This confirmation of Mr Bunker’s _aliases_ ought, one would expect, to have delighted the two conspirators, but, instead, it produced the most remarkable effect. Twiddel utterly collapsed, while even Welsh’s impudence at last deserted him. Neither said a word as the Baron von Blitzenberg greeted his friend with affectionate heartiness. “My friend, zis is good for ze heart! Bot, how? vat makes it here?” “My dear Baron, the most unfortunate mistake has occurred. Two men here——” But at this moment he stopped in great surprise, for the Baron was staring hard first at Welsh and then at Twiddel. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “Mr Mandell-Essington, I zink?” Welsh hesitated for an instant, and his hesitation was evident to all. Then he replied, “No, you are mistaken.” “Surely I cannot be; you did stay in Fogelschloss?” said the Baron. “Is not zis Dr Twiddel?” “No—er—ah—yes,” stammered Twiddel, looking feebly at Welsh. The Baron looked from the one to the other in great perplexity, when Mr Bunker, who had been much puzzled by this conversation, broke in, “Did you call that person Mandell-Essington?” “I cairtainly zought it vas.” “Where did you meet him?” “In Bavaria, at my own castle.” “You are mistaken, sir,” said Welsh. “One moment, Mr Welsh,” said Mr Bunker. “How long ago was this, Baron?” “Jost before I gom to London. He travelled viz zis ozzer gentleman, Dr Twiddel.” “You are wrong, sir,” persisted Welsh. “For his health,” added the Baron. A light began to dawn on Mr Bunker. “His health?” he cried, and then smiled politely at Welsh. “We will talk this over, Mr Welsh.” “I am sorry I happen to be going,” said Welsh, taking his hat and coat. “What, without your lunatic?” asked Mr Bunker. “That is Dr Twiddel’s affair, not mine. Kindly let me pass, sir.” “No, Mr Welsh; if you go now, it will be in the company of that policeman you were so anxious to send for.” There was such an unmistakable threat in Mr Bunker’s voice and eye that Welsh hesitated. “We will talk it over, Mr Welsh,” Mr Bunker repeated distinctly. “Kindly sit down. I have several things to ask you and your friend Dr Twiddel.” Muttering something under his breath, Welsh hung up his coat and hat, sat down, and then assuming an air of great impudence, remarked, “Fire away, Mr Mandell-Essington—Beveridge—Bunker, or whatever you call yourself.” Without paying the slightest attention to this piece of humour, Mr Bunker turned to the bewildered proprietor, and, to the intense disappointment of the audience, said, “You can leave us now, thank you; our talk is likely to be of a somewhat private nature.” As their gallery withdrew, he drew up a chair for the Baron, and all four sat round the small table. “Now,” said Mr Bunker to Welsh, “you will perhaps be kind enough to give me a precise account of your doings since the middle of November.” “I’m d——d if I do,” replied Welsh.