the Baron.

"I was merely endeavouring to provide the spice of romance you required, besides giving you the opportunity of making the lady's better acquaintance. Can I do anything more for you, Baron? And you, my dear lady, can I assist you in any way?"

Both, speaking at once and with some heat, gave a decidedly affirmative answer.

"Where are we?" asked the lady, who hovered between fright and indignation.

Mr Bunker shrugged his shoulders.

"It would be rash to hazard an opinion," he replied.

"Well!" cried the lady, her indignation quite overcoming her fright. "Do you mean to say you've brought us here against our wills and probably got me into dreadful trouble, and you don't even know where we are?"

Mr Bunker looked up at the heavens with a studious air.

"One ought to be able to tell something of our whereabouts from one of those stars," he replied; "but, to tell the truth, I don't quite know which. In short, madame, it is not from want of goodwill, but merely through ignorance, that I cannot direct you."

The lady turned impatiently to the Baron.

"You've helped to get me into this mess," she said, tartly. "What do you propose to do?"

"My fairest——"

"Don't!" she interrupted, stamping her foot on the frosty road, and then inconsequently burst into tears. The Baron and Mr Bunker looked at one another.

"It is a fine night for a walk, and the cab, I'm afraid, is smashed beyond hope of redemption. Give the lady your arm, Baron; we must eventually arrive somewhere."

There was really nothing else for it, so leaving the horse and cab to be recovered by the first policeman who chanced to pass, they set out on foot. At last, after half an hour's ramble through the solitudes of South London, a belated cab was hailed and all three got inside. Once on her way home, the lady's indignation again gave way to fright.

"What am I to do? What am I to do?" she wailed. "Oh, whatever will my husband say?"

In his most confident and irresistible manner Mr Bunker told her he would make matters all right for her at whatever cost to himself; and so infectious was his assurance, that, when at last they reached Eaton Square, she allowed him to come up to the door of number 602. The Baron prudently remained in the cab, for, as he explained, "My English, he is unsafe."

After a prolonged knocking and ringing the door at length opened, and an irascible-looking, middle-aged gentleman appeared, arrayed in a dressing-gown.

"Louisa!" he cried. "What the dev—where on earth have you been? The police are looking for you all over London. And may I venture to ask who this is with you?"

Mr Bunker bowed slightly and raised his hat.

"My dear sir," he said, "we found this lady in a lamentable state of intoxication in the Tottenham Court Road, and as I understand you have a kind of reversionary interest in her, we have brought her here. As for you, sir, your appearance is so unprepossessing that I am unable to remain any longer. Good night," and raising his hat again he entered the cab and drove off, assuring the Baron that matters were satisfactorily arranged.

"So you have had your adventure, Baron," he added, with a smile.

For a minute or two the Baron was silent. Then he broke into a cheerful guffaw, "Ha, ha, ha! You are a fonny devil, Bonker! Ach, bot it vas pleasant vile it lasted!"



CHAPTER V.

A few days passed in the most entertaining manner. A menu of amusements was regularly prepared suitable to a catholic taste, and at every turn the Baron was struck by the enterprise and originality of his friend. He had, however, a national bent for serious inquiry, and now and then doubts crossed his mind whether, with all his moral drawing, he was acquiring quite as much solid information as he had set out to gain. This idea grew upon him, till one morning, after gazing for some time at the English newspaper he always made a point of reading, he suddenly exclaimed, "Bonker, I haf a doubt!"

"I have many," replied Mr Bunker; "in fact, I have few positive ideas left."

"Bot mine is a particulair doubt. Do I lairn enoff?"

"My own conception of enough learning, Baron, is a thing like a threepenny-bit—the smallest coin one can do one's marketing with."

"And yet," said the Baron, solemnly, "for my own share, I am not satisfied. I vould lairn more of ze British institutions; so far I haf lairned of ze pleasures only."

"My dear Baron, they are the British institutions."

The Baron shook his head and fell to his paper again, while Mr Bunker stretched himself on the sofa and gazed through his cigar-smoke at the ceiling. Suddenly the Baron gave an exclamation of horror.

"My dear Baron, what is the matter?"

"Yet anozer outrage!" cried the Baron. "Zese anarchists, zey are too scandalous. At all ze stations zere are detectives, and all ze ships are being vatched. Ach, it is terrible!"

Mr Bunker seemed struck with an idea, for he stared at the ceiling without making any reply, and his eyes, had the Baron seen them, twinkled curiously.

At last the Baron laid down his paper.

"Vell, vat shall ve do?" he asked.

"Let us come first to Liverpool Street Station, if you don't mind, Baron," his friend suggested. "I have something in the cloak-room there I want to pick up."

"My dear Bonker, I shall go vere you vill; bot remember I vant to-day more instrogtion and less entertainment."

"You wish to see the practical side of English life?"

"Yah—zat is, yes."

Mr Bunker smiled.

"Then I must entertain myself."

As they drove down he was in his wittiest humour, and the Baron, in spite of his desire for instruction, was more charmed with his friend than ever.

"Vat fonny zing vill you do next, eh?" he asked, as they walked arm-in-arm into the station.

"I am no more the humourist, my dear Baron,—I shall endeavour to edify you."

They had arrived at a busy hour, when the platforms were crowded with passengers and luggage. A train had just come in, and around it the bustle was at its height, and the confusion most bewildering.

"Wait for me here," said Mr Bunker; "I shall be back in a minute."

He started in the direction of the cloak-room, and then, doubling back through the crowd, walked down the platform and stopped opposite a luggage-van. An old gentleman, beside himself with irritation, was struggling with the aid of a porter to collect his luggage, and presently he left the pile he had got together and made a rush in the direction of a large portmanteau that was just being tumbled out. Instantly Mr Bunker picked up a handbag from the heap and walked quickly off with it.

"Here you are, Baron," he said, as he came up to his friend. "I find there is something else I must do, so do you mind holding this bag for a few minutes? If you will walk up and down in front of the refreshment-rooms here, I'll find you more easily. Is it troubling you too much?"

"Not vun bit, Bonker. I am in your sairvice."

He put the bag into the Baron's hand with his pleasantest smile, and turned away. Rounding a corner, he came cautiously back again through the crowd and stepped up to a policeman.

"Keep your eye on that man, officer," he said, in a low confidential voice, and an air of quiet authority, "and put your plain clothes' men on his track. I know him for one of the most dangerous anarchists."

The man started and stared hard at the Baron, and presently that unconscious nobleman, pacing the platform in growing wonder at Mr Bunker's lengthy absence, and looking anxiously round him on all sides, noticed with surprise that a number of quietly dressed men, with no apparent business in the station, were eyeing him with, it seemed to him, an interest that approached suspicion. In time he grew annoyed, he returned their glances with his haughtiest and most indignant look, and finally, stepping up to one of them, asked in no friendly voice, "Vat for do you vatch me?"

The man returned an evasive answer, and passing one of his fellow-officers, whispered, "Foreign; I was sure of it."

At last the Baron could stand it no longer, and laying the bag down by the door of the refreshment-room, turned hastily away. On the instant Mr Bunker, who had watched these proceedings from a safe distance, cried in a loud and agonised voice, "Down with your men, sergeant! Down, lie down! It will explode in twenty seconds!"

And as he spoke he threw himself flat on his face. So infectious were his commanding voice and his note of alarm that one after another, detectives, passengers, and porters, cast themselves at full length on the platform. The Baron, filled with terror of anarchist plots, was one of the first to prostrate himself, and at that there could be no further doubt of the imminence of the peril.

The cabs rattled and voices sounded from outside; an engine whistled and shunted at a far platform, but never before at that hour of the day had Liverpool Street Station been so silent. All held their breath and heard their hearts thump as they gazed in horrible fascination at that fatal bag, or with closed eyes stumbled through a hasty prayer. Fully a minute passed, and the suspense was growing intolerable, when with a loud oath an old gentleman rose to his feet and walked briskly up to the bag.

"Have a care, sir! For Heaven's sake have a care!" cried Mr Bunker; but the old gentleman merely bent over the terrible object, and, picking it up, exclaimed in bewildered wrath, "It's my bag! Who the devil brought it here, and what's the meaning of this d—d nonsense?"

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" roared Mr Bunker; while like sheepish mushrooms the people sprang up on all sides.

"My dear sir," said Mr Bunker, coming up to the old gentleman, and raising his hat with his most affable air, "permit me to congratulate you on recovering your lost property, and allow me further to introduce my friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg."

"Baron von damned-humbug!" cried the old gentleman. "Did you take my bag, sir? and if so, are you a thief or a lunatic?"

For an instant even Mr Bunker himself seemed a trifle taken aback; then he replied politely, "I am not a thief, sir."

"Then what 'ave you been doing?" demanded the sergeant.

"Merely demonstrating to my friend the Baron the extraordinary vigilance of the English police."

For a time neither the old gentleman nor the sergeant seemed quite capable of taking the same view of the episode as Mr Bunker, and, curiously enough, the Baron seemed not disinclined to let his friend extricate himself as best he could. No one, however, could resist Mr Bunker, and before very long he and the Baron were driving up Bishopsgate Street together, with the old gentleman's four-wheeler lumbering in front of them.

"Well, Baron, are you satisfied with your morning's instruction?" asked his friend.

"A German nobleman is not used to be in soch a position," replied the Baron, stiffly.

"You must admit, however, that the object-lesson in the detection of anarchy was neatly presented."

"I admit nozing of ze kind," said the Baron, stolidly.

For the rest of the drive he sat obdurately silent. He went to his room with the mien of an offended man. During lunch he only opened his lips to eat.

On his side Mr Bunker maintained a cheerful composure, and seemed not a whit put about by his friend's lack of appreciation.

"Anozzer bottle of claret," said the Baron, gruffly, to a waiter.

Mr Bunker let him consume it entirely by himself, awaiting the results with patience. Gradually his face relaxed a little, until all at once, when the bump in the bottom of the bottle was beginning to appear above the wine, the whole room was startled by a stentorian, "Ha, ha, ha!"

"My dear Bonker!" cried the Baron, when he had finished laughing, "forgif me! I begin for to see ze moral, ha, ha, ha!"



CHAPTER VI.

The Baron expressed no further wish for instruction, but, instead, he began to show a desire for society.

"Doesn't one fool suffice?" his friend asked.

"Ach, yes, my vise fool; ha, ha, ha! Bot sometimes I haf ze craving for peoples, museec, dancing—in vun vord, society, Bonker!"

"But this is not the season, Baron. You wouldn't mix with any but the best society, would you?"

"Zere are some nobles in town. In my paper I see Lord zis, Duke of zat, in London. Pairhaps my introdogtions might be here now."

This suggestion seemed to strike Mr Bunker unfavourably.

"My company is beginning to pall, is it, Baron?"

"Ach, no, dear Bonker! I vould merely go out jost vunce or tvice. Haf you no friends now in town?"

An idea seemed to seize Mr Bunker.

"Let me see the paper," he said.

After perusing it carefully for a little, he at last exclaimed in a tone of pleased discovery, "Hullo! I see that Lady Tulliwuddle is giving a reception and dance to-night. Most of the smart people in town just now are sure to be there. Would you care to go, Baron?"

"Ach, surely," said the Baron, eagerly. "Bot haf you been invited, Bonker?"

"Oh, I used to have a standing invitation to Lady Tulliwuddle's dances, and I'm certain she would be glad to see me again."

"Can you take me?"

"Of course, my dear Baron, she will be honoured."

"Goot!" cried the Baron. "Ve shall go."

Mr Bunker explained that it was the proper thing to arrive very late, and so it was not until after twelve o'clock that they left the Hotel Mayonaise for the regions of Belgravia. The Baron, primed with a bottle of champagne, and arrayed in a costume which Mr Bunker had assured him was the very latest extreme of fashion, and which included a scarlet watered silk waistcoat, a pair of white silk socks, and a lavender tie, was in a condition of cheerfulness verging closely on hilarity. Mr Bunker, that, as he said, he might better serve as a foil to his friend's splendour, went more inconspicuously dressed, but was likewise well charged with champagne. He too was in his happiest vein, and the vision of the Baron's finery appeared to afford him peculiar gratification.

Their hansom stopped in front of a large and gaily lit-up mansion, with an awning leading to the door, and a cluster of carriages and footmen by the kerbstone. They entered, and having divested themselves of their coats, Mr Bunker proposed that they should immediately seek the supper-room.

"Bot should I not be first introduced to mine hostess?" asked the Baron.

"My dear Baron! a formal reception of the guests is entirely foreign to English etiquette."

"Zo? I did not know zat."

The supper-room was crowded, and having secured a table with some difficulty, Mr Bunker entered immediately into conversation with a solitary young gentleman who was consuming a plate of oysters. Before they had exchanged six sentences the young man had entirely succumbed to Mr Bunker's address, aided possibly by the young man's supper.

"Permit me to introduce my friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg, a nobleman strange as yet to England, but renowned throughout his native land alike for his talents and his lofty position," said Mr Bunker.

"Ach, my good friend," exclaimed the Baron, grasping the young man's hand, "das ist Bonker's vat you call nonsense; bot I am delighted, zehr delighted, to meet you, and if you gom to Bavaria you most shoot vid me! Bravo! Ha!"

From which it may be gathered that the Baron was in a genial humour.

"Who is that girl?" asked Mr Bunker, pointing to an extremely pretty damsel just leaving the room.

"Oh, that's my cousin, Lady Muriel Hilton. She's thought rather pretty, I believe," answered the young man.

"Do you mind introducing me?"

"Certainly," said their new friend. "Come along."

As they were passing through the room a little incident occurred that, if the Baron's perceptions had been keener, might have given him cause for some speculation. Two men standing by the door looked hard at Mr Bunker, and then at each other, and as the Baron passed them he heard one say, "It looks devilish like him."

"He has shaved, then," said the other.

"Evidently," replied the first speaker; "but I thought he was unlikely to appear in any society for some time."

They both laughed, and the Baron heard no more.

When they reached the ballroom the band was striking up a polka, and presently Mr Bunker, with his accustomed grace, was tearing round the room with Lady Muriel, while the Baron—the delight of all eyes in his red waistcoat—led out her sister. In a very short time the other dancers found the Baron and his friend's onslaught so vigorous that prudence compelled them to take shelter along the wall, and from a safe distance admire the evolutions of these two mysterious guests.

Mr Bunker was enlivening the monotony of the polka by the judicious introduction of hornpipe steps, while the Baron, his coat-tails high above his head, shouted and stamped in his wild career.

"Do stop for a minute, Baron," gasped his fair partner.

"Himmel, nein!" roared the Baron. "I haf gom here for to dance! Ha, Bonker, ha!"

At last Lady Muriel had to stop through sheer exhaustion, but Mr Bunker, merely letting her go, pursued his solitary way, double-shuffling and kicking unimpeded.

The Baron stopped, breathless, to admire him. Round and round he went, the only figure in the middle of the room, his arms akimbo, his feet rat-tatting and kicking to the music, while high above the band resounded his friend's shouts of "Bravo, Bonker! Wunderschoen! Gott in himmel, higher, higher!" till at length, missing the wall in an attempt to find support, the Baron dropped with a thud into a sitting posture and continued his demonstrations from the floor.

Meanwhile their alarmed hostess was holding a hasty consultation with her husband, and when the music at last stopped and Mr Bunker was advancing with his most courteous air towards his late partner, Lord Tulliwuddle stepped up to him and touched his arm.

"May I speak to you, sir?" he said.

"Certainly," replied Mr Bunker. "I shall be honoured. Excuse me for one moment, Lady Muriel."

"At whose invitation have you come here to-night?" demanded his host, sternly.

"I have the pleasure of addressing Lord Tulliwuddle, have I not?"

"You have, sir."

Mr Bunker bent towards him and whispered something in his ear.

"From Scotland Yard?" exclaimed his lordship.

"Hush!" said Mr Bunker, glancing cautiously round the room, and then he added, with an air of impressive gravity, "You have a bathroom on the third floor, I believe?"

"I have," replied his host in great surprise.

"Has it a bell?"

"No, I believe not."

"Ah, I thought so. If you will favour me by coming up-stairs for a minute, my Lord, you will avoid a serious private scandal. Say nothing about it at present to any one."

In blank astonishment and some alarm Lord Tulliwuddle went up with him to the third floor, where the house was still and the sounds of revelry reached faintly.

"What does this mean, sir?" he asked.

"If I am right in my conjectures you will need no explanation from me, my Lord."

His lordship opened a door, and turning on an electric light, revealed a small and ordinary-looking bathroom.

"Ha, no bell—excellent!" said Mr Bunker.

"What are you doing with the key?" exclaimed his host.

"Good night, my Lord. I shall tell them to send up breakfast at nine," said Mr Bunker, and stepping quickly out, he shut and locked the door.

A minute later he was back in the ballroom looking anxiously for the Baron, but that nobleman was nowhere to be seen.

"The devil!" he said to himself. "Can they have tackled him too?"

But as he ran downstairs a gust of cheerful laughter set his mind at ease.

"Ha, ha, ha! Vere is old Bonker? He also vill shoot vid me!"

"Here I am, my dear Baron," he exclaimed gaily, as he tracked the voice into the supper-room.

"Ach, mine dear Bonker!" cried the Baron, folding him in his muscular embrace, "I haf here met friends, ve are merry! Ve drink to Bavaria, to England, to everyzing!"

The "friends" consisted of two highly amused young men and two half-scandalised, half-hysterical ladies, into the midst of whose supper-table the Baron had projected himself with infectious hilarity. They all looked up with great curiosity at Mr Bunker, but that gentleman was not in the least put about. He bowed politely to the table generally, and took his friend by the arm.

"It is time we were going, Baron, I'm afraid," he said.

"Vat for? Ah, not yet, Bonker, not yet. I am enjoying myself down to ze floor. I most dance again, Bonker, jost vunce more," pleaded the Baron.

"My dear Baron, the noblemen of highest rank must always leave first, and people are talking of going now. Come along, old man."

"Ha, is zat so?" said the Baron. "Zen vill I go. Good night!" he cried, waving his hand to the room generally. "Ven you gom to Bavaria you most all shoot vid me. Bravo, my goot Bonker! Ha! ha!"

As they turned away from the table, one of the young men, who had been looking very hard at Mr Bunker, rose and touched his sleeve.

"I say, aren't you——?" he began.

"Possibly I am," interrupted Mr Bunker, "only I haven't the slightest recollection of the fact."

An astonished lady was indicated by Mr Bunker as the hostess, and to her the Baron bade an affectionate adieu. He handed a sovereign to the footman, embraced the butler, and as they sped eastwards in their hansom, a rousing chorus from the two friends awoke the echoes of Piccadilly.

"Bravo, Bonker! Himmel, I haf enjoyed myself!" sighed the exhausted Baron.



CHAPTER VII.

The Baron and Mr Bunker discussed a twelve o'clock breakfast with the relish of men who had done a good night's work. The Baron was full of his exploits. "Ze lofly Lady Hilton" and his new "friends" seemed to have made a vivid impression.

"Zey vill be in ze Park to-day, of course?" he suggested.

"Possibly," replied Mr Bunker, without any great enthusiasm.

"But surely."

"After a dance it is rather unlikely."

"Ze Lady Hilton did say she vent to ze Park."

"To-day, Baron?"

"I do not remember to-day. I did dance so hard I was not perhaps distinct. But I shall go and see."

As Mr Bunker's attempts to throw cold water on this scheme proved quite futile, he made a graceful virtue of necessity, dressed himself with care, and set out in the afternoon for the Park. They had only walked as far as Piccadilly Circus when in the crowd at the corner his eye fell upon a familiar figure. It was the burly, red-faced man.

"The devil! Moggridge again!" he muttered.

For a moment he thought they were going to pass unobserved: then the man turned his head their way, and Mr Bunker saw him start. He never looked over his shoulder, but after walking a little farther he called the Baron's attention to a shop window, and they stopped to look at it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Moggridge about twenty yards behind them stopping too. He was glancing towards them very doubtfully. Evidently his mind was not yet made up, and at once Mr Bunker's fertile brain began to revolve plans.

A little farther on they paused before another window, and exactly the same thing happened. Then Mr Bunker made up his mind. He looked carefully at the cabs, and at last observed a smart-looking young man driving a fresh likely horse at a walking pace beside the pavement.

He caught the driver's eye and raised his stick, and turning suddenly to the Baron with a gesture of annoyance, exclaimed, "Forgive my rudeness, Baron, I'm afraid I must leave you. I had clean forgotten an important engagement in the city for this afternoon."

"Appointment in ze city?" said the Baron in considerable surprise. "I did not know you had friends in ze city."

"I have just heard from my father's man of business, and I'm afraid it would be impolitic not to see him. Do you mind if I leave you here?"

"Surely, my dear fellow, I vould not stop you. Already I feel at home by myself."

"Then we shall meet at the hotel before dinner. Good luck with the ladies, Baron."

Mr Bunker jumped into the cab, saying only to the driver, "To the city, as quick as you can."

"What part, sir?"

"Oh, say the Bank. Hurry up!"

Then as the man whipped up, Mr Bunker had a glimpse of Moggridge hailing another cab, and peeping cautiously through the little window at the back he saw him starting in hot pursuit. He took five shillings out of his pocket and opened the trap-door in the roof.

"Do you see that other cab chasing us, with a red-faced man inside?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr Bunker handed his driver the money.

"Get rid of him, then. Take me anywhere through the city you like, and when he's off the scent let me know."

"Very good, sir," replied the driver, cracking his whip till his steed began to move past the buses and the other cabs like a train.

On they flew, clatter and jingle, twisting like a snipe through the traffic. Mr Bunker perceived that he had a good horse and a good driver, and he smiled in pleasant excitement. He lit a cigar, leaned his arms on the doors, and settled himself to enjoy the race.

The black lions of Trafalgar Square flew by, then the colossal hotels of Northumberland Avenue and the railway bridge at Charing Cross, and they were going at a gallop along the Embankment. He got swift glimpses of other cabs and foot-passengers, the trees seemed to flit past like telegraph-posts on a railway, the barges and lighters on the river dropped one by one behind them: it was a fair course for a race, with never a check before Blackfriar's Bridge.

As they turned into Queen Victoria Street he opened the lid and asked, "Are they still in sight?"

"Yes, sir; I'm afraid we ain't gaining much yet. But I'll do it, sir, no fears."

Mr Bunker lay back and laughed.

"This is better than the Park," he said to himself.

They had a fine drive up Queen Victoria Street before they plunged into the whirlpool of traffic at the Bank. They were slowly making their way across when the driver, spying an opening in another stream, abruptly wheeled round for Cornhill, and presently they were off again at top speed.

"Thrown them off?" asked Mr Bunker.

"Tried to, sir, but they were too sharp and got clear away too."

Mr Bunker saw that it was going to be a stern chase, and laughed again. In order that he might not show ostensibly that he was running away, he resisted the temptation of having another peep through the back, and resigned himself to the chances of the chase.

Through and through the lanes and byways of the city they drove, and after each double the answer from the box was always the same. The cab behind could not be shaken off.

"Work your way round to Holborn and try a run west," Mr Bunker suggested.

So after a little they struck Newgate Street, and presently their steed stretched himself again in Holborn Viaduct.

"Gaining now, cabby?"

"A little, sir, I think."

Mr Bunker sat placidly till they were well along Holborn before he inquired again.

"Can't get rid of 'im no 'ow. Afride it ain't much good, sir."

Mr Bunker passed up five shillings more.

"Keep your tail up. You'll do it yet," he exhorted. "Try a turn north; you may bother him among the squares."

So they doubled north, and as the evening closed in their wearied horse was lashed through a maze of monotonous streets and tarnished Bloomsbury Squares. And still the other cab stuck to their trail. But when they emerged on the Euston Road, Mr Bunker was as cheerful as ever.

"They can't last much longer," he said to his driver. "Turn up Regent's Park way."

A little later he put the usual question and got the same unvarying answer.

The horse was evidently beginning to fail, and he saw that this chariot-race must soon come to an end. The street-lamps and the shop windows were all lit up by this time, and the dusk was pretty thick. It seemed to him that he might venture to try his luck on foot, and he began to look out for an opening where a cab could not follow.

They were flogging along a noisy stone-paved road where there was little other traffic; on one side stood an unbroken row of houses, and on the other were small semi-detached villas with little strips of garden about them. All at once he saw a doctor's red lamp over the door of one of these half villas, and an inspiration came upon him.

"One can always visit a doctor," he said to himself, and smiled in great amusement at something in the reflection.

He stopped the cab, handed the man half a sovereign, and saying only, "Drive away again, quickly," jumped out, glanced at the name on the plate, and pulled the bell. As he waited on the step he saw the other cab stop a little way back, and his pursuer emerge.

A frowsy little servant opened the door.

"Is Dr Twiddel at home?" he asked.

"Dr Twiddel's abroad, sir," said the maid.

"No one in at all, then?"

"Dr Billson sees 'is patients, sir—w'en there his any."

"When do you expect Dr Billson?"

"In about an hour, sir, 'e usually comes hin."

"Excellent!" thought Mr Bunker. Aloud he said, "Well, I'm a patient. I'll come in and wait."

He stepped in, and the door banged behind him.



CHAPTER VIII.

"This w'y, sir," said the maid, and Mr Bunker found himself in the little room where this story opened.

The moment he was alone he went to the window and peeped cautiously between the slats of the venetian blind.

The street was quiet, both cabs had disappeared, and for a minute or two he could see nothing even of Moggridge. Then a figure moved carefully from the shelter of a bush a little way down the railings, and, after a quick look at the house, stepped back again.

"He means to play the waiting game," said Mr Bunker to himself. "Long may you wait, my wary Moggridge!"

He took a rapid survey of the room. He saw the medical library, the rented furniture, and the unlit gas-stove; and at last his eye fell upon a box of cigarettes. To one of these he helped himself and leaned his back against the mantelpiece.

"There must be at least one room at the back," he reflected; "that room must have a window, and beyond that window there is all London to turn to. Friend Moggridge, I trust you are prepared to spend the evening behind your bush."

He had another look through the blind and shook his head.

"A little too light yet,—I'd better wait for a quarter of an hour or so."

To while away the time he proceeded to make a tour of the room, for, as he said to himself, when in an unknown country any information may possibly come in useful. There was nothing whatever from which he could draw even the most superficial deduction till he came to the writing-desk. Here a heap of bills were transfixed by a long skewer, and at his first glance at the uppermost his face assumed an expression of almost ludicrous bewilderment. He actually rubbed his eyes before he looked a second time.

"One dozen shirts," he read, "four under-flannels, four pair socks, one dozen handkerchiefs, two sleeping-suits—marked Francis Beveridge! the account rendered to Dr G. Twiddel! What in the name of wonderment is the meaning of this?"

He sat down with the bill in his hand and gazed hard at it.

"Precisely my outfit," he said to himself.

"Am I—Does it——? What a rum thing!"

He sat for about ten minutes looking hard at the floor. Then he burst out laughing, resumed in a moment his air of philosophical opportunism, and set about a further search of the desk. He looked at the bills and seemed to find nothing more to interest him. Then he glanced at one or two letters in the drawers, threw the first few back again, and at last paused over one.

"Twiddel to Billson," he said to himself. "This may possibly be worth looking at."

It was dated more than a month back from the town of Fogelschloss.

"Dear Tom," it ran, "we are having an A 1 time. Old Welsh is in splendid form, doing the part to perfection. He has never given himself away yet, not even when drunk, which, I am sorry to say, he has been too often. But then old Welsh is so funny when he is drunk that it makes him all the more like the original, or at least what the original is supposed to be.

"Of course we don't dare to venture into places where we would see too many English. This is quite an amusing place for a German town, some baths and a kind of a gambling-table, and some pretty girls—for Germans. There is a sporting aristocrat here, in an old castle, who is very friendly, and is much impressed with Welsh's account of his family plate and deer-forest, and has asked us once or twice to come out and see him. We are no end of swells, I assure you.

"Ta, ta, old chap. Hope the practice prospers in your hands. Don't kill all the patients before I come back.—Ever thine,

GEORGE TWIDDEL."

"From this I conclude that Dr Twiddel is on the festive side of forty," he reflected; "there are elements of mystery and a general atmosphere of alcohol about it, but that's all, I'm afraid."

He put it back in the drawer, but the bill he slipped into his pocket.

"And now," thought he, "it is time I made the first move."

After waiting for a minute or two to make sure that everything was quiet, he gently stepped out into a little linoleum-carpeted hall. On the right hand was the front door, on the left two others that must, he thought, open into rooms on the back. He chose the nearer at a venture, and entered boldly. It was quite dark. He closed the door again softly, struck a match, and looked round the room. It seemed to be Dr Twiddel's dining- and sitting-room.

"Pipes, photographs, well-sat-in chairs," he observed, "and a window."

He pulled aside the blind and looked out into the darkness of a strip of back-garden. For a minute he listened intently, but no sound came from the house. Then he threw up the sash and scrambled out. It was quite dark by this time: he was enclosed between two rows of vague, black houses, with bright windows here and there, and chimney-cans faintly cutting their uncouth designs among a few pale London stars. The space between was filled with the two lines of little gardens and the ranks of walls, and in the middle the black chasm of a railway cutting.

A frightened cat bolted before him as he hurried down to the foot of the strip, but that was all the life he saw. He looked over the wall right into the deep crevasse. A little way off, on the one hand, hung a cluster of signal-lights, and the shining rails reflected them all along to the mouth of a tunnel on the other. Turning his head this way and that, there was nothing to be seen anywhere else but garden wall after garden wall.

"It's a choice between a hurdle-race through these gardens, a cat-walk along this wall, and a descent into the cutting," he reflected. "The walls look devilish high and the cutting devilish deep. Hang me if I know which road to take."

While he was still debating this somewhat perplexing question, he felt the ground begin to quiver under him. Through the hum of London there gradually arose a louder roar, and in a minute the head-lights of an engine flashed out of the tunnel. One after another a string of bright carriages followed it, each more slowly than the carriage in front, till the whole train was at a standstill below him with the red signal-lamp against it.

In an instant his decision was taken. At the peril of life and garments he scrambled down the rocky bank, picking as he went an empty first-class compartment, and just as the train began to move again he swung himself up and sprang into a carriage.

Unfortunately he had chosen the wrong one in his haste, and as he opened the door he saw a comical vision of a stout little old gentleman huddling into the farther corner in the most dire consternation.

"Who are you, sir? What do you want, sir?" spluttered the old gentleman. "If you come any nearer me, sir—one step, sir!—I shall instantly communicate with the guard! I have no money about me. Go away, sir!"

"I regret to learn that you have no money," replied Mr Bunker, imperturbably; "but I am sorry that I am not at present in a condition to offer a loan."

He sat down and smiled amicably, but the little gentleman was not to be quieted so easily. Seeing that no violence was apparently intended, his fright changed into respectable indignation.

"You needn't try to be funny with me, sir. You are committing an illegal act. You have placed yourself in an uncommonly serious position, sir."

"Indeed, sir?" replied Mr Bunker. "I myself should have imagined that by remaining on the rails I should have been much more seriously situated."

The old gentleman looked at him like an angry small dog that longs to bite if it only dared.

"What is the meaning of this illegal intrusion?" he demanded. "Who are you? Where did you come from?"

"I had the misfortune, sir," explained Mr Bunker, politely, "to drop my hat out of the window of a neighbouring carriage. While I was picking it up the train started, and I had to enter the first compartment I could find. I am sorry that my entry frightened you."

"Frightened me!" spluttered the old gentleman. "I am not afraid, sir. I am an honest man who need fear no one, sir. I do not believe you dropped your hat. It is perfectly uninjured."

"It may be news to you, sir," replied Mr Bunker, "that by gently yet firmly passing the sleeve of your coat round your hat in the direction of the nap, it is possible to restore the gloss. Thus," and suiting the action to the word he took off his hat, drew his coat-sleeve across it, and with a genial smile at the old gentleman, replaced it on his head.

But his neighbour was evidently of that truculent disposition which merely growls at blandishments. He snorted and replied testily, "That is all very well, sir, but I don't believe a word of it."

"If you prefer it, then, I fell off the telegraph wires in an attempt to recover my boots."

The old gentleman became purple in the face.

"Have a care, sir! I am a director of this company, and at the next station I shall see that you give a proper account of yourself. And here we are, sir. I trust you have a more credible story in readiness."

As he spoke they drew up beside an underground platform, and the irascible old gentleman, with a very threatening face that was not yet quite cleared of alarm, bustled out in a prodigious hurry. Mr Bunker lay back in his seat and replied with a smile, "I shall be delighted to tell any story within the bounds of strict propriety."

But the moment he saw the irate director disappear in the crowd he whipped out too, and with the least possible delay transferred himself into a third-class carriage.

From his seat near the window he watched the old gentleman hurry back with three officials at his heels, and hastily search each first-class compartment in turn. The last one was so near him that he could hear his friend say, "Damn it, the rascal has bolted in the crowd!" And with that the four of them rushed off to the barrier to intercept or pursue this suspicious character. Then the whistle blew, and as the train moved off Mr Bunker remarked complacently, if a little mysteriously, to himself, "Well, whoever I am, it would seem I'm rather difficult to catch."



CHAPTER IX.

Mr Bunker arrived at the Hotel Mayonaise in what, from his appearance, was an unusually reflective state of mind for him. The other visitors, many of whom had begun to regard him and his noble friend with great interest, saw him pass through the crowd in the hall and about the lifts with a thoughtful air. He went straight to the Baron's room. Outside the door he paused for an instant to set his face in a cheerful smile, and then burst gaily in upon his friend.

"Well, my dear Baron!" he cried, "what luck in the Park?"

The Baron was pulling his moustache over an English novel. He laid down his book and frowned at Mr Bunker.

"I do not onderstand your English vays," he replied.

Mr Bunker perceived that something was very much amiss, nor was he without a suspicion of the cause. He laughed, however, and asked, "What's the matter, old man?"

"I vent to ze Park," said the Baron, with a solemn deliberation that evidently came hardly to him. "I entered ze Park. I vas dressed, as you know, viz taste and appropriety. I vas sober, as you know. I valked under ze trees, and I looked agreeably at ze people. Goddam!"

"My dear Baron!" expostulated Mr Bunker.

The Baron resumed his intense composure with a great effort.

"Not long vas ven I see ze Lady Hilton drive past mit ze ozzer Lady Hilton and vun old lady. I raise my hat—no bow from zem. 'Pairhaps,' I zink, 'zey see me not.' Zey stop by ze side to speak viz a gentleman. I gomed up and again I raise my hat and I say, 'How do you do, Lady Hilton? I hope you are regovered from ze dance.' Zat was gorrect, vas it not?"

"Perfectly," replied Mr Bunker, with great gravity.

"Zen vy did ze Lady Hilton schream and ze ozzer Lady Hilton cry, 'Ach, zat German man!' And vy did ze old lady schream to ze gentleman, 'Send him avay! How dare you? Insolence!' and suchlike vords?"

"What remarkable conduct, my dear Baron!" said Mr Bunker.

"Remargable!" roared the justly incensed Baron. "Is it not more zan remargable? Donner und blitzen! Mon Dieu! Blood! I know not ze English vord so bad enoff for soch conduct."

"It must have been a joke," his friend suggested, soothingly.

"Vun dashed bad joke, zen! Ze gentleman said to me, 'Get out of zis, you rasgal!' 'Vat mean you, sare?' say I. 'You know quite vell,' said he. 'Glear out!' So I gave him my card and tell him I would be glad to see his frient zat he should send, for zat I vas not used to be called zo. Zen I raise my hat to ze Lady Hilton and say, 'Adieu, madame, I know now ze English lady,' and I valk on. Himmel!"

"What a very extraordinary affair, Baron!"

The Baron grunted with inarticulate indignation and nearly pulled his moustache out by the roots. Abruptly he broke out again, "English ladies? I do not believe zey are ladies! Never haf I been treated zo! Vat do you mean, Bonker, by taking me among soch peoples?"

"I, my dear Baron? It was not I who introduced you to the Hiltons. I never saw them before."

The difficulty of attaching any blame to his friend seemed to have anything but a soothing effect on the Baron. You could almost fancy that you heard his tail lash the floor.

"Zat vas not all," he continued, after a short struggle with his wrath. "I valked on, and soon I see two of ze frients I made last night at supper."

"Which two?"

"Ze yong man zat spoke to you ven you rise from ze table, and vun of ze ladies. Again I raise my hat and say, 'How do you do? I hope zat you are regovered from ze dance.' Zat is gorrect, you say?"

"Under most circumstances."

"Ze man stared at me, and ze voman—I vill not say lady—says to him zo zat I can hear, 'Zat awful German!' Ze man says, 'Zo it is,' and laughed. 'I haf ze pleasure of meeting you last night at ze Lady Tollyvoddle,' I said. 'I remember,' he said; 'but I haf no vish to meet you again.' I take out my card to gif him, but he only said, 'Go avay, or I vill call ze police!' 'Ze police! To me, Baron von Blitzenberg! Teufel!' I replied."

"And that was all, Baron?" asked Mr Bunker, in what seemed rather like a tone of relief.

"No; suddenly he did turn back and said, 'By ze vay, who vas zat viz you last night?' To vich I replied, 'If you address me again, my man, I vill call ze police. Go avay!' "

"Bravo, Baron! Ha, ha, ha! Excellent!" laughed Mr Bunker.

This applause served to reinstate the Baron a little in his own good opinion. He laughed too, though rather noisily than heartily, and suddenly became grave again.

"Vat means zis, Bonker? Vat haf I done? Vy should zey treat me zo?"

"Well, you see, my dear Baron," his friend explained, "I ought to have warned you that it is not usual in England to address ladies you have met at a dance without some direct invitation on their part. At the same time, it is evident that the Hiltons and the other man, who of course must be connected with the Foreign Office, are aware of some sudden strain in the diplomatic relations between England and Germany, which as yet is unknown to the public. Your ancient name and your high rank have naturally led them to conclude that you are an agent of the German Government, and an international significance was of course attached to your presence in the Park. I certainly think they took a most outrageous advantage of a trifling detail of etiquette to repulse you; but then you must remember, Baron, that their families might have been seriously compromised with the Government if they had been seen with so prominent a member of the German aristocracy in the middle of Hyde Park."

"Zo?" said the Baron, thoughtfully. "I begin to onderstand. My name, as you say, is cairtainly distinguished. Bot zen should I remain in London?"

"Just what I was wondering, Baron. What do you say to a trip down to St Egbert's-on-Sea? It's a very select watering-place, and we might spend a week or two there very pleasantly."

"Egxellent!" said the Baron; "ven shall we start?"

"To-morrow morning."

"Goot! zo let it be. I am tired of London and of ze English ladies' manners. Police to ze Baron von Blitzenberg! Ve shall go to St Egbert's, Bonker!"



PART III.



CHAPTER I.

The Baron and Mr Bunker walked arm-in-arm along the esplanade at St Egbert's-on-Sea.

"Aha!" said the Baron, "zis is more fresh zan London!"

"Yes," replied his friend; "we are now in the presence of that stimulating element which provides patriotic Britons with music-hall songs, and dyspeptic Britons with an appetite."

A stirring breeze swept down the long white esplanade, threatening hats and troubling skirts; the pale-green south-coast sea rumbled up the shingle; the day was bright and pleasant for the time of year, and drove the Baron's mischances from his head; altogether it seemed to Mr Bunker that the omens were good. They were both dressed in the smartest of tweed suits, and walked jauntily, like men who knew their own value. Every now and then, as they passed a pretty face, the Baron would say, "Aha, Bonker! zat is not so bad, eh?"

And Mr Bunker, who seemed not unwilling that his friend should find some entertaining distraction in St Egbert's, would look at the owners of these faces with a prospector's eye and his own unrivalled assurance.

They had walked up and down three or four times, when a desire for a different species of diversion began to overtake the Baron. It was the one kind of desire that the Baron never even tried to wrestle with.

"My vriend Bonker," said he, "is it not somevere about time for loncheon, eh?"

"I should say it was precisely the hour."

"Ha, ha! zen, let us gom and eat. Himmel, zis sea is ze fellow to make von hungry!"

The Baron had taken a private suite of rooms on the first floor of the best hotel in St Egbert's, and after a very substantial lunch Mr Bunker stretched himself on the luxurious sitting-room sofa and announced his intention of having a nap.

"I shall go out," said the Baron. "You vill not gom?"

"I shall leave you to make a single-handed conquest," replied Mr Bunker. "Besides, I have a little matter I want to look into."

So the Baron arranged his hat airily, at what he had perceived to be the most fashionable and effective English angle, and strutted off to the esplanade.

It was about two hours later that he burst excitedly into the room, crying, "Aha, mine Bonker! I haf disgovered zomzing!" and then he stopped in some surprise. "Ello, vat make you, my vriend?"

His friend, in fact, seemed to be somewhat singularly employed. Through a dense cloud of tobacco-smoke you could just pick him out of the depths of an armchair, his feet resting on the mantelpiece, while his lap and all the floor round about were covered with immense books. The Baron's curiosity was still further excited by observing that they consisted principally of a London and a St Egbert's directory, several volumes of a Dictionary of National Biography, and one or two peerages and county family compilations.

He looked up with a smile. "You may well wonder, my dear Baron. The fact is, I am looking for a name."

"A name! vat name?"

"Alas! if I knew what it was I should stop looking, and I confess I'm rather sick of the job."

"Vich vay do you look, zen?"

"Simply by wading my way through all the lists of names I could steal or borrow. It's devilish dry work."

"Ze name of a vriend, is it?"

"Yes; but I'm afraid I must wait till it comes. And what is this discovery, Baron? A petticoat, I presume. After all, they are the only things worth finding," and he shut the books one after another.

"A petticoat with ze fairest girl inside it!" exclaimed the Baron, rapturously.

"Your eyes seem to have been singularly penetrating, Baron. Was she dark or fair, tall or short, fat or slender, widow, wife, or maid?"

"Fair, viz blue eyes, short pairhaps but not too short, slender as a—a—drom-stick, and I vould say a maid; at least I see vun stout old lady mit her, mozzer and daughter I soppose."

"And did this piece of perfection seem to appreciate you?"

"Vy should I know? Zey are ze real ladies and pairtend not to see me, bot I zink zey notice me all ze same. Not 'lady vriends,' Bonker, ha, ha, ha!"

Mr Bunker laughed with reminiscent amusement, and inquired, "And how did the romance end—in a cab, Baron?"

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the Baron; "better zan zat, Bonker—moch better!"

Mr Bunker raised his eyebrows.

"It's hardly the time of year for a romance to end in a bathing-machine. You followed the divinity to her rented heaven, perhaps?"

The Baron bent forward and answered in a stage whisper, "Zey live in zis hotel, Bonker!"

"Then I can only wish you joy, Baron, and if my funds allow me, send her a wedding present."

"Ach, not quite so fast, my vriend! I am not caught so easy."

"My dear fellow, a week at close quarters is sufficient to net any man."

"Ven I marry," replied the Baron, "moch most be considered. A von Blitzenberg does not mate viz every vun."

"A good many families have made the same remark, but one does not always meet the fathers-in-law."

"Ha, ha! ve shall see. Bot, Bonker, she is lofly!"

The Baron awaited dinner with even more than his usual ardour. He dressed with the greatest care, and at an absurdly early hour was already urging his friend to come down and take their places. Indeed after a time there was no withholding him, and they finally took their seats in the dining-room before anybody else.

At what seemed to the impatient Baron unconscionably long intervals a few people dropped in and began to study their menus and glance with an air of uncomfortable suspicion at their neighbours.

"I vonder vill she gom," he said three or four times at least.

"Console yourself, my dear Baron," his friend would reply; "they always come. That's seldom the difficulty."

And the Baron would dally with his victuals in the most unwonted fashion, and growl at the rapidity with which the courses followed one another.

"Do zey suppose ve vish to eat like——?" he began, and then laying his hand on his friend's sleeve, he whispered, "She goms!"

Mr Bunker turned his head just in time to see in the doorway the Countess of Grillyer and the Lady Alicia a Fyre.

"Is she not fair?" asked the Baron, excitedly.

"I entirely approve of your taste, Baron. I have only once seen any one quite like her before."

With a gratified smile the Baron filled his glass, while his friend seemed amused by some humorous reflection of his own.

The Lady Alicia and her mother had taken their seats at a table a little way off, and at first their eyes never happened to turn in the direction of the two friends. But at last, after looking at the ceiling, the carpet, the walls, the other people, everything else in the room it seemed, Lady Alicia's glance fell for an instant on the Baron. That nobleman looked as interesting as a mouthful of roast duck would permit him, but the glance passed serenely on to Mr Bunker. For a moment it remained serene; suddenly it became startled and puzzled, and at that instant Mr Bunker turned his own eyes full upon her, smiled slightly, and raised his glass to his lips.

The glance fell, and the Lady Alicia blushed down to the diamonds in her necklace.

The Baron insisted on lingering over his dinner till the charmer was finished, and so by a fortuitous coincidence they left the room immediately behind the Countess. The Baron passed them in the passage, and a few yards farther he looked round for his friend, and the Countess turned to look for her daughter.

They saw Lady Alicia following with an intensely unconscious expression, while Mr Bunker was in the act of returning to the dining-room.

"I wanted to secure a table for breakfast," he explained.



CHAPTER II.

The Baron was in high hopes of seeing the fair unknown at breakfast, but it seemed she must be either breakfasting in her own room or lying long abed.

"I think I shall go out for a little constitutional," said Mr Bunker, when he had finished. "I suppose the hotel has a stronger attraction for you."

"Ach, yes, I shall remain," his friend replied. "Pairhaps I may see zem."

"Take care then, Baron!"

"I shall not propose till you return, Bonker!"

"No," said Mr Bunker to himself, "I don't think you will."

Just outside St Egbert's there is a high breezy sweep of downs, falling suddenly to a chalky seaward cliff. It overlooks the town and the undulating inland country and a great spread of shining sea; and even without a spy-glass you can see sail after sail and smoke-wreath after smoke-wreath go by all day long.

But Mr Bunker had apparently walked there for other reasons than to see the view. He did stop once or twice, but it was only to scan the downs ahead, and at the sight of a fluttering skirt he showed no interest in anything else, but made a straight line for its owner. For her part, the lady seemed to await his coming. She gathered her countenance into an expression of as perfect unconcern as a little heightening of her colour would allow her, and returned his salute with rather a distant bow. But Mr Bunker was not to be damped by this hint of barbed wire. He held out his hand and exclaimed cordially, "My dear Lady Alicia! this is charming of you!"

"Of course you understand, Mr Beveridge, it's only——"

"Perfectly," he interrupted, gaily; "I understand everything I should and nothing I shouldn't. In fact, I have altered little, except in the trifling matter of a beard, a moustache or two, and, by the way, a name."

"A name?"

"I am now Francis Bunker, but as much at your service as ever."

"But why—I mean, have you really changed your name?"

"Circumstances have changed it, just as circumstances shaved me."

Lady Alicia made a great endeavour to look haughty. "I do not quite understand, Mr——"

"Bunker—a temporary title, but suggestive, and simple for the tradesmen."

"I do not understand your conduct. Why have you changed your name?"

"Why not?"

This retort was so evidently unanswerable that Lady Alicia changed her inquiry.

"Where have you been?"

"Till yesterday, in London."

"Then you didn't go to your own parish?" she demanded, reproachfully.

"There were difficulties," he replied; "in fact, a certified lunatic is not in great demand as a parish priest. They seem to prefer them uncertified."

"But didn't you try?"

"Hard, but it was no use. The bishop was out of town, and I had to wait till his return; besides, my position was somewhat insecure. I have had at least two remarkable escapes since I saw you last."

"Are you safe here?" she asked, hurriedly.

"With your consent, yes."

She looked a little troubled. "I don't know that I am doing right, Mr Bev—Bunker, but——"

"Thank you, my friend," he interrupted, tenderly.

"Don't," she began, hastily. "You mustn't talk like——"

"Francis Beveridge?" he interrupted. "The trouble is, this rascal Bunker bears an unconscionably awkward resemblance to our old friend."

"You must see that it is quite—ridiculous."

"Absurd," he agreed,—"perfectly preposterous. I laugh whenever I think of it!"

Poor Lady Alicia felt like a man at a telephone who has been connected with the wrong person. Again she made a desperate shift to fall back on a becoming pride.

"What do you mean?" she demanded.

"If I mean anything at all, which is always rather doubtful," he replied, candidly, "I mean that Beveridge and his humbug were creatures of an occasion, just as Bunker and his are of another. The one occasion is passed, and with it the first entertaining gentleman has vanished into space. The second gentleman will doubtless follow when his time is up. In fact, I may be said to be a series of dissolving views."

"Then isn't what you said true?"

"I'm afraid you must be more specific; you see I've talked so much."

"What you said about yourself—and your work."

He shook his head humorously. "I have no means of checking my statements."

She looked at him in a troubled way, and then her eyes fell.

"At least," she said, "you won't—you mustn't treat me as—as you did."

"As Beveridge did? Certainly not; Bunker is the soul of circumspection. Besides, he doesn't require to get out of an asylum."

"Then it was only to get away?" she cried, turning scarlet.

"Let us call it so," he replied, looking pensively out to sea.

It seemed wiser to Lady Alicia to change the subject.

"Who is the friend you are staying with?" she asked, suddenly.

"My old friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg, and your own most recent admirer," he replied. "I am at present living with, in fact I may say upon, him."

"Does he know?"

"If you meet him, you had perhaps better not inquire into my past history."

"I meant, does he know about—about your knowing me?"

"Bless them!" thought Mr Bunker; "one forgets they're not always thinking about us!"

"My noble friend has no idea that I have been so fortunate," he replied.

Lady Alicia looked relieved. "Who is he?" she asked.

"A German nobleman of great wealth, long descent, and the most accommodating disposition. He is at present exploring England under my guidance, and I flatter myself that he has already seen and done a number of things that are not on most programmes."

Lady Alicia was silent for a minute. Then she said with a little hesitation, "Didn't you get a letter from me?"

"A letter? No," he replied, in some surprise.

"I wrote twice—because you asked me to, and I thought—I wondered if you were safe."

"To what address did you write?"

"The address you gave me."

"And what was that?" he asked, still evidently puzzled.

"You said care of the Archbishop of York would find you."

Mr Bunker abruptly looked the other way.

"By Jove!" he said, as if lost in speculation, "I must find out what the matter was. I can't imagine why they haven't been forwarded."

Lady Alicia appeared a little dissatisfied.

"Was that a real address?" she asked, suddenly.

"Perfectly," he replied; "as real as Pentonville Jail or the House of Commons." ("And as likely to find me," he added to himself.)

Lady Alicia seemed to hesitate whether to pursue the subject further, but in the middle of her debate Mr Bunker asked, "By the way, has Lady Grillyer any recollection of having seen me before?"

"No, she doesn't remember you at all."

"Then we shall meet as strangers?"

"Yes, I think it would be better; don't you?"

"It will save our imaginations certainly."

Lady Alicia looked at him as though she expected something more; but as nothing came, she said, "I think it's time I went back."

"For the present then au revoir, my dear Alicia. I beg your pardon, Lady Alicia; it was that rascal Beveridge who made the slip. It now remains to make your formal acquaintance."

"You—you mustn't try!"

"The deuce is in these people beginning with B!" he laughed. "They seem to do things without trying."

He pressed her hand, raised his hat, and started back to the town. She, on her part, lingered to let him get a clear start of her, and her blue eyes looked as though a breeze had blown across and ruffled them.

Mr Bunker had reached the esplanade, and was sauntering easily back towards the hotel, looking at the people and smiling now and then to himself, when he observed with considerable astonishment two familiar figures strolling towards him. They were none other than the Baron and the Countess, engaged in animated conversation, and apparently on the very best terms with each other. At the sight of him the Baron beamed joyfully.

"Aha, Bonker, so you haf returned!" he cried. "In ze meanvile I haf had vun great good fortune. Let me present my friend Mr Bonker, ze Lady Grillyer."

The Countess bowed most graciously, and raising a pair of tortoise-shell-rimmed eye-glasses mounted on a stem of the same material, looked at Mr Bunker through these with a by no means disapproving glance.

At first sight it was evident that Lady Alicia must "take after" her noble father. The Countess was aquiline of nose, large of person, and emphatic in her voice and manner.

"You are the 'showman,' Mr Bunker, are you not?" she said, with a smile for which many of her acquaintances would have given a tolerable percentage of their incomes.

"It seems," replied Mr Bunker, smiling back agreeably, "that the Baron is now the showman, and I must congratulate him on his first venture."

For an instant the Countess seemed a trifle taken aback. It was a considerable number of years since she had been addressed in precisely this strain, and in fact at no time had her admirers ventured quite so dashingly to the attack. But there was something entirely irresistible in Mr Bunker's manner, partly perhaps because he never made the mistake of heeding a first rebuff. The Countess coughed, then smiled a little again, and said to the Baron, "You didn't tell me that your showman supplied the little speeches as well."

"I could not know it; zere has not before been ze reason for a pretty speech," responded the Baron, gallantly.

If Lady Grillyer had been anybody else, one would have said that she actually giggled. Certainly a little wave of scandalised satisfaction rippled all over her.

"Oh, really!" she cried, "I don't know which of you is the worst offender."

All this time, as may be imagined, Mr Bunker had been in a state of high mystification at his friend's unusual adroitness.

"How the deuce did he get hold of her?" he said to himself.

In the next pause the Baron solved the riddle.

"You vil vunder, Bonker," he said, "how I did gom to know ze Lady Grillyer."

"I envied, certainly," replied his friend, with a side glance at the now purring Countess.

"She vas of my introdogtions, bot till after you vent out zis morning I did not lairn her name. Zen I said to myself, 'Ze sun shines, Himmel is kind! Here now is ze fair Lady Grillyer—my introdogtion!' and zo zat is how, you see."

"To think of the Baron being here and our only finding each other out by chance!" said the Countess.

"By a fortunate providence for me!" exclaimed the Baron, fervently.

"Baron," said the Countess, trying hard to look severe, "you must really keep some of these nice speeches for my daughter. Which reminds me, I wonder where she can be?"

"Ach, here she goms!" cried the Baron.

"Why, how did you know her?" asked the Countess.

"I—I did see her last night at dinnair," explained the Baron, turning red.

"Ah, of course, I remember," replied the Countess, in a matter-of-fact tone; but her motherly eye was sharp, and already it began to look on the highly eligible Rudolph with more approval than ever.

"My daughter Alicia, the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg, Mr Bunker," she said the next moment.

The Baron went nearly double as he bowed, and the flourish of his hat stirred the dust on the esplanade. Mr Bunker's salutation was less profound, but his face expressed an almost equal degree of interested respect. Her mother thought that when one of the gentlemen was a nobleman with an indefinite number of thousands a-year and the other a person of so much discrimination, Lady Alicia's own bow might have been a trifle less reserved. But then even the most astute mother cannot know the reasons for everything.



CHAPTER III.

"Alicia," said the Countess, "it was really a most fortunate coincidence our meeting the Baron at St Egbert's."

She paused for a reply and looked expectantly at her daughter. It was not the first time in the course of the morning that Lady Alicia had listened to similar observations, and perhaps that was why she answered somewhat listlessly, "Yes, wasn't it?"

The Countess frowned, and continued with emphasis, "I consider him one of the most agreeable and best informed young men I have ever met."

"Is he?" said Lady Alicia, absently.

"I wonder, Alicia, you hadn't noticed it," her mother observed, severely; "you talked with him most of the afternoon. I should have thought that no observant, well-bred girl would have failed to have been struck with his air and conversation."

"I—I thought him very pleasant, mamma."

"I am glad you had so much sense. He is extremely pleasant."

As Lady Alicia made no reply, the Countess felt obliged to continue his list of virtues herself.

"He is of most excellent family, Alicia, one of the oldest in Bavaria. I don't remember what I heard his income was in pfennigs, or whatever they measure money by in Germany, but I know that it is more than L20,000 a-year in English money. A very large sum nowadays," she added, as if L20,000 had grown since she was a girl.

"Yes, mamma."

"He is considered, besides, an unusually promising and intelligent young nobleman, and in Germany, where noblemen are still constantly used, that says a great deal for him."

"Does it, mamma?"

"Certainly it does. Education there is so severe that young Englishmen are beginning to know less than they ever did, and in most cases that isn't saying much. Compare the Baron with the young men you meet here!"

She looked at her daughter triumphantly, and Alicia could only reply, "Yes, mamma?"

"Compare them and see the difference. Look at the Baron's friend, Mr Bunker, who is a very agreeable and amusing man, I admit, but look at the difference!"

"What is it?" Alicia could not help asking.

"What is it, Alicia! It is—ah—it's—er—it is, in short, the effect of a carefully cultivated mind and good blood."

"But don't you think Mr Bunker cultivated, mamma—and—and—well-bred?"

"He has an amusing way of saying things,—but then you must remember that the Baron is doubtless equally entertaining in his native language,—and possibly a superficial knowledge of a few of the leading questions of the day; but the Baron talked to me for half an hour on the relations of something or other in Germany to—er—something else—a very important point, I assure you."

"I always thought him very clever," said Lady Alicia with a touch of warmth, and then instantly changed colour at the horrible slip.

"You always," said the Countess in alarmed astonishment; "you hardly spoke to him yesterday, and—had you met him before?"

"I—I meant the Baron, mamma."

"But I have just been saying that he was unusually clever."

"But I thought, I mean it seemed as though you considered him only well informed."

Lady Alicia's blushes and confusion deepened. Her mother looked at her with a softening eye. Suddenly she rose, kissed her affectionately, and said with the tenderness of triumph, "My dear girl! Of course he is; clever, well informed, and a most desirable young man. My Alicia could not do——"

She stopped, as if she thought this was perhaps a little premature (though the Countess's methods inclined to the summary and decisive), and again kissing her daughter affectionately, remarked gaily, "Let me see, why, it's almost time we went for our little walk! We mustn't really disappoint those young men. I am in the middle of such an amusing discussion with Mr Bunker, who is really a very sensible man and quite worthy of the Baron's judgment."

Poor Lady Alicia hardly knew whether to feel more relieved at her escape or dismayed at the construction put upon her explanation. She went out to meet the Baron, determined to give no further colour to her mother's unlucky misconception. The Countess was far too experienced and determined a general to leave it at all doubtful who should walk by whose side, and who should have the opportunity of appreciating whose merits, but Lady Alicia was quite resolved that the Baron's blandishments should fall on stony ground.

But a soft heart and an undecided mouth are treacherous companions. The Baron was so amiable and so gallant, that at the end of half an hour she was obliged to abate the strictness of her resolution. She should treat him with the friendliness of a brother. She learned that he had no sisters: her decision was confirmed.

The enamoured and delighted Baron was in the seventh heaven of happy loquacity. He poured out particulars of his travels, his more recordable adventures, his opinions on various social and political matters, and at last even of the family ghost, the hereditary carpet-beatership, and the glories of Bavaria. And Lady Alicia listened with what he could not doubt was an interest touched with tenderness.

"I wonder," she said, artlessly, "that you find anything to admire in England—compared with Bavaria, I mean."

"Two zings I haf not zere," replied the Baron, waving his hand round towards the horizon. "Vun is ze vet sheet of flowing sea—says not your poet so? Ze ozzer" (laying his hand on his heart) "is ze Lady Alicia a Fyre."

There are some people who catch sentiment whenever it happens to be in the air, just as others almost equally unfortunate regularly take hay-fever.

Lady Alicia's reply was much softer than she intended, especially as she could have told anybody that the Baron's compliment was the merest figure of speech.

"You needn't have included me: I'm sure I'm not a great attraction."

"Ze sea is less, so zat leaves none," the Baron smiled.

"Didn't you see anybody—I mean, anything in London that attracted you—that you liked?"

"Zat I liked, yes, zat pairhaps for the moment attracted me; but not zat shall still attract me ven I am gone avay."

The Baron sighed this time, and she felt impelled to reply, with the most sisterly kindness, "I—we should, of course, like to think that you didn't forget us altogether."

"You need not fear."

Then Lady Alicia began to realise that this was more like a second cousin than a brother, and with sudden sprightliness she cried, "I wonder where that steamer's going!"

The Baron turned his eyes towards his first-named attraction, but for a professed lover of the ocean his interest appeared slight. He only replied absently, "Ach, zo?"

A little way behind them walked Mr Bunker and the Countess. The attention of Lady Grillyer was divided between the agreeable conversation of her companion and the pleasant spectacle of a fabulous number of pfennigs a-year bending its titled head over her daughter. In the middle of one of Mr Bunker's most amusing stories she could not forbear interrupting with a complacent "they do make a very handsome couple!"

Mr Bunker politely stopped his narrative, and looked critically from his friend's gaily checked back to Lady Alicia's trim figure.

"Pray go on with your story, Mr Bunker," said the Countess, hastily, realising that she had thought a little too loudly.

"They are like," responded Mr Bunker, replying to her first remark—"they are like a pair of gloves."

The Countess raised her brows and looked at him sharply.

"I mean, of course, the best quality."

"I think," said the Countess, suspiciously, "that you spoke a little carelessly."

"My simile was a little premature?"

"I think so," said the Countess, decisively.

"Let us call them then an odd pair," smiled Mr Bunker, unruffled; "and only hope that they'll turn out to be the same size and different hands."

The Countess actually condescended to smile back.

"She is a dear child," she murmured.

"His income, I think, is sufficient," he answered.

Humour was not conspicuous in the Grillyer family. The Countess replied seriously, "I am one of those out-of-date people, Mr Bunker, who consider some things come before money, but the Baron's birth and position are fortunately unimpeachable."

"While his mental qualities," said Mr Bunker, "are, in my experience, almost unique."

The Countess was confirmed in her opinion of Mr Bunker's discrimination.

Late that night, after they had parted with their friends, the Baron smoked in the most unwonted silence while Mr Bunker dozed on the sofa. Several times Rudolph threw restive glances at his friend, as if he had something on his mind that he needed a helping hand to unburden himself of. At last the silence grew so intolerable that he screwed up his courage and with desperate resolution exclaimed, "Bonker!"