To the waiter, who came with the _menu_, the clergyman explained in a quiet voice that he was waiting for a friend, and asked for an evening paper instead, in which he soon appeared to be deeply engrossed. At first the conversation went on in a lower tone, but in a few minutes they insensibly forgot their neighbour, and the voices rose again by starts. “My dear fellow,” Welsh was saying, “we can discuss that afterwards; we haven’t caught him yet.” “I want to settle it now.” “But I thought it was settled.” “No, it wasn’t,” said Twiddel, with a foreign and vinous doggedness. “What do you suggest then?” “Divide it equally—£250 each.” “You think you can claim half the credit for the idea and half the trouble?” “I can claim _all_ the risk—practically.” “Pooh!” said Welsh. “You think I risked nothing? Come, come, let’s talk of something else.” “Oh, rot!” interrupted Twiddel, who by this time was decidedly flushed. “You needn’t ride the high horse like that, you are not Mr Mandell-Essington any longer.” With a violent start, the clergyman brought his fist crash on the table, and exclaimed aloud, “By Heaven, that’s it!” CHAPTER V. As one may suppose, everybody in the room started in great astonishment at this extraordinary outburst. With a sharp “Hollo!” Twiddel turned in his seat, to see the clergyman standing over him with a look of the keenest inquiry in his well-favoured face. “May I ask, Dr Twiddel, what you know of the gentleman you just named?” he said, with perfect politeness. The conscience-smitten doctor gazed at him blankly, and the colour suddenly left his face. But Welsh’s nerves were stronger; and, as he looked hard at the stranger, a jubilant light leaped to his eyes. “It’s our man!” he cried, before his friend could gather his wits. “It’s Beveridge, or Bunker, or whatever he calls himself! Waiter!” Instantly three waiters, all agog, hurried at his summons. Mr Bunker regarded him with considerable surprise. He had quite expected that the pair would be thrown into confusion, but not that it would take this form. “Excuse me, sir,” he began, but Welsh interrupted him by crying to the leading waiter— “Fetch a four-wheeled cab and a policeman, quick!” As the man hesitated, he added, “This man here is an escaped lunatic.” The waiter was starting for the door, when Mr Bunker stepped out quickly and interrupted him. “Stop one minute, waiter,” he said, with a quiet, unruffled air that went far to establish his sanity. “Do I look like a lunatic? Kindly call the proprietor first.” The stout proprietor was already on his way to their table, and the one or two other diners were beginning to gather round. Mr Bunker’s manner had impressed even Welsh, and after his nature he took refuge in bluster. “I say, my man,” he cried, “this won’t pass. Somebody fetch a cab.” “Vat is dees about?” asked the proprietor, coming up.