“Who insisted on learning my pedigree back to Alfred the Great! Gad, I gave it him, though, and I doubt whether the real Essington could have done as much. I’d rather surprise some of these noblemen if I turned up again in my true character!” “Thank the Lord, we’re not likely to meet them again!” exclaimed the doctor, devoutly. “No,” said Welsh; “here endeth the second lesson.” His friend, who had been well brought up, looked a trifle uncomfortable at this quotation. “I say,” he remarked a few minutes later, “we haven’t finished yet. We’ve got to get the man out again, and hand him back to his friends.” “Cured,” said Welsh, with a laugh. “I wonder how he is?” “We’ll soon see.” They fell silent again, while the train hurried nearer and nearer London town. Welsh seemed to be musing on some nice point, it might be of conscience, it might also conceivably be of a more practical texture. At last he said, “There’s just one thing, old man. What about the fee?” “I’ll get a cheque for it, I suppose,” his friend replied, with an almost excessive air of mastery over the problem. “Ha, ha!” laughed Welsh; “you know what I mean. It’s a delicate question and all that, but, hang it, it’s got to be answered.” “What has?” “The division of the spoil.” Twiddel looked dignified. “I’ll see you get your share, old man,” he answered, easily. “But what share?” “You suggested £100, I think.” “Out of £500—when I’ve done all the deceiving and told all the lies! Come, old man!” “Well, what do you want?” “Do you remember a certain crisis when we’d made a slip——” “You’d made a slip!” “_We_ had made a slip, and you wanted to chuck the game and bolt? Do you remember also the terms I proposed when I offered to beard the local god almighty in his lair and explain it all away, and how he became our bosom pal and we were saved?” “Well?” “£300 to me, £200 to you,” said Welsh, decisively. “Rot, old man. I’ll share fairly, if you insist. £250 apiece, will that do?” Welsh said nothing, but his face was no longer the countenance of the jovial adventurer. “It will have to, I suppose,” he replied, at length. It was with this little cloud on the horizon that they saw the lights of London twinkle through the windows, and were carried into the clamour of the platforms. They both drove first to Twiddel’s rooms; and as they looked out once more on the life and lights and traffic of the streets, their faces cleared again. “We’ll have a merry evening!” cried Welsh. “A little supper,” suggested Twiddel; “a music-hall——” “Et cetera,” added Welsh, with a laugh. The doctor had written of their coming, and they found a fire in the back room, and the table laid. “Ah,” cried Welsh, “this looks devilish comfortable.” “A letter for me,” said Twiddel; “from Billson, I think.” He read it and threw it to his friend, remarking, “I call this rather cool of him.” Welsh read—