That nobleman knew well the danger of displaying his old dexterity, and to the onlookers it soon became apparent that this branch of his education had been neglected. He not only missed the simplest shots, but seemed very ignorant of the rules of the English game, and in consequence he came in for a little good-natured chaff from Sir Richard and Trelawney. When the colonel’s score stood at 90 and the Baron had scarcely reached 25 Trelawney cried, “I’ll bet you ten to one you don’t win, Baron!” “What in?” asked the Baron, and the colonel noticed that for the first time be pronounced a _w_ correctly. “Sovereigns,” said Trelawney, gaily. The temptation was irresistible. “Done!” said the Baron. With a professional disregard for conventions he bolted the white into the middle pocket, leaving his own ball nicely beside the red. Down in its turn went the red, and Mr Bunker was on the spot. Three followed three in monotonous succession, Trelawney’s face growing longer and Dr Escott getting more and more excited, till with a smile Mr Bunker laid down his cue, a sensational winner. His victory was received in silence: Trelawney handed over two five-pound notes without a word, and the colonel returned to his whisky-and-soda. Dr Escott could contain himself no longer, and whispering something to Sir Richard, the two left the room. Imperturbable as ever, Mr Bunker talked gaily for a few minutes to an unresponsive audience, and then, remarking that he would join the ladies, left the room. A minute or two later Sir Richard, with an anxious face, returned with Dr Escott. “Where is the Baron?” he asked. “Gone to join the ladies,” replied Trelawney, adding under his breath, “d—— n him!” But the Baron was not with the ladies, nor, search the house as they might, was there a trace to be seen of that accomplished nobleman. “He has gone!” said Sir Richard. “What the deuce is the meaning of it?” exclaimed Trelawney. Colonel Savage smiled grimly and suggested, “Perhaps he wants to give the impostor an innings.” “Dr Escott, I think, can tell you,” replied the baronet. “Gentlemen,” said the doctor, “the man whom you have met as the Baron von Blitzenberg is none other than a most cunning and determined lunatic. He escaped from the asylum where I am at present assistant doctor, after all but murdering me; he has been seen in London since, but how he came to impersonate the unfortunate gentleman whom you locked up this afternoon I cannot say.” Before they broke up for the night the genuine Baron, released from confinement and soothed by the humblest apologies and a heavy supper, recounted the main events in Mr Beveridge _alias_ Bunker’s brief career in town. On his exploits in St Egbert’s he felt some delicacy in touching, but at the end of what was after all only a fragmentary and one-sided narrative, even the defrauded Trelawney could not but admit that, whatever the departed gentleman’s failings, his talents at least were worthy of a better cause.