University of Virginia Library

2. PART II.

2.1. CHAPTER I.

THE Baron Rudolf von Blitzenberg sat by himself at a table in the dining-room of the Hôtel Mayonaise, which, as everybody knows, is the largest and most expensive in London. He was a young man of a florid and burly Teutonic type and the most ingenuous countenance. Being possessed of a curious and enterprising disposition, as well as the most ample means, he had left his ancestral castle in Bavaria to study for a few months the customs and politics of England. In the language he was already proficient, and he had promised himself an amusing as well as an instructive visit. But, although he had only arrived in London that morning, he was already beginning to feel an uncomfortable apprehension lest in both respects he should be disappointed. Though his introductions were the best with which the British Ambassador could supply him, they were only three or four in number,—for, not wishing to be hampered with too many acquaintances, he had rather chosen quality than quantity: and now, in the course of the afternoon, he had found to his chagrin that in every case the families were out of town. In fact, so far as he could learn, they were

not even at their own country seats. One was abroad, another gone to the seaside to recover from the mumps, or a third paying a round of visits.

The disappointment was sharp, he felt utterly at sea as to what he should do, and he was already beginning to experience the loneliness of a single mortal in a crowded hotel.

As the frosty evening was setting in and the shops were being lit, he had strolled out into the streets in the vague hope of meeting some strange foreign adventure, or perhaps even happily lighting upon some half-forgotten diplomatic acquaintance. But he found the pavements crowded with a throng who took no notice of him at all, but seemed every man and most women of them to be pushing steadily, and generally silently, towards a million mysterious goals. Not that he could tell they were silent except by their set lips, for the noise of wheels and horses on so many hundreds of miles of streets, and the cries of busmen and vendors of evening papers, made such a hubbub that he felt before long in a maze. He lost his way four times, and was patronisingly set right by beneficent policemen; and at last, feeling like a man who has fallen off a precipice on to a soft place—none the worse but quite bewildered—he struggled back to his hotel. There he spun out his time by watching the people come and go, and at last dressed with extra deliberation.

About eight o'clock he sat down to his solitary dinner. The great gilt and panelled room was full of diners and bustling waiters, but there was not a face the Baron had ever seen before. He was just finishing a plate of white

bait when he observed a stranger enter the room and stroll in a very self-possessed manner down the middle, glancing at the tables round him as though he was looking either for a friend or a desirable seat. This gentleman was tall, fair, and clean-shaved; he was dressed in a suit of well-fitting tweeds, and his air impressed the Baron as being natural and yet distinguished. At last his eye fell upon the Baron, who felt conscious of undergoing a quick, critical scrutiny. The table at which that nobleman sat was laid for two, and coming apparently to a sudden resolution, the good-looking stranger seated himself in the vacant chair. In an agreeable voice and with an unmistakably well-bred air he asked a waiter for the wine-list, and then, like a man with an excellent appetite, fell to upon the various hors d'œuvres, the entire collection of which, in fact, he consumed in a wonderfully short space of time. The Baron, being himself no trifler with his victuals, regarded this feat with sympathetic approval, and began to feel a little less alone in the world. His naturally open disposition was warmed besides, owing to a slight misconception he had fallen into, perfectly excusable however in a foreigner. He thought he had read somewhere that port was the usual accompaniment to the first courses of an English dinner, and as his waiter had been somewhat dilatory in bringing him the more substantial items of the repast, he had already drunk three claret-glasses of this cheering wine. The chill recollections of his sixteen quarterings and the exclusiveness he had determined to maintain as becoming to his rank were already melting, and he met the stranger's eye with what for the life of him he could not help being a cordial look.

His vis-à-vis caught the glance, smiled back, and immediately asked, with the most charming politeness, "Do you care, sir, to split a bottle of champagne?''

"To—er—shplid?'' said the Baron, with a disappointed consciousness of having been put at a loss in his English by the very first man who had spoken to him.

"I beg your pardon,—I am afraid I was unintelligibly idiomatic. To divide, I should say, you consuming one-half, I the other. Am I clear, sir?''

For a moment the Baron was a little taken aback, and then recollecting that the dining habits of the English were still new to him, he concluded that the suggestion was probably a customary act of courtesy. He had already come to the conclusion that the gentleman must be a person of rank, and he replied affably, "Yah—zat is, vid pleasure. Zanks, very.''

"The pleasure is mine,'' said the stranger—"and half the bottle,'' he added, smiling.

The Baron, whose perception of humour had been abnormally increased by this time, laughed hilariously at the infection of his new acquaintance's smile.

"Goot, goot!'' he cried. "Ach, yah, zo.''

"Am I right, sir, in supposing that, despite the perfection of your English accent, I cannot be fortunate enough to claim you as a countryman?'' asked the stranger.

The Baron's resolutions of reticence had vanished altogether before such unexpected and (he could not

but think) un-English friendliness. He unburdened his heart with a rush.

"You have ze right. I am Deutsch. I have gom to England zis day for to lairn and to amuse myself. But mein, vat you call?—introdogtions zey are not inside, gat is zey are from off. Not von, all, every single gone to ze gontry or to abroad. I am alone, I eat my dinner in zolitude, I am pleased to meet you, sare.''

A cork popped and the champagne frothed into the stranger's glass. Raising it to his lips, he said, "Prosit!''

"Prosit!'' responded the Baron, enthusiastically. "You know ze Deutsch, sare?''

"I am safer in English, I confess.''

"Ach, das ist goot, I vant for to practeese. Ve vill talk English.''

"With all my heart,'' said the stranger. "I, too, am alone, and I hold myself more than fortunate in making your acquaintance. It's a devilish dull world when one can't share a bottle—or a brace of them, for the matter of that.''

"You know London?'' asked the Baron.

"I used to, and I daresay my memory will revive.''

"I know it not, pairhaps you can inform. I haf gom, as I say, to-day.''

"With pleasure,'' said the stranger, readily. "In fact, if you are ever disengaged I may possibly be able to act as showman.''

"Showman!'' roared the Baron, thinking he had discovered a jest. "Ha, ha, ha! Goot, zehr goot!''

The other looked a trifle astonished for an instant,

and then as he sipped his champagne an expression of intense satisfaction came over his face.

"I can put away my lantern,'' he said to himself,— "I have found him.''

"May I have the boldness to ask your name, sir?'' he asked aloud.

"Ze Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg,'' that nobleman replied. "Yours, sare—may I dare?''

"Francis Bunker, at your service, Baron.''

"You are noble?'' queried the Baron a little anxiously, for his prejudices on this point were strong.

"According to your standard I believe I may say so. That's to say, my family have borne arms for two hundred odd generations; twenty-five per cent of them have died of good living; and the most malicious have never accused us of brains. I myself may not be very typical, but I assure you it isn't my ancestors' fault.''

The latter part of this explanation entirely puzzled the Baron. The first statement, though eminently satisfactory, was also a little bewildering.

"Two hondred generations?'' he asked, courteously. "Zat is a vary old family. All bore arms you say, Mistair Bonker?''

"All,'' replied Mr Bunker, gravely. "The first few bore tails as well.''

"Ha, ha, ha!'' laughed the Baron. "You are a fonny man I pairceive, vat you call clown, yes?''

"What my friends call clown, and I call wit,'' Mr Bunker corrected.

"Vit! Ha, ha, ha!'' roared the Baron, whose mind

was now in an El Dorado of humour when jokes grew like daisies. His loneliness had disappeared as if by magic; as course succeeded course his contentment showed itself in a perpetually beaming smile: he ceased to worry even about his friend's pedigree, convinced in his mind that manners so delightful and distinguished could only result from repeated quarterings and unoccupied fore-fathers. Yet by the time dessert arrived and he had again returned to his port, he began to feel an extreme curiosity to know more concerning Mr Bunker. He himself had volunteered a large quantity of miscellaneous information: about Bavaria, its customs and its people, more especially the habits and history of the Blitzenberg family; about himself, his parentage and education; all about his family ghost, his official position as hereditary carpet-beater to the Bavarian Court, and many other things equally entertaining and instructive. Mr Bunker, for his part, had so far confined his confidences to his name.

"My dear Bonker,'' said the Baron at last—he had become quite familiar by this time—"vat make you in London? I fear you are bird of passage. Do you stay long?''

Mr Bunker cracked a nut, looking very serious; then he leant on one elbow, glanced up at the ceiling pensively, and sighed.

"I hope I do not ask vat I should not,'' the Baron interposed, courteously.

"My dear Baron, ask what you like,'' replied Mr Bunker. "In a city full of strangers, or of friends who

have forgotten me, you alone have my confidence. My story is a common one of youthful folly and present repentance, but such as it is, you are welcome to it.''

The Baron gulped down half a glass of port and leaned forward sympathetically.

"My father,'' Mr Bunker continued with an air of half-sad reminiscence, "is one of the largest landowners and the head of one of the most ancient families in the north of England. I was his eldest son and heir. I am still, I have every reason to believe, his eldest son, but my heirship, I regret to say, is more doubtful. I spent a prodigal youth and a larger sum of money than my poor father approved of. He was a strict though a kind parent, and for the good of my health and the replenishment of the family coffers, which had been sadly drained by my extravagance, he sent me abroad. There I have led a roving life for the last six years, and at last, my wild oats sown, reaped, and gathered in (and a well-filled stack-yard they made, I can assure you), I decided to return to England and become an ornament to respectable society. Like you, I arrived in London to-day, but only to find to my disgust that my family have gone to winter in Egypt. So you see that at present I am like a ship-wrecked sailor clinging to a rock and waiting, with what patience I can muster, for a boat to take me off.''

"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.''

2.2. 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 re-echoed to a popular music-hall ditty.

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

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

"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.

2.3. 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 Hôtel 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.''

2.4. 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 entrées, 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 hüpsch!''

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 gentle

man, 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 dread-ful 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!''

2.5. 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!''

2.6. 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 Hôtel 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! Wunderschön! 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.

2.7. 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 vere 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.

2.8. 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 door. 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.

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,

"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.''

2.9. CHAPTER IX.

Mr Bunker arrived at the Hôtel 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!''