“Haeberlein!” exclaimed Raeburn, in utter amazement, submitting to a German embrace. “Eric himself and no other!” returned the brigand. “Draw your curtains and lock your door and you shall see me in the flesh. I am half stifled in this lordly wig.” “Wait,” said Raeburn. “Be cautious.” He left him for a minute, and Haeberlein heard him giving orders that no one else was to be admitted that evening. Then he came back, quietly bolted the door, closed the shutters, and lighted the gas. In the meantime his friend threw off his cloak, removed the wig of long, dark hair, and the drooping mustache and shaggy eyebrows, revealing his natural face and form. Raeburn grasped his hand once more. “Now I feel that I've got you, Eric!” he exclaimed. “What lucky chance has brought you so unexpectedly?” “No lucky one!” said Haeberlein, with an expressive motion of the shoulders. “But of that anon; let me look at you, old fellow why you're as white as a miller! Call yourself six-and-forty! You might pass for my grandfather!” Raeburn, who had a large reserve fund of humor, caught up his friend's black wig from the table and put it on above his own thick, white hair, showing plainly enough that in face and spirits he was as young as ever. It was seven years since they had met, and they fell to talk of reminiscences, and in the happiness of their meeting put off the more serious matters which must be discussed before long. It was a good half hour before Haeberlein alluded to the occasion of his present visit. “Bring actually in London, I couldn't resist looking in upon you,” he said, a cloud of care coming over his face. “I only hope it won't get you into a scrape. I came over to try to avert this deplorable business about poor Kellner too late, I fear. And the worst of it is, I must have blundered somehow for my coming leaked out, and they are on the watch for me. If I get safe across to France tonight, I shall be lucky.” “Incautious as ever,” sighed Raeburn. “And that Kellner richly deserves his fate. Why should you meddle?” “I was bound to,” said Haeberlein. “He did me many a good turn during my exile, and though he has made a grave mistake, yet--” “Yet you must run your chivalrous head into a halter for his sake!” exclaimed Raeburn. “You were ever Quixote. I shall live to see you hanged yet.” Haeberlein laughed. “No, I don't think you will,” he said, cheerfully. “I've had some bad falls, but I've always fallen on my feet. With a good cause, a man has little to fear.” “If this WERE a good cause,” said Raeburn, with significant emphasis. “It was the least I could do,” said Haeberlein, with the chivalrous disregard of self which was his chief characteristic. “I only fear that my coming here may involve you in it which Heaven forfend! I should never forgive myself if I injured your reputation.” Raeburn smiled rather bitterly.