I daresay an historian less punctilious about the truth than I propose to be, would, at this stage of the narrative, insert a whopping lie for the sake of effect, or "action," or "heart interest," as such things are called in the present world of letters. He would enliven his tale by making Mr. Pless do something sensational while he was about it, such as yanking his erstwhile companion out of her place of hiding by the hair of her head, or kicking down all the barricades about the place, or fighting a duel with me, or--well, there is no end of things he might do for the sake of a "situation." But I am a person of veracity and the truth _is_ in me. Mr. Pless did none of these interesting things, so why should I say that he did? He went away with the others at half-past eleven, and that was the end of his first visit to my domain. For fear that you, kind reader, may be disappointed, I make haste to assure you that he was to come again. Of course there was more or less turmoil and--I might say disaffection--attending his departure. He raised Cain with my servants because they did this and that when they shouldn't have done either; he (and the amiable baron) took me to task for having neglected to book compartments for them in the Orient Express; he insisted upon having a luncheon put up in a tea basket and taken to the railway station by Britton, and he saw to it personally that three or four bottles of my best wine were neatly packed in with the rest. He _said_ three or four, but Britton is firm in his belief that there was nearer a dozen, judging by the weight. He also contrived to have Mr. Poopendyke purchase first-class railway tickets for him and the baron, and then forgot to settle for them. It amounted to something like four hundred and fifty kronen, if I remember correctly. He took away eleven hundred and sixty-five dollars of my money, besides, genially acquired at roulette, and I dread to think of what he and the baron took out of my four friends at auction bridge. I will say this for him: he was the smartest aristocrat I've ever known. Need I add that the Hazzards and the Smiths travelled second-class? "Well, thank the Lord!" said I, as the ferry put off with the party, leaving me alone on the little landing. The rotten timbers seemed to echo the sentiment. At the top of the steep all the Schmicks were saying it, too; in the butler's pantry it was also being said; a score of workmen were grunting it; and the windlass that drew me up the hill was screaming it in wild, discordant glee. I repeated it once more when Britton returned from town and assured me that they had not missed the train. "That's what I'd like to say, sir," said he. "Well, say it," said I. And he said it so vociferously that I know it must have been heard in the remotest corners of heaven.