“A few, Baron, would be a pleasant reminiscence,” said his friend, with a smile, “if you really insist.” “All, Bonker,—I vill not keep vun! I can get more. No, you most take zem all!” Mr Bunker opened his bag and put in the box without a word. “You most write,” said the Baron, “tell me vere you are. I shall not tell any soul, bot ven I can, I shall gom up, and ve shall sup togezzer vunce more. Pairhaps ve may haf anozzer adventure, ha, ha!” The Baron’s laugh was almost too hearty to be true. “I shall let you know, as soon as I find a room. It won’t be in the Mayonaise this time! Good-bye: good sport and luck in love!” “Good-bye, my frient, good-bye,” said the Baron, squeezing his hand. His friend was half out of the door when he turned, and said with an intonation quite foreign either to Beveridge or Bunker, and yet which came very pleasantly, “I forgot to warn you of one thing when I advised you to try the _rôle_ of certified lunatic—you are not likely to make so good a friend as I have.” He shut the door noiselessly and was gone. The Baron stood in the middle of the floor for fully five minutes, looking blankly at the closed door; then with a sigh he turned out the light and tumbled into bed again. PART IV. CHAPTER I. The Dover express was nearing town: evening had begun to draw in, and from the wayside houses people saw the train roar by like a huge glowworm; but they could hardly guess that it was hurrying two real actors to the climax of a real comedy. From the opposite sides of a first-class carriage these two looked cheerfully at one another. The Channel was safely behind them, London was close ahead, and the piston of the engine seemed to thump a triumphal air. “We’ve done it, Twiddel, my boy!” said the one. “Thank Heaven!” replied the other. “_And_ myself,” added his friend. “Yes,” said Twiddel; “you played your part uncommonly well, Welsh.” “It was the deuce of a fine spree!” sighed Welsh. “The deuce,” assented Twiddel. “I’m only sorry it’s all over,” Welsh went on, gazing regretfully up at the lamp of the carriage. “I’d give the remains of my character and my chance of a public funeral to be starting again from Paris by the morning train!” Twiddel laughed. “With the same head you had that morning?” “Yes, by George! Even with the same mile of dusty gullet!” “It’s all over now,” said Twiddel, philosophically, and yet rather nervously—“at least the amusing part of it.” “All the fun, my boy, all the fun. All the dinners and the drinks, and the touching of hats to the aristocratic travellers, and the girls that sighed, and the bowing and scraping. Do you remember the sporting baronet who knew my uncle? Now, I’m plain Robert Welsh, whose uncles, as far as I am aware, don’t know a baronet among ’em.” He smiled a little sardonically. “And the baron at Fogelschloss,” said Twiddel.