“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?”