CHAPTER V.A few days passed in the most entertaining manner. A menu of amusements was regularly prepared suitable to a catholic taste, and at every turn the Baron was struck by the enterprise and originality of his friend. He had, however, a national bent for serious inquiry, and now and then doubts crossed his mind whether, with all his moral drawing, he was acquiring quite as much solid information as he had set out to gain. This idea grew upon him, till one morning, after gazing for some time at the English newspaper he always made a[pg 95]point of reading, he suddenly exclaimed,“Bonker, I haf a doubt!”“I have many,”replied Mr Bunker;“in fact, I have few positive ideas left.”“Bot mine is a particulair doubt. Do I lairn enoff?”“My own conception of enough learning, Baron, is a thing like a threepenny-bit—the smallest coin one can do one’s marketing with.”“And yet,”said the Baron, solemnly,“for my own share, I am not satisfied. I vould lairn more of ze British institutions; so far I haf lairned of ze pleasures only.”“My dear Baron, they are the British institutions.”The Baron shook his head and fell to his paper again, while Mr Bunker stretched himself on the sofa and gazed through his cigar-smoke at the ceiling. Suddenly the Baron gave an exclamation of horror.“My dear Baron, what is the matter?”“Yet anozer outrage!”cried the Baron.“Zese anarchists, zey are too scandalous. At all ze stations zere are detectives, and all ze ships are being vatched. Ach, it is terrible!”Mr Bunker seemed struck with an idea, for he stared at the ceiling without making any reply, and his eyes, had the Baron seen them, twinkled curiously.At last the Baron laid down his paper.“Vell, vat shall ve do?”he asked.“Let us come first to Liverpool Street Station, if you don’t mind, Baron,”his friend suggested.“I have something in the cloak-room there I want to pick up.”“My dear Bonker, I shall go vere you vill; bot remember[pg 96]I vant to-day more instrogtion and less entertainment.”“You wish to see the practical side of English life?”“Yah—zat is, yes.”Mr Bunker smiled.“Then I must entertain myself.”As they drove down he was in his wittiest humour, and the Baron, in spite of his desire for instruction, was more charmed with his friend than ever.“Vat fonny zing vill you do next, eh?”he asked, as they walked arm-in-arm into the station.“I am no more the humourist, my dear Baron,—I shall endeavour to edify you.”They had arrived at a busy hour, when the platforms were crowded with passengers and luggage. A train had just come in, and around it the bustle was at its height, and the confusion most bewildering.“Wait for me here,”said Mr Bunker;“I shall be back in a minute.”He started in the direction of the cloak-room, and then, doubling back through the crowd, walked down the platform and stopped opposite a luggage-van. An old gentleman, beside himself with irritation, was struggling with the aid of a porter to collect his luggage, and presently he left the pile he had got together and made a rush in the direction of a large portmanteau that was just being tumbled out. Instantly Mr Bunker picked up a handbag from the heap and walked quickly off with it.“Here you are, Baron,”he said, as he came up to his[pg 97]friend.“I find there is something else I must do, so do you mind holding this bag for a few minutes? If you will walk up and down in front of the refreshment-rooms here, I’ll find you more easily. Is it troubling you too much?”“Not vun bit, Bonker. I am in your sairvice.”He put the bag into the Baron’s hand with his pleasantest smile, and turned away. Rounding a corner, he came cautiously back again through the crowd and stepped up to a policeman.“Keep your eye on that man, officer,”he said, in a low confidential voice, and an air of quiet authority,“and put your plain clothes’ men on his track. I know him for one of the most dangerous anarchists.”The man started and stared hard at the Baron, and presently that unconscious nobleman, pacing the platform in growing wonder at Mr Bunker’s lengthy absence, and looking anxiously round him on all sides, noticed with surprise that a number of quietly dressed men, with no apparent business in the station, were eyeing him with, it seemed to him, an interest that approached suspicion. In time he grew annoyed, he returned their glances with his haughtiest and most indignant look, and finally, stepping up to one of them, asked in no friendly voice,“Vat for do you vatch me?”The man returned an evasive answer, and passing one of his fellow-officers, whispered,“Foreign; I was sure of it.”At last the Baron could stand it no longer, and laying the bag down by the door of the refreshment-room,[pg 98]turned hastily away. On the instant Mr Bunker, who had watched these proceedings from a safe distance, cried in a loud and agonised voice,“Down with your men, sergeant! Down, lie down! It will explode in twenty seconds!”And as he spoke he threw himself flat on his face. So infectious were his commanding voice and his note of alarm that one after another, detectives, passengers, and porters, cast themselves at full length on the platform. The Baron, filled with terror of anarchist plots, was one of the first to prostrate himself, and at that there could be no further doubt of the imminence of the peril.The cabs rattled and voices sounded from outside; an engine whistled and shunted at a far platform, but never before at that hour of the day had Liverpool Street Station been so silent. All held their breath and heard their hearts thump as they gazed in horrible fascination at that fatal bag, or with closed eyes stumbled through a hasty prayer. Fully a minute passed, and the suspense was growing intolerable, when with a loud oath an old gentleman rose to his feet and walked briskly up to the bag.“Have a care, sir! For Heaven’s sake have a care!”cried Mr Bunker; but the old gentleman merely bent over the terrible object, and, picking it up, exclaimed in bewildered wrath,“It’s my bag! Who the devil brought it here, and what’s the meaning of this d—d nonsense?”“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”roared Mr Bunker; while like sheepish mushrooms the people sprang up on all sides.[pg 99]“My dear sir,”said Mr Bunker, coming up to the old gentleman, and raising his hat with his most affable air,“permit me to congratulate you on recovering your lost property, and allow me further to introduce my friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg.”“Baron von damned-humbug!”cried the old gentleman.“Did you take my bag, sir? and if so, are you a thief or a lunatic?”For an instant even Mr Bunker himself seemed a trifle taken aback; then he replied politely,“I am not a thief, sir.”“Then what’aveyou been doing?”demanded the sergeant.“Merely demonstrating to my friend the Baron the extraordinary vigilance of the English police.”For a time neither the old gentleman nor the sergeant seemed quite capable of taking the same view of the episode as Mr Bunker, and, curiously enough, the Baron seemed not disinclined to let his friend extricate himself as best he could. No one, however, could resist Mr Bunker, and before very long he and the Baron were driving up Bishopsgate Street together, with the old gentleman’s four-wheeler lumbering in front of them.“Well, Baron, are you satisfied with your morning’s instruction?”asked his friend.“A German nobleman is not used to be in soch a position,”replied the Baron, stiffly.“You must admit, however, that the object-lesson in the detection of anarchy was neatly presented.”“I admit nozing of ze kind,”said the Baron, stolidly.[pg 100]For the rest of the drive he sat obdurately silent. He went to his room with the mien of an offended man. During lunch he only opened his lips to eat.On his side Mr Bunker maintained a cheerful composure, and seemed not a whit put about by his friend’s lack of appreciation.“Anozzer bottle of claret,”said the Baron, gruffly, to a waiter.Mr Bunker let him consume it entirely by himself, awaiting the results with patience. Gradually his face relaxed a little, until all at once, when the bump in the bottom of the bottle was beginning to appear above the wine, the whole room was startled by a stentorian,“Ha, ha, ha!”“My dear Bonker!”cried the Baron, when he had finished laughing,“forgif me! I begin for to see ze moral, ha, ha, ha!”CHAPTER VI.The Baron expressed no further wish for instruction, but, instead, he began to show a desire for society.“Doesn’t one fool suffice?”his friend asked.“Ach, yes, my vise fool; ha, ha, ha! Bot sometimes I haf ze craving for peoples, museec, dancing—in vun vord, society, Bonker!”“But this is not the season, Baron. You wouldn’t mix with any but the best society, would you?”[pg 101]“Zere are some nobles in town. In my paper I see Lord zis, Duke of zat, in London. Pairhaps my introdogtions might be here now.”This suggestion seemed to strike Mr Bunker unfavourably.“My company is beginning to pall, is it, Baron?”“Ach, no, dear Bonker! I vould merely go out jost vunce or tvice. Haf you no friends now in town?”An idea seemed to seize Mr Bunker.“Let me see the paper,”he said.After perusing it carefully for a little, he at last exclaimed in a tone of pleased discovery,“Hullo! I see that Lady Tulliwuddle is giving a reception and dance to-night. Most of the smart people in town just now are sure to be there. Would you care to go, Baron?”“Ach, surely,”said the Baron, eagerly.“Bot haf you been invited, Bonker?”“Oh, I used to have a standing invitation to Lady Tulliwuddle’s dances, and I’m certain she would be glad to see me again.”“Can you take me?”“Of course, my dear Baron, she will be honoured.”“Goot!”cried the Baron.“Ve shall go.”Mr Bunker explained that it was the proper thing to arrive very late, and so it was not until after twelve o’clock that they left the Hôtel Mayonaise for the regions of Belgravia. The Baron, primed with a bottle of champagne, and arrayed in a costume which Mr Bunker had assured him was the very latest extreme of fashion, and which included a scarlet watered silk waistcoat, a pair[pg 102]of white silk socks, and a lavender tie, was in a condition of cheerfulness verging closely on hilarity. Mr Bunker, that, as he said, he might better serve as a foil to his friend’s splendour, went more inconspicuously dressed, but was likewise well charged with champagne. He too was in his happiest vein, and the vision of the Baron’s finery appeared to afford him peculiar gratification.Their hansom stopped in front of a large and gaily lit-up mansion, with an awning leading to the door, and a cluster of carriages and footmen by the kerbstone. They entered, and having divested themselves of their coats, Mr Bunker proposed that they should immediately seek the supper-room.“Bot should I not be first introduced to mine hostess?”asked the Baron.“My dear Baron! a formal reception of the guests is entirely foreign to English etiquette.”“Zo? I did not know zat.”The supper-room was crowded, and having secured a table with some difficulty, Mr Bunker entered immediately into conversation with a solitary young gentleman who was consuming a plate of oysters. Before they had exchanged six sentences the young man had entirely succumbed to Mr Bunker’s address, aided possibly by the young man’s supper.“Permit me to introduce my friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg, a nobleman strange as yet to England, but renowned throughout his native land alike for his talents and his lofty position,”said Mr Bunker.[pg 103]“Ach, my good friend,”exclaimed the Baron, grasping the young man’s hand,“das ist Bonker’s vat you call nonsense; bot I am delighted, zehr delighted, to meet you, and if you gom to Bavaria you most shoot vid me! Bravo! Ha!”From which it may be gathered that the Baron was in a genial humour.“Who is that girl?”asked Mr Bunker, pointing to an extremely pretty damsel just leaving the room.“Oh, that’s my cousin, Lady Muriel Hilton. She’s thought rather pretty, I believe,”answered the young man.“Do you mind introducing me?”“Certainly,”said their new friend.“Come along.”As they were passing through the room a little incident occurred that, if the Baron’s perceptions had been keener, might have given him cause for some speculation. Two men standing by the door looked hard at Mr Bunker, and then at each other, and as the Baron passed them he heard one say,“It looks devilish like him.”“He has shaved, then,”said the other.“Evidently,”replied the first speaker;“but I thought he was unlikely to appear in any society for some time.”They both laughed, and the Baron heard no more.When they reached the ballroom the band was striking up a polka, and presently Mr Bunker, with his accustomed grace, was tearing round the room with Lady Muriel, while the Baron—the delight of all eyes in his red waistcoat—led out her sister. In a very short time the other dancers found the Baron and his friend’s onslaught so[pg 104]vigorous that prudence compelled them to take shelter along the wall, and from a safe distance admire the evolutions of these two mysterious guests.Mr Bunker was enlivening the monotony of the polka by the judicious introduction of hornpipe steps, while the Baron, his coat-tails high above his head, shouted and stamped in his wild career.“Do stop for a minute, Baron,”gasped his fair partner.“Himmel, nein!”roared the Baron.“I haf gom here for to dance! Ha, Bonker, ha!”At last Lady Muriel had to stop through sheer exhaustion, but Mr Bunker, merely letting her go, pursued his solitary way, double-shuffling and kicking unimpeded.The Baron stopped, breathless, to admire him. Round and round he went, the only figure in the middle of the room, his arms akimbo, his feet rat-tatting and kicking to the music, while high above the band resounded his friend’s shouts of“Bravo, Bonker! Wunderschön! Gott in himmel, higher, higher!”till at length, missing the wall in an attempt to find support, the Baron dropped with a thud into a sitting posture and continued his demonstrations from the floor.Meanwhile their alarmed hostess was holding a hasty consultation with her husband, and when the music at last stopped and Mr Bunker was advancing with his most courteous air towards his late partner, Lord Tulliwuddle stepped up to him and touched his arm.“May I speak to you, sir?”he said.“Certainly,”replied Mr Bunker.“I shall be honoured. Excuse me for one moment, Lady Muriel.”[pg 105]“At whose invitation have you come here to-night?”demanded his host, sternly.“I have the pleasure of addressing Lord Tulliwuddle, have I not?”“You have, sir.”Mr Bunker bent towards him and whispered something in his ear.“From Scotland Yard?”exclaimed his lordship.“Hush!”said Mr Bunker, glancing cautiously round the room, and then he added, with an air of impressive gravity,“You have a bathroom on the third floor, I believe?”“I have,”replied his host in great surprise.“Has it a bell?”“No, I believe not.”“Ah, I thought so. If you will favour me by coming up-stairs for a minute, my Lord, you will avoid a serious private scandal. Say nothing about it at present to any one.”In blank astonishment and some alarm Lord Tulliwuddle went up with him to the third floor, where the house was still and the sounds of revelry reached faintly.“What does this mean, sir?”he asked.“If I am right in my conjectures you will need no explanation from me, my Lord.”His lordship opened a door, and turning on an electric light, revealed a small and ordinary-looking bathroom.“Ha, no bell—excellent!”said Mr Bunker.“What are you doing with the key?”exclaimed his host.[pg 106]“Good night, my Lord. I shall tell them to send up breakfast at nine,”said Mr Bunker, and stepping quickly out, he shut and locked the door.A minute later he was back in the ballroom looking anxiously for the Baron, but that nobleman was nowhere to be seen.“The devil!”he said to himself.“Can they have tackled him too?”But as he ran downstairs a gust of cheerful laughter set his mind at ease.“Ha, ha, ha! Vere is old Bonker? He also vill shoot vid me!”“Here I am, my dear Baron,”he exclaimed gaily, as he tracked the voice into the supper-room.“Ach, mine dear Bonker!”cried the Baron, folding him in his muscular embrace,“I haf here met friends, ve are merry! Ve drink to Bavaria, to England, to everyzing!”The“friends”consisted of two highly amused young men and two half-scandalised, half-hysterical ladies, into the midst of whose supper-table the Baron had projected himself with infectious hilarity. They all looked up with great curiosity at Mr Bunker, but that gentleman was not in the least put about. He bowed politely to the table generally, and took his friend by the arm.“It is time we were going, Baron, I’m afraid,”he said.“Vat for? Ah, not yet, Bonker, not yet. I am enjoying myself down to ze floor. I most dance again, Bonker, jost vunce more,”pleaded the Baron.“My dear Baron, the noblemen of highest rank must[pg 107]always leave first, and people are talking of going now. Come along, old man.”“Ha, is zat so?”said the Baron.“Zen vill I go. Good night!”he cried, waving his hand to the room generally.“Ven you gom to Bavaria you most all shoot vid me. Bravo, my goot Bonker! Ha! ha!”As they turned away from the table, one of the young men, who had been looking very hard at Mr Bunker, rose and touched his sleeve.“I say, aren’t you——?”he began.“Possibly I am,”interrupted Mr Bunker,“only I haven’t the slightest recollection of the fact.”An astonished lady was indicated by Mr Bunker as the hostess, and to her the Baron bade an affectionate adieu. He handed a sovereign to the footman, embraced the butler, and as they sped eastwards in their hansom, a rousing chorus from the two friends awoke the echoes of Piccadilly.“Bravo, Bonker! Himmel, I haf enjoyed myself!”sighed the exhausted Baron.CHAPTER VII.The Baron and Mr Bunker discussed a twelve o’clock breakfast with the relish of men who had done a good night’s work. The Baron was full of his exploits.“Ze lofly Lady Hilton”and his new“friends”seemed to have made a vivid impression.[pg 108]“Zey vill be in ze Park to-day, of course?”he suggested.“Possibly,”replied Mr Bunker, without any great enthusiasm.“But surely.”“After a dance it is rather unlikely.”“Ze Lady Hilton did say she vent to ze Park.”“To-day, Baron?”“I do not remember to-day. I did dance so hard I was not perhaps distinct. But I shall go and see.”As Mr Bunker’s attempts to throw cold water on this scheme proved quite futile, he made a graceful virtue of necessity, dressed himself with care, and set out in the afternoon for the Park. They had only walked as far as Piccadilly Circus when in the crowd at the corner his eye fell upon a familiar figure. It was the burly, red-faced man.“The devil! Moggridge again!”he muttered.For a moment he thought they were going to pass unobserved: then the man turned his head their way, and Mr Bunker saw him start. He never looked over his shoulder, but after walking a little farther he called the Baron’s attention to a shop window, and they stopped to look at it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Moggridge about twenty yards behind them stopping too. He was glancing towards them very doubtfully. Evidently his mind was not yet made up, and at once Mr Bunker’s fertile brain began to revolve plans.A little farther on they paused before another window, and exactly the same thing happened. Then Mr Bunker[pg 109]made up his mind. He looked carefully at the cabs, and at last observed a smart-looking young man driving a fresh likely horse at a walking pace beside the pavement.He caught the driver’s eye and raised his stick, and turning suddenly to the Baron with a gesture of annoyance, exclaimed,“Forgive my rudeness, Baron, I’m afraid I must leave you. I had clean forgotten an important engagement in the city for this afternoon.”“Appointment in ze city?”said the Baron in considerable surprise.“I did not know you had friends in ze city.”“I have just heard from my father’s man of business, and I’m afraid it would be impolitic not to see him. Do you mind if I leave you here?”“Surely, my dear fellow, I vould not stop you. Already I feel at home by myself.”“Then we shall meet at the hotel before dinner. Good luck with the ladies, Baron.”Mr Bunker jumped into the cab, saying only to the driver,“To the city, as quick as you can.”“What part, sir?”“Oh, say the Bank. Hurry up!”Then as the man whipped up, Mr Bunker had a glimpse of Moggridge hailing another cab, and peeping cautiously through the little window at the back he saw him starting in hot pursuit. He took five shillings out of his pocket and opened the trap-door in the roof.“Do you see that other cab chasing us, with a red-faced man inside?”“Yes, sir.”[pg 110]Mr Bunker handed his driver the money.“Get rid of him, then. Take me anywhere through the city you like, and when he’s off the scent let me know.”“Very good, sir,”replied the driver, cracking his whip till his steed began to move past the buses and the other cabs like a train.On they flew, clatter and jingle, twisting like a snipe through the traffic. Mr Bunker perceived that he had a good horse and a good driver, and he smiled in pleasant excitement. He lit a cigar, leaned his arms on the doors, and settled himself to enjoy the race.The black lions of Trafalgar Square flew by, then the colossal hotels of Northumberland Avenue and the railway bridge at Charing Cross, and they were going at a gallop along the Embankment. He got swift glimpses of other cabs and foot-passengers, the trees seemed to flit past like telegraph-posts on a railway, the barges and lighters on the river dropped one by one behind them: it was a fair course for a race, with never a check before Blackfriar’s Bridge.As they turned into Queen Victoria Street he opened the lid and asked,“Are they still in sight?”“Yes, sir; I’m afraid we ain’t gaining much yet. But I’ll do it, sir, no fears.”Mr Bunker lay back and laughed.“This is better than the Park,”he said to himself.They had a fine drive up Queen Victoria Street before they plunged into the whirlpool of traffic at the Bank. They were slowly making their way across when the[pg 111]driver, spying an opening in another stream, abruptly wheeled round for Cornhill, and presently they were off again at top speed.“Thrown them off?”asked Mr Bunker.“Tried to, sir, but they were too sharp and got clear away too.”Mr Bunker saw that it was going to be a stern chase, and laughed again. In order that he might not show ostensibly that he was running away, he resisted the temptation of having another peep through the back, and resigned himself to the chances of the chase.Through and through the lanes and byways of the city they drove, and after each double the answer from the box was always the same. The cab behind could not be shaken off.“Work your way round to Holborn and try a run west,”Mr Bunker suggested.So after a little they struck Newgate Street, and presently their steed stretched himself again in Holborn Viaduct.“Gaining now, cabby?”“A little, sir, I think.”Mr Bunker sat placidly till they were well along Holborn before he inquired again.“Can’t get rid of ’im no ’ow. Afride it ain’t much good, sir.”Mr Bunker passed up five shillings more.“Keep your tail up. You’ll do it yet,”he exhorted.“Try a turn north; you may bother him among the squares.”So they doubled north, and as the evening closed in[pg 112]their wearied horse was lashed through a maze of monotonous streets and tarnished Bloomsbury Squares. And still the other cab stuck to their trail. But when they emerged on the Euston Road, Mr Bunker was as cheerful as ever.“They can’t last much longer,”he said to his driver.“Turn up Regent’s Park way.”A little later he put the usual question and got the same unvarying answer.The horse was evidently beginning to fail, and he saw that this chariot-race must soon come to an end. The street-lamps and the shop windows were all lit up by this time, and the dusk was pretty thick. It seemed to him that he might venture to try his luck on foot, and he began to look out for an opening where a cab could not follow.They were flogging along a noisy stone-paved road where there was little other traffic; on one side stood an unbroken row of houses, and on the other were small semi-detached villas with little strips of garden about them. All at once he saw a doctor’s red lamp over the door of one of these half villas, and an inspiration came upon him.“One can always visit a doctor,”he said to himself, and smiled in great amusement at something in the reflection.He stopped the cab, handed the man half a sovereign, and saying only,“Drive away again, quickly,”jumped out, glanced at the name on the plate, and pulled the bell. As he waited on the step he saw the other cab stop a little way back, and his pursuer emerge.[pg 113]A frowsy little servant opened the door.“Is Dr Twiddel at home?”he asked.“Dr Twiddel’s abroad, sir,”said the maid.“No one in at all, then?”“Dr Billson sees ’is patients, sir—w’en therehisany.”“When do you expect Dr Billson?”“In about an hour, sir, ’e usually comes hin.”“Excellent!”thought Mr Bunker. Aloud he said,“Well, I’m a patient. I’ll come in and wait.”He stepped in, and the door banged behind him.CHAPTER VIII.“This w’y, sir,”said the maid, and Mr Bunker found himself in the little room where this story opened.The moment he was alone he went to the window and peeped cautiously between the slats of the venetian blind.The street was quiet, both cabs had disappeared, and for a minute or two he could see nothing even of Moggridge. Then a figure moved carefully from the shelter of a bush a little way down the railings, and, after a quick look at the house, stepped back again.“He means to play the waiting game,”said Mr Bunker to himself.“Long may you wait, my wary Moggridge!”He took a rapid survey of the room. He saw the medical library, the rented furniture, and the unlit gas-stove; and at last his eye fell upon a box of cigarettes. To one of these he helped himself and leaned his back against the mantelpiece.[pg 114]“There must be at least one room at the back,”he reflected;“that room must have a window, and beyond that window there is all London to turn to. Friend Moggridge, I trust you are prepared to spend the evening behind your bush.”He had another look through the blind and shook his head.“A little too light yet,—I’d better wait for a quarter of an hour or so.”To while away the time he proceeded to make a tour of the room, for, as he said to himself, when in an unknown country any information may possibly come in useful. There was nothing whatever from which he could draw even the most superficial deduction till he came to the writing-desk. Here a heap of bills were transfixed by a long skewer, and at his first glance at the uppermost his face assumed an expression of almost ludicrous bewilderment. He actually rubbed his eyes before he looked a second time.“One dozen shirts,”he read,“four under-flannels, four pair socks, one dozen handkerchiefs, two sleeping-suits—marked Francis Beveridge! the account rendered to Dr G. Twiddel! What in the name of wonderment is the meaning of this?”He sat down with the bill in his hand and gazed hard at it.“Precisely my outfit,”he said to himself.“Am I—Does it——? What a rum thing!”He sat for about ten minutes looking hard at the floor. Then he burst out laughing, resumed in a moment his[pg 115]air of philosophical opportunism, and set about a further search of the desk. He looked at the bills and seemed to find nothing more to interest him. Then he glanced at one or two letters in the drawers, threw the first few back again, and at last paused over one.“Twiddel to Billson,”he said to himself.“This may possibly be worth looking at.”It was dated more than a month back from the town of Fogelschloss.“Dear Tom,”it ran,“we are having an A 1 time. Old Welsh is in splendid form, doing the part to perfection. He has never given himself away yet, not even when drunk, which, I am sorry to say, he has been too often. But then old Welsh is so funny when he is drunk that it makes him all the more like the original, or at least what the original is supposed to be.“Of course we don’t dare to venture into places where we would see too many English. This is quite an amusing place for a German town, some baths and a kind of a gambling-table, and some pretty girls—for Germans. There is a sporting aristocrat here, in an old castle, who is very friendly, and is much impressed with Welsh’s account of his family plate and deer-forest, and has asked us once or twice to come out and see him. We are no end of swells, I assure you.“Ta, ta, old chap. Hope the practice prospers in your hands. Don’t killallthe patients before I come back.—Ever thine,GEORGE TWIDDEL.”“From this I conclude that Dr Twiddel is on the festive side of forty,”he reflected;“there are elements of mystery and a general atmosphere of alcohol about it, but that’s all, I’m afraid.”[pg 116]He put it back in the drawer, but the bill he slipped into his pocket.“And now,”thought he,“it is time I made the first move.”After waiting for a minute or two to make sure that everything was quiet, he gently stepped out into a little linoleum-carpeted hall. On the right hand was the front door, on the left two others that must, he thought, open into rooms on the back. He chose the nearer at a venture, and entered boldly. It was quite dark. He closed the door again softly, struck a match, and looked round the room. It seemed to be Dr Twiddel’s dining- and sitting-room.“Pipes, photographs, well-sat-in chairs,”he observed,“anda window.”He pulled aside the blind and looked out into the darkness of a strip of back-garden. For a minute he listened intently, but no sound came from the house. Then he threw up the sash and scrambled out. It was quite dark by this time: he was enclosed between two rows of vague, black houses, with bright windows here and there, and chimney-cans faintly cutting their uncouth designs among a few pale London stars. The space between was filled with the two lines of little gardens and the ranks of walls, and in the middle the black chasm of a railway cutting.A frightened cat bolted before him as he hurried down to the foot of the strip, but that was all the life he saw. He looked over the wall right into the deep crevasse. A little way off, on the one hand, hung a cluster of signal-lights, and the shining rails reflected them all along to[pg 117]the mouth of a tunnel on the other. Turning his head this way and that, there was nothing to be seen anywhere else but garden wall after garden wall.“It’s a choice between a hurdle-race through these gardens, a cat-walk along this wall, and a descent into the cutting,”he reflected.“The walls look devilish high and the cutting devilish deep. Hang me if I know which road to take.”While he was still debating this somewhat perplexing question, he felt the ground begin to quiver under him. Through the hum of London there gradually arose a louder roar, and in a minute the head-lights of an engine flashed out of the tunnel. One after another a string of bright carriages followed it, each more slowly than the carriage in front, till the whole train was at a standstill below him with the red signal-lamp against it.In an instant his decision was taken. At the peril of life and garments he scrambled down the rocky bank, picking as he went an empty first-class compartment, and just as the train began to move again he swung himself up and sprang into a carriage.Unfortunately he had chosen the wrong one in his haste, and as he opened the door he saw a comical vision of a stout little old gentleman huddling into the farther corner in the most dire consternation.“Who are you, sir? What do you want, sir?”spluttered the old gentleman.“If you come any nearer me, sir—one step, sir!—I shall instantly communicate with the guard! I have no money about me. Go away, sir!”[pg 118]“I regret to learn that you have no money,”replied Mr Bunker, imperturbably;“but I am sorry that I am not at present in a condition to offer a loan.”He sat down and smiled amicably, but the little gentleman was not to be quieted so easily. Seeing that no violence was apparently intended, his fright changed into respectable indignation.“You needn’t try to be funny with me, sir. You are committing an illegal act. You have placed yourself in an uncommonly serious position, sir.”“Indeed, sir?”replied Mr Bunker.“I myself should have imagined that by remaining on the rails I should have been much more seriously situated.”The old gentleman looked at him like an angry small dog that longs to bite if it only dared.“What is the meaning of this illegal intrusion?”he demanded.“Who are you? Where did you come from?”“I had the misfortune, sir,”explained Mr Bunker, politely,“to drop my hat out of the window of a neighbouring carriage. While I was picking it up the train started, and I had to enter the first compartment I could find. I am sorry that my entry frightened you.”“Frightened me!”spluttered the old gentleman.“I am not afraid, sir. I am an honest man who need fear no one, sir. I do not believe you dropped your hat. It is perfectly uninjured.”“It may be news to you, sir,”replied Mr Bunker,“that by gently yet firmly passing the sleeve of your coat round your hat in the direction of the nap, it is possible[pg 119]to restore the gloss. Thus,”and suiting the action to the word he took off his hat, drew his coat-sleeve across it, and with a genial smile at the old gentleman, replaced it on his head.But his neighbour was evidently of that truculent disposition which merely growls at blandishments. He snorted and replied testily,“That is all very well, sir, but I don’t believe a word of it.”“If you prefer it, then, I fell off the telegraph wires in an attempt to recover my boots.”The old gentleman became purple in the face.“Have a care, sir! I am a director of this company, and at the next station I shall see that you give a proper account of yourself. And here we are, sir. I trust you have a more credible story in readiness.”As he spoke they drew up beside an underground platform, and the irascible old gentleman, with a very threatening face that was not yet quite cleared of alarm, bustled out in a prodigious hurry. Mr Bunker lay back in his seat and replied with a smile,“I shall be delighted to tell any story within the bounds of strict propriety.”But the moment he saw the irate director disappear in the crowd he whipped out too, and with the least possible delay transferred himself into a third-class carriage.From his seat near the window he watched the old gentleman hurry back with three officials at his heels, and hastily search each first-class compartment in turn. The last one was so near him that he could hear his friend say,“Damn it, the rascal has bolted in the crowd!”[pg 120]And with that the four of them rushed off to the barrier to intercept or pursue this suspicious character. Then the whistle blew, and as the train moved off Mr Bunker remarked complacently, if a little mysteriously, to himself,“Well, whoever I am, it would seem I’m rather difficult to catch.”
CHAPTER V.A few days passed in the most entertaining manner. A menu of amusements was regularly prepared suitable to a catholic taste, and at every turn the Baron was struck by the enterprise and originality of his friend. He had, however, a national bent for serious inquiry, and now and then doubts crossed his mind whether, with all his moral drawing, he was acquiring quite as much solid information as he had set out to gain. This idea grew upon him, till one morning, after gazing for some time at the English newspaper he always made a[pg 95]point of reading, he suddenly exclaimed,“Bonker, I haf a doubt!”“I have many,”replied Mr Bunker;“in fact, I have few positive ideas left.”“Bot mine is a particulair doubt. Do I lairn enoff?”“My own conception of enough learning, Baron, is a thing like a threepenny-bit—the smallest coin one can do one’s marketing with.”“And yet,”said the Baron, solemnly,“for my own share, I am not satisfied. I vould lairn more of ze British institutions; so far I haf lairned of ze pleasures only.”“My dear Baron, they are the British institutions.”The Baron shook his head and fell to his paper again, while Mr Bunker stretched himself on the sofa and gazed through his cigar-smoke at the ceiling. Suddenly the Baron gave an exclamation of horror.“My dear Baron, what is the matter?”“Yet anozer outrage!”cried the Baron.“Zese anarchists, zey are too scandalous. At all ze stations zere are detectives, and all ze ships are being vatched. Ach, it is terrible!”Mr Bunker seemed struck with an idea, for he stared at the ceiling without making any reply, and his eyes, had the Baron seen them, twinkled curiously.At last the Baron laid down his paper.“Vell, vat shall ve do?”he asked.“Let us come first to Liverpool Street Station, if you don’t mind, Baron,”his friend suggested.“I have something in the cloak-room there I want to pick up.”“My dear Bonker, I shall go vere you vill; bot remember[pg 96]I vant to-day more instrogtion and less entertainment.”“You wish to see the practical side of English life?”“Yah—zat is, yes.”Mr Bunker smiled.“Then I must entertain myself.”As they drove down he was in his wittiest humour, and the Baron, in spite of his desire for instruction, was more charmed with his friend than ever.“Vat fonny zing vill you do next, eh?”he asked, as they walked arm-in-arm into the station.“I am no more the humourist, my dear Baron,—I shall endeavour to edify you.”They had arrived at a busy hour, when the platforms were crowded with passengers and luggage. A train had just come in, and around it the bustle was at its height, and the confusion most bewildering.“Wait for me here,”said Mr Bunker;“I shall be back in a minute.”He started in the direction of the cloak-room, and then, doubling back through the crowd, walked down the platform and stopped opposite a luggage-van. An old gentleman, beside himself with irritation, was struggling with the aid of a porter to collect his luggage, and presently he left the pile he had got together and made a rush in the direction of a large portmanteau that was just being tumbled out. Instantly Mr Bunker picked up a handbag from the heap and walked quickly off with it.“Here you are, Baron,”he said, as he came up to his[pg 97]friend.“I find there is something else I must do, so do you mind holding this bag for a few minutes? If you will walk up and down in front of the refreshment-rooms here, I’ll find you more easily. Is it troubling you too much?”“Not vun bit, Bonker. I am in your sairvice.”He put the bag into the Baron’s hand with his pleasantest smile, and turned away. Rounding a corner, he came cautiously back again through the crowd and stepped up to a policeman.“Keep your eye on that man, officer,”he said, in a low confidential voice, and an air of quiet authority,“and put your plain clothes’ men on his track. I know him for one of the most dangerous anarchists.”The man started and stared hard at the Baron, and presently that unconscious nobleman, pacing the platform in growing wonder at Mr Bunker’s lengthy absence, and looking anxiously round him on all sides, noticed with surprise that a number of quietly dressed men, with no apparent business in the station, were eyeing him with, it seemed to him, an interest that approached suspicion. In time he grew annoyed, he returned their glances with his haughtiest and most indignant look, and finally, stepping up to one of them, asked in no friendly voice,“Vat for do you vatch me?”The man returned an evasive answer, and passing one of his fellow-officers, whispered,“Foreign; I was sure of it.”At last the Baron could stand it no longer, and laying the bag down by the door of the refreshment-room,[pg 98]turned hastily away. On the instant Mr Bunker, who had watched these proceedings from a safe distance, cried in a loud and agonised voice,“Down with your men, sergeant! Down, lie down! It will explode in twenty seconds!”And as he spoke he threw himself flat on his face. So infectious were his commanding voice and his note of alarm that one after another, detectives, passengers, and porters, cast themselves at full length on the platform. The Baron, filled with terror of anarchist plots, was one of the first to prostrate himself, and at that there could be no further doubt of the imminence of the peril.The cabs rattled and voices sounded from outside; an engine whistled and shunted at a far platform, but never before at that hour of the day had Liverpool Street Station been so silent. All held their breath and heard their hearts thump as they gazed in horrible fascination at that fatal bag, or with closed eyes stumbled through a hasty prayer. Fully a minute passed, and the suspense was growing intolerable, when with a loud oath an old gentleman rose to his feet and walked briskly up to the bag.“Have a care, sir! For Heaven’s sake have a care!”cried Mr Bunker; but the old gentleman merely bent over the terrible object, and, picking it up, exclaimed in bewildered wrath,“It’s my bag! Who the devil brought it here, and what’s the meaning of this d—d nonsense?”“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”roared Mr Bunker; while like sheepish mushrooms the people sprang up on all sides.[pg 99]“My dear sir,”said Mr Bunker, coming up to the old gentleman, and raising his hat with his most affable air,“permit me to congratulate you on recovering your lost property, and allow me further to introduce my friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg.”“Baron von damned-humbug!”cried the old gentleman.“Did you take my bag, sir? and if so, are you a thief or a lunatic?”For an instant even Mr Bunker himself seemed a trifle taken aback; then he replied politely,“I am not a thief, sir.”“Then what’aveyou been doing?”demanded the sergeant.“Merely demonstrating to my friend the Baron the extraordinary vigilance of the English police.”For a time neither the old gentleman nor the sergeant seemed quite capable of taking the same view of the episode as Mr Bunker, and, curiously enough, the Baron seemed not disinclined to let his friend extricate himself as best he could. No one, however, could resist Mr Bunker, and before very long he and the Baron were driving up Bishopsgate Street together, with the old gentleman’s four-wheeler lumbering in front of them.“Well, Baron, are you satisfied with your morning’s instruction?”asked his friend.“A German nobleman is not used to be in soch a position,”replied the Baron, stiffly.“You must admit, however, that the object-lesson in the detection of anarchy was neatly presented.”“I admit nozing of ze kind,”said the Baron, stolidly.[pg 100]For the rest of the drive he sat obdurately silent. He went to his room with the mien of an offended man. During lunch he only opened his lips to eat.On his side Mr Bunker maintained a cheerful composure, and seemed not a whit put about by his friend’s lack of appreciation.“Anozzer bottle of claret,”said the Baron, gruffly, to a waiter.Mr Bunker let him consume it entirely by himself, awaiting the results with patience. Gradually his face relaxed a little, until all at once, when the bump in the bottom of the bottle was beginning to appear above the wine, the whole room was startled by a stentorian,“Ha, ha, ha!”“My dear Bonker!”cried the Baron, when he had finished laughing,“forgif me! I begin for to see ze moral, ha, ha, ha!”CHAPTER VI.The Baron expressed no further wish for instruction, but, instead, he began to show a desire for society.“Doesn’t one fool suffice?”his friend asked.“Ach, yes, my vise fool; ha, ha, ha! Bot sometimes I haf ze craving for peoples, museec, dancing—in vun vord, society, Bonker!”“But this is not the season, Baron. You wouldn’t mix with any but the best society, would you?”[pg 101]“Zere are some nobles in town. In my paper I see Lord zis, Duke of zat, in London. Pairhaps my introdogtions might be here now.”This suggestion seemed to strike Mr Bunker unfavourably.“My company is beginning to pall, is it, Baron?”“Ach, no, dear Bonker! I vould merely go out jost vunce or tvice. Haf you no friends now in town?”An idea seemed to seize Mr Bunker.“Let me see the paper,”he said.After perusing it carefully for a little, he at last exclaimed in a tone of pleased discovery,“Hullo! I see that Lady Tulliwuddle is giving a reception and dance to-night. Most of the smart people in town just now are sure to be there. Would you care to go, Baron?”“Ach, surely,”said the Baron, eagerly.“Bot haf you been invited, Bonker?”“Oh, I used to have a standing invitation to Lady Tulliwuddle’s dances, and I’m certain she would be glad to see me again.”“Can you take me?”“Of course, my dear Baron, she will be honoured.”“Goot!”cried the Baron.“Ve shall go.”Mr Bunker explained that it was the proper thing to arrive very late, and so it was not until after twelve o’clock that they left the Hôtel Mayonaise for the regions of Belgravia. The Baron, primed with a bottle of champagne, and arrayed in a costume which Mr Bunker had assured him was the very latest extreme of fashion, and which included a scarlet watered silk waistcoat, a pair[pg 102]of white silk socks, and a lavender tie, was in a condition of cheerfulness verging closely on hilarity. Mr Bunker, that, as he said, he might better serve as a foil to his friend’s splendour, went more inconspicuously dressed, but was likewise well charged with champagne. He too was in his happiest vein, and the vision of the Baron’s finery appeared to afford him peculiar gratification.Their hansom stopped in front of a large and gaily lit-up mansion, with an awning leading to the door, and a cluster of carriages and footmen by the kerbstone. They entered, and having divested themselves of their coats, Mr Bunker proposed that they should immediately seek the supper-room.“Bot should I not be first introduced to mine hostess?”asked the Baron.“My dear Baron! a formal reception of the guests is entirely foreign to English etiquette.”“Zo? I did not know zat.”The supper-room was crowded, and having secured a table with some difficulty, Mr Bunker entered immediately into conversation with a solitary young gentleman who was consuming a plate of oysters. Before they had exchanged six sentences the young man had entirely succumbed to Mr Bunker’s address, aided possibly by the young man’s supper.“Permit me to introduce my friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg, a nobleman strange as yet to England, but renowned throughout his native land alike for his talents and his lofty position,”said Mr Bunker.[pg 103]“Ach, my good friend,”exclaimed the Baron, grasping the young man’s hand,“das ist Bonker’s vat you call nonsense; bot I am delighted, zehr delighted, to meet you, and if you gom to Bavaria you most shoot vid me! Bravo! Ha!”From which it may be gathered that the Baron was in a genial humour.“Who is that girl?”asked Mr Bunker, pointing to an extremely pretty damsel just leaving the room.“Oh, that’s my cousin, Lady Muriel Hilton. She’s thought rather pretty, I believe,”answered the young man.“Do you mind introducing me?”“Certainly,”said their new friend.“Come along.”As they were passing through the room a little incident occurred that, if the Baron’s perceptions had been keener, might have given him cause for some speculation. Two men standing by the door looked hard at Mr Bunker, and then at each other, and as the Baron passed them he heard one say,“It looks devilish like him.”“He has shaved, then,”said the other.“Evidently,”replied the first speaker;“but I thought he was unlikely to appear in any society for some time.”They both laughed, and the Baron heard no more.When they reached the ballroom the band was striking up a polka, and presently Mr Bunker, with his accustomed grace, was tearing round the room with Lady Muriel, while the Baron—the delight of all eyes in his red waistcoat—led out her sister. In a very short time the other dancers found the Baron and his friend’s onslaught so[pg 104]vigorous that prudence compelled them to take shelter along the wall, and from a safe distance admire the evolutions of these two mysterious guests.Mr Bunker was enlivening the monotony of the polka by the judicious introduction of hornpipe steps, while the Baron, his coat-tails high above his head, shouted and stamped in his wild career.“Do stop for a minute, Baron,”gasped his fair partner.“Himmel, nein!”roared the Baron.“I haf gom here for to dance! Ha, Bonker, ha!”At last Lady Muriel had to stop through sheer exhaustion, but Mr Bunker, merely letting her go, pursued his solitary way, double-shuffling and kicking unimpeded.The Baron stopped, breathless, to admire him. Round and round he went, the only figure in the middle of the room, his arms akimbo, his feet rat-tatting and kicking to the music, while high above the band resounded his friend’s shouts of“Bravo, Bonker! Wunderschön! Gott in himmel, higher, higher!”till at length, missing the wall in an attempt to find support, the Baron dropped with a thud into a sitting posture and continued his demonstrations from the floor.Meanwhile their alarmed hostess was holding a hasty consultation with her husband, and when the music at last stopped and Mr Bunker was advancing with his most courteous air towards his late partner, Lord Tulliwuddle stepped up to him and touched his arm.“May I speak to you, sir?”he said.“Certainly,”replied Mr Bunker.“I shall be honoured. Excuse me for one moment, Lady Muriel.”[pg 105]“At whose invitation have you come here to-night?”demanded his host, sternly.“I have the pleasure of addressing Lord Tulliwuddle, have I not?”“You have, sir.”Mr Bunker bent towards him and whispered something in his ear.“From Scotland Yard?”exclaimed his lordship.“Hush!”said Mr Bunker, glancing cautiously round the room, and then he added, with an air of impressive gravity,“You have a bathroom on the third floor, I believe?”“I have,”replied his host in great surprise.“Has it a bell?”“No, I believe not.”“Ah, I thought so. If you will favour me by coming up-stairs for a minute, my Lord, you will avoid a serious private scandal. Say nothing about it at present to any one.”In blank astonishment and some alarm Lord Tulliwuddle went up with him to the third floor, where the house was still and the sounds of revelry reached faintly.“What does this mean, sir?”he asked.“If I am right in my conjectures you will need no explanation from me, my Lord.”His lordship opened a door, and turning on an electric light, revealed a small and ordinary-looking bathroom.“Ha, no bell—excellent!”said Mr Bunker.“What are you doing with the key?”exclaimed his host.[pg 106]“Good night, my Lord. I shall tell them to send up breakfast at nine,”said Mr Bunker, and stepping quickly out, he shut and locked the door.A minute later he was back in the ballroom looking anxiously for the Baron, but that nobleman was nowhere to be seen.“The devil!”he said to himself.“Can they have tackled him too?”But as he ran downstairs a gust of cheerful laughter set his mind at ease.“Ha, ha, ha! Vere is old Bonker? He also vill shoot vid me!”“Here I am, my dear Baron,”he exclaimed gaily, as he tracked the voice into the supper-room.“Ach, mine dear Bonker!”cried the Baron, folding him in his muscular embrace,“I haf here met friends, ve are merry! Ve drink to Bavaria, to England, to everyzing!”The“friends”consisted of two highly amused young men and two half-scandalised, half-hysterical ladies, into the midst of whose supper-table the Baron had projected himself with infectious hilarity. They all looked up with great curiosity at Mr Bunker, but that gentleman was not in the least put about. He bowed politely to the table generally, and took his friend by the arm.“It is time we were going, Baron, I’m afraid,”he said.“Vat for? Ah, not yet, Bonker, not yet. I am enjoying myself down to ze floor. I most dance again, Bonker, jost vunce more,”pleaded the Baron.“My dear Baron, the noblemen of highest rank must[pg 107]always leave first, and people are talking of going now. Come along, old man.”“Ha, is zat so?”said the Baron.“Zen vill I go. Good night!”he cried, waving his hand to the room generally.“Ven you gom to Bavaria you most all shoot vid me. Bravo, my goot Bonker! Ha! ha!”As they turned away from the table, one of the young men, who had been looking very hard at Mr Bunker, rose and touched his sleeve.“I say, aren’t you——?”he began.“Possibly I am,”interrupted Mr Bunker,“only I haven’t the slightest recollection of the fact.”An astonished lady was indicated by Mr Bunker as the hostess, and to her the Baron bade an affectionate adieu. He handed a sovereign to the footman, embraced the butler, and as they sped eastwards in their hansom, a rousing chorus from the two friends awoke the echoes of Piccadilly.“Bravo, Bonker! Himmel, I haf enjoyed myself!”sighed the exhausted Baron.CHAPTER VII.The Baron and Mr Bunker discussed a twelve o’clock breakfast with the relish of men who had done a good night’s work. The Baron was full of his exploits.“Ze lofly Lady Hilton”and his new“friends”seemed to have made a vivid impression.[pg 108]“Zey vill be in ze Park to-day, of course?”he suggested.“Possibly,”replied Mr Bunker, without any great enthusiasm.“But surely.”“After a dance it is rather unlikely.”“Ze Lady Hilton did say she vent to ze Park.”“To-day, Baron?”“I do not remember to-day. I did dance so hard I was not perhaps distinct. But I shall go and see.”As Mr Bunker’s attempts to throw cold water on this scheme proved quite futile, he made a graceful virtue of necessity, dressed himself with care, and set out in the afternoon for the Park. They had only walked as far as Piccadilly Circus when in the crowd at the corner his eye fell upon a familiar figure. It was the burly, red-faced man.“The devil! Moggridge again!”he muttered.For a moment he thought they were going to pass unobserved: then the man turned his head their way, and Mr Bunker saw him start. He never looked over his shoulder, but after walking a little farther he called the Baron’s attention to a shop window, and they stopped to look at it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Moggridge about twenty yards behind them stopping too. He was glancing towards them very doubtfully. Evidently his mind was not yet made up, and at once Mr Bunker’s fertile brain began to revolve plans.A little farther on they paused before another window, and exactly the same thing happened. Then Mr Bunker[pg 109]made up his mind. He looked carefully at the cabs, and at last observed a smart-looking young man driving a fresh likely horse at a walking pace beside the pavement.He caught the driver’s eye and raised his stick, and turning suddenly to the Baron with a gesture of annoyance, exclaimed,“Forgive my rudeness, Baron, I’m afraid I must leave you. I had clean forgotten an important engagement in the city for this afternoon.”“Appointment in ze city?”said the Baron in considerable surprise.“I did not know you had friends in ze city.”“I have just heard from my father’s man of business, and I’m afraid it would be impolitic not to see him. Do you mind if I leave you here?”“Surely, my dear fellow, I vould not stop you. Already I feel at home by myself.”“Then we shall meet at the hotel before dinner. Good luck with the ladies, Baron.”Mr Bunker jumped into the cab, saying only to the driver,“To the city, as quick as you can.”“What part, sir?”“Oh, say the Bank. Hurry up!”Then as the man whipped up, Mr Bunker had a glimpse of Moggridge hailing another cab, and peeping cautiously through the little window at the back he saw him starting in hot pursuit. He took five shillings out of his pocket and opened the trap-door in the roof.“Do you see that other cab chasing us, with a red-faced man inside?”“Yes, sir.”[pg 110]Mr Bunker handed his driver the money.“Get rid of him, then. Take me anywhere through the city you like, and when he’s off the scent let me know.”“Very good, sir,”replied the driver, cracking his whip till his steed began to move past the buses and the other cabs like a train.On they flew, clatter and jingle, twisting like a snipe through the traffic. Mr Bunker perceived that he had a good horse and a good driver, and he smiled in pleasant excitement. He lit a cigar, leaned his arms on the doors, and settled himself to enjoy the race.The black lions of Trafalgar Square flew by, then the colossal hotels of Northumberland Avenue and the railway bridge at Charing Cross, and they were going at a gallop along the Embankment. He got swift glimpses of other cabs and foot-passengers, the trees seemed to flit past like telegraph-posts on a railway, the barges and lighters on the river dropped one by one behind them: it was a fair course for a race, with never a check before Blackfriar’s Bridge.As they turned into Queen Victoria Street he opened the lid and asked,“Are they still in sight?”“Yes, sir; I’m afraid we ain’t gaining much yet. But I’ll do it, sir, no fears.”Mr Bunker lay back and laughed.“This is better than the Park,”he said to himself.They had a fine drive up Queen Victoria Street before they plunged into the whirlpool of traffic at the Bank. They were slowly making their way across when the[pg 111]driver, spying an opening in another stream, abruptly wheeled round for Cornhill, and presently they were off again at top speed.“Thrown them off?”asked Mr Bunker.“Tried to, sir, but they were too sharp and got clear away too.”Mr Bunker saw that it was going to be a stern chase, and laughed again. In order that he might not show ostensibly that he was running away, he resisted the temptation of having another peep through the back, and resigned himself to the chances of the chase.Through and through the lanes and byways of the city they drove, and after each double the answer from the box was always the same. The cab behind could not be shaken off.“Work your way round to Holborn and try a run west,”Mr Bunker suggested.So after a little they struck Newgate Street, and presently their steed stretched himself again in Holborn Viaduct.“Gaining now, cabby?”“A little, sir, I think.”Mr Bunker sat placidly till they were well along Holborn before he inquired again.“Can’t get rid of ’im no ’ow. Afride it ain’t much good, sir.”Mr Bunker passed up five shillings more.“Keep your tail up. You’ll do it yet,”he exhorted.“Try a turn north; you may bother him among the squares.”So they doubled north, and as the evening closed in[pg 112]their wearied horse was lashed through a maze of monotonous streets and tarnished Bloomsbury Squares. And still the other cab stuck to their trail. But when they emerged on the Euston Road, Mr Bunker was as cheerful as ever.“They can’t last much longer,”he said to his driver.“Turn up Regent’s Park way.”A little later he put the usual question and got the same unvarying answer.The horse was evidently beginning to fail, and he saw that this chariot-race must soon come to an end. The street-lamps and the shop windows were all lit up by this time, and the dusk was pretty thick. It seemed to him that he might venture to try his luck on foot, and he began to look out for an opening where a cab could not follow.They were flogging along a noisy stone-paved road where there was little other traffic; on one side stood an unbroken row of houses, and on the other were small semi-detached villas with little strips of garden about them. All at once he saw a doctor’s red lamp over the door of one of these half villas, and an inspiration came upon him.“One can always visit a doctor,”he said to himself, and smiled in great amusement at something in the reflection.He stopped the cab, handed the man half a sovereign, and saying only,“Drive away again, quickly,”jumped out, glanced at the name on the plate, and pulled the bell. As he waited on the step he saw the other cab stop a little way back, and his pursuer emerge.[pg 113]A frowsy little servant opened the door.“Is Dr Twiddel at home?”he asked.“Dr Twiddel’s abroad, sir,”said the maid.“No one in at all, then?”“Dr Billson sees ’is patients, sir—w’en therehisany.”“When do you expect Dr Billson?”“In about an hour, sir, ’e usually comes hin.”“Excellent!”thought Mr Bunker. Aloud he said,“Well, I’m a patient. I’ll come in and wait.”He stepped in, and the door banged behind him.CHAPTER VIII.“This w’y, sir,”said the maid, and Mr Bunker found himself in the little room where this story opened.The moment he was alone he went to the window and peeped cautiously between the slats of the venetian blind.The street was quiet, both cabs had disappeared, and for a minute or two he could see nothing even of Moggridge. Then a figure moved carefully from the shelter of a bush a little way down the railings, and, after a quick look at the house, stepped back again.“He means to play the waiting game,”said Mr Bunker to himself.“Long may you wait, my wary Moggridge!”He took a rapid survey of the room. He saw the medical library, the rented furniture, and the unlit gas-stove; and at last his eye fell upon a box of cigarettes. To one of these he helped himself and leaned his back against the mantelpiece.[pg 114]“There must be at least one room at the back,”he reflected;“that room must have a window, and beyond that window there is all London to turn to. Friend Moggridge, I trust you are prepared to spend the evening behind your bush.”He had another look through the blind and shook his head.“A little too light yet,—I’d better wait for a quarter of an hour or so.”To while away the time he proceeded to make a tour of the room, for, as he said to himself, when in an unknown country any information may possibly come in useful. There was nothing whatever from which he could draw even the most superficial deduction till he came to the writing-desk. Here a heap of bills were transfixed by a long skewer, and at his first glance at the uppermost his face assumed an expression of almost ludicrous bewilderment. He actually rubbed his eyes before he looked a second time.“One dozen shirts,”he read,“four under-flannels, four pair socks, one dozen handkerchiefs, two sleeping-suits—marked Francis Beveridge! the account rendered to Dr G. Twiddel! What in the name of wonderment is the meaning of this?”He sat down with the bill in his hand and gazed hard at it.“Precisely my outfit,”he said to himself.“Am I—Does it——? What a rum thing!”He sat for about ten minutes looking hard at the floor. Then he burst out laughing, resumed in a moment his[pg 115]air of philosophical opportunism, and set about a further search of the desk. He looked at the bills and seemed to find nothing more to interest him. Then he glanced at one or two letters in the drawers, threw the first few back again, and at last paused over one.“Twiddel to Billson,”he said to himself.“This may possibly be worth looking at.”It was dated more than a month back from the town of Fogelschloss.“Dear Tom,”it ran,“we are having an A 1 time. Old Welsh is in splendid form, doing the part to perfection. He has never given himself away yet, not even when drunk, which, I am sorry to say, he has been too often. But then old Welsh is so funny when he is drunk that it makes him all the more like the original, or at least what the original is supposed to be.“Of course we don’t dare to venture into places where we would see too many English. This is quite an amusing place for a German town, some baths and a kind of a gambling-table, and some pretty girls—for Germans. There is a sporting aristocrat here, in an old castle, who is very friendly, and is much impressed with Welsh’s account of his family plate and deer-forest, and has asked us once or twice to come out and see him. We are no end of swells, I assure you.“Ta, ta, old chap. Hope the practice prospers in your hands. Don’t killallthe patients before I come back.—Ever thine,GEORGE TWIDDEL.”“From this I conclude that Dr Twiddel is on the festive side of forty,”he reflected;“there are elements of mystery and a general atmosphere of alcohol about it, but that’s all, I’m afraid.”[pg 116]He put it back in the drawer, but the bill he slipped into his pocket.“And now,”thought he,“it is time I made the first move.”After waiting for a minute or two to make sure that everything was quiet, he gently stepped out into a little linoleum-carpeted hall. On the right hand was the front door, on the left two others that must, he thought, open into rooms on the back. He chose the nearer at a venture, and entered boldly. It was quite dark. He closed the door again softly, struck a match, and looked round the room. It seemed to be Dr Twiddel’s dining- and sitting-room.“Pipes, photographs, well-sat-in chairs,”he observed,“anda window.”He pulled aside the blind and looked out into the darkness of a strip of back-garden. For a minute he listened intently, but no sound came from the house. Then he threw up the sash and scrambled out. It was quite dark by this time: he was enclosed between two rows of vague, black houses, with bright windows here and there, and chimney-cans faintly cutting their uncouth designs among a few pale London stars. The space between was filled with the two lines of little gardens and the ranks of walls, and in the middle the black chasm of a railway cutting.A frightened cat bolted before him as he hurried down to the foot of the strip, but that was all the life he saw. He looked over the wall right into the deep crevasse. A little way off, on the one hand, hung a cluster of signal-lights, and the shining rails reflected them all along to[pg 117]the mouth of a tunnel on the other. Turning his head this way and that, there was nothing to be seen anywhere else but garden wall after garden wall.“It’s a choice between a hurdle-race through these gardens, a cat-walk along this wall, and a descent into the cutting,”he reflected.“The walls look devilish high and the cutting devilish deep. Hang me if I know which road to take.”While he was still debating this somewhat perplexing question, he felt the ground begin to quiver under him. Through the hum of London there gradually arose a louder roar, and in a minute the head-lights of an engine flashed out of the tunnel. One after another a string of bright carriages followed it, each more slowly than the carriage in front, till the whole train was at a standstill below him with the red signal-lamp against it.In an instant his decision was taken. At the peril of life and garments he scrambled down the rocky bank, picking as he went an empty first-class compartment, and just as the train began to move again he swung himself up and sprang into a carriage.Unfortunately he had chosen the wrong one in his haste, and as he opened the door he saw a comical vision of a stout little old gentleman huddling into the farther corner in the most dire consternation.“Who are you, sir? What do you want, sir?”spluttered the old gentleman.“If you come any nearer me, sir—one step, sir!—I shall instantly communicate with the guard! I have no money about me. Go away, sir!”[pg 118]“I regret to learn that you have no money,”replied Mr Bunker, imperturbably;“but I am sorry that I am not at present in a condition to offer a loan.”He sat down and smiled amicably, but the little gentleman was not to be quieted so easily. Seeing that no violence was apparently intended, his fright changed into respectable indignation.“You needn’t try to be funny with me, sir. You are committing an illegal act. You have placed yourself in an uncommonly serious position, sir.”“Indeed, sir?”replied Mr Bunker.“I myself should have imagined that by remaining on the rails I should have been much more seriously situated.”The old gentleman looked at him like an angry small dog that longs to bite if it only dared.“What is the meaning of this illegal intrusion?”he demanded.“Who are you? Where did you come from?”“I had the misfortune, sir,”explained Mr Bunker, politely,“to drop my hat out of the window of a neighbouring carriage. While I was picking it up the train started, and I had to enter the first compartment I could find. I am sorry that my entry frightened you.”“Frightened me!”spluttered the old gentleman.“I am not afraid, sir. I am an honest man who need fear no one, sir. I do not believe you dropped your hat. It is perfectly uninjured.”“It may be news to you, sir,”replied Mr Bunker,“that by gently yet firmly passing the sleeve of your coat round your hat in the direction of the nap, it is possible[pg 119]to restore the gloss. Thus,”and suiting the action to the word he took off his hat, drew his coat-sleeve across it, and with a genial smile at the old gentleman, replaced it on his head.But his neighbour was evidently of that truculent disposition which merely growls at blandishments. He snorted and replied testily,“That is all very well, sir, but I don’t believe a word of it.”“If you prefer it, then, I fell off the telegraph wires in an attempt to recover my boots.”The old gentleman became purple in the face.“Have a care, sir! I am a director of this company, and at the next station I shall see that you give a proper account of yourself. And here we are, sir. I trust you have a more credible story in readiness.”As he spoke they drew up beside an underground platform, and the irascible old gentleman, with a very threatening face that was not yet quite cleared of alarm, bustled out in a prodigious hurry. Mr Bunker lay back in his seat and replied with a smile,“I shall be delighted to tell any story within the bounds of strict propriety.”But the moment he saw the irate director disappear in the crowd he whipped out too, and with the least possible delay transferred himself into a third-class carriage.From his seat near the window he watched the old gentleman hurry back with three officials at his heels, and hastily search each first-class compartment in turn. The last one was so near him that he could hear his friend say,“Damn it, the rascal has bolted in the crowd!”[pg 120]And with that the four of them rushed off to the barrier to intercept or pursue this suspicious character. Then the whistle blew, and as the train moved off Mr Bunker remarked complacently, if a little mysteriously, to himself,“Well, whoever I am, it would seem I’m rather difficult to catch.”
CHAPTER V.A few days passed in the most entertaining manner. A menu of amusements was regularly prepared suitable to a catholic taste, and at every turn the Baron was struck by the enterprise and originality of his friend. He had, however, a national bent for serious inquiry, and now and then doubts crossed his mind whether, with all his moral drawing, he was acquiring quite as much solid information as he had set out to gain. This idea grew upon him, till one morning, after gazing for some time at the English newspaper he always made a[pg 95]point of reading, he suddenly exclaimed,“Bonker, I haf a doubt!”“I have many,”replied Mr Bunker;“in fact, I have few positive ideas left.”“Bot mine is a particulair doubt. Do I lairn enoff?”“My own conception of enough learning, Baron, is a thing like a threepenny-bit—the smallest coin one can do one’s marketing with.”“And yet,”said the Baron, solemnly,“for my own share, I am not satisfied. I vould lairn more of ze British institutions; so far I haf lairned of ze pleasures only.”“My dear Baron, they are the British institutions.”The Baron shook his head and fell to his paper again, while Mr Bunker stretched himself on the sofa and gazed through his cigar-smoke at the ceiling. Suddenly the Baron gave an exclamation of horror.“My dear Baron, what is the matter?”“Yet anozer outrage!”cried the Baron.“Zese anarchists, zey are too scandalous. At all ze stations zere are detectives, and all ze ships are being vatched. Ach, it is terrible!”Mr Bunker seemed struck with an idea, for he stared at the ceiling without making any reply, and his eyes, had the Baron seen them, twinkled curiously.At last the Baron laid down his paper.“Vell, vat shall ve do?”he asked.“Let us come first to Liverpool Street Station, if you don’t mind, Baron,”his friend suggested.“I have something in the cloak-room there I want to pick up.”“My dear Bonker, I shall go vere you vill; bot remember[pg 96]I vant to-day more instrogtion and less entertainment.”“You wish to see the practical side of English life?”“Yah—zat is, yes.”Mr Bunker smiled.“Then I must entertain myself.”As they drove down he was in his wittiest humour, and the Baron, in spite of his desire for instruction, was more charmed with his friend than ever.“Vat fonny zing vill you do next, eh?”he asked, as they walked arm-in-arm into the station.“I am no more the humourist, my dear Baron,—I shall endeavour to edify you.”They had arrived at a busy hour, when the platforms were crowded with passengers and luggage. A train had just come in, and around it the bustle was at its height, and the confusion most bewildering.“Wait for me here,”said Mr Bunker;“I shall be back in a minute.”He started in the direction of the cloak-room, and then, doubling back through the crowd, walked down the platform and stopped opposite a luggage-van. An old gentleman, beside himself with irritation, was struggling with the aid of a porter to collect his luggage, and presently he left the pile he had got together and made a rush in the direction of a large portmanteau that was just being tumbled out. Instantly Mr Bunker picked up a handbag from the heap and walked quickly off with it.“Here you are, Baron,”he said, as he came up to his[pg 97]friend.“I find there is something else I must do, so do you mind holding this bag for a few minutes? If you will walk up and down in front of the refreshment-rooms here, I’ll find you more easily. Is it troubling you too much?”“Not vun bit, Bonker. I am in your sairvice.”He put the bag into the Baron’s hand with his pleasantest smile, and turned away. Rounding a corner, he came cautiously back again through the crowd and stepped up to a policeman.“Keep your eye on that man, officer,”he said, in a low confidential voice, and an air of quiet authority,“and put your plain clothes’ men on his track. I know him for one of the most dangerous anarchists.”The man started and stared hard at the Baron, and presently that unconscious nobleman, pacing the platform in growing wonder at Mr Bunker’s lengthy absence, and looking anxiously round him on all sides, noticed with surprise that a number of quietly dressed men, with no apparent business in the station, were eyeing him with, it seemed to him, an interest that approached suspicion. In time he grew annoyed, he returned their glances with his haughtiest and most indignant look, and finally, stepping up to one of them, asked in no friendly voice,“Vat for do you vatch me?”The man returned an evasive answer, and passing one of his fellow-officers, whispered,“Foreign; I was sure of it.”At last the Baron could stand it no longer, and laying the bag down by the door of the refreshment-room,[pg 98]turned hastily away. On the instant Mr Bunker, who had watched these proceedings from a safe distance, cried in a loud and agonised voice,“Down with your men, sergeant! Down, lie down! It will explode in twenty seconds!”And as he spoke he threw himself flat on his face. So infectious were his commanding voice and his note of alarm that one after another, detectives, passengers, and porters, cast themselves at full length on the platform. The Baron, filled with terror of anarchist plots, was one of the first to prostrate himself, and at that there could be no further doubt of the imminence of the peril.The cabs rattled and voices sounded from outside; an engine whistled and shunted at a far platform, but never before at that hour of the day had Liverpool Street Station been so silent. All held their breath and heard their hearts thump as they gazed in horrible fascination at that fatal bag, or with closed eyes stumbled through a hasty prayer. Fully a minute passed, and the suspense was growing intolerable, when with a loud oath an old gentleman rose to his feet and walked briskly up to the bag.“Have a care, sir! For Heaven’s sake have a care!”cried Mr Bunker; but the old gentleman merely bent over the terrible object, and, picking it up, exclaimed in bewildered wrath,“It’s my bag! Who the devil brought it here, and what’s the meaning of this d—d nonsense?”“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”roared Mr Bunker; while like sheepish mushrooms the people sprang up on all sides.[pg 99]“My dear sir,”said Mr Bunker, coming up to the old gentleman, and raising his hat with his most affable air,“permit me to congratulate you on recovering your lost property, and allow me further to introduce my friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg.”“Baron von damned-humbug!”cried the old gentleman.“Did you take my bag, sir? and if so, are you a thief or a lunatic?”For an instant even Mr Bunker himself seemed a trifle taken aback; then he replied politely,“I am not a thief, sir.”“Then what’aveyou been doing?”demanded the sergeant.“Merely demonstrating to my friend the Baron the extraordinary vigilance of the English police.”For a time neither the old gentleman nor the sergeant seemed quite capable of taking the same view of the episode as Mr Bunker, and, curiously enough, the Baron seemed not disinclined to let his friend extricate himself as best he could. No one, however, could resist Mr Bunker, and before very long he and the Baron were driving up Bishopsgate Street together, with the old gentleman’s four-wheeler lumbering in front of them.“Well, Baron, are you satisfied with your morning’s instruction?”asked his friend.“A German nobleman is not used to be in soch a position,”replied the Baron, stiffly.“You must admit, however, that the object-lesson in the detection of anarchy was neatly presented.”“I admit nozing of ze kind,”said the Baron, stolidly.[pg 100]For the rest of the drive he sat obdurately silent. He went to his room with the mien of an offended man. During lunch he only opened his lips to eat.On his side Mr Bunker maintained a cheerful composure, and seemed not a whit put about by his friend’s lack of appreciation.“Anozzer bottle of claret,”said the Baron, gruffly, to a waiter.Mr Bunker let him consume it entirely by himself, awaiting the results with patience. Gradually his face relaxed a little, until all at once, when the bump in the bottom of the bottle was beginning to appear above the wine, the whole room was startled by a stentorian,“Ha, ha, ha!”“My dear Bonker!”cried the Baron, when he had finished laughing,“forgif me! I begin for to see ze moral, ha, ha, ha!”CHAPTER VI.The Baron expressed no further wish for instruction, but, instead, he began to show a desire for society.“Doesn’t one fool suffice?”his friend asked.“Ach, yes, my vise fool; ha, ha, ha! Bot sometimes I haf ze craving for peoples, museec, dancing—in vun vord, society, Bonker!”“But this is not the season, Baron. You wouldn’t mix with any but the best society, would you?”[pg 101]“Zere are some nobles in town. In my paper I see Lord zis, Duke of zat, in London. Pairhaps my introdogtions might be here now.”This suggestion seemed to strike Mr Bunker unfavourably.“My company is beginning to pall, is it, Baron?”“Ach, no, dear Bonker! I vould merely go out jost vunce or tvice. Haf you no friends now in town?”An idea seemed to seize Mr Bunker.“Let me see the paper,”he said.After perusing it carefully for a little, he at last exclaimed in a tone of pleased discovery,“Hullo! I see that Lady Tulliwuddle is giving a reception and dance to-night. Most of the smart people in town just now are sure to be there. Would you care to go, Baron?”“Ach, surely,”said the Baron, eagerly.“Bot haf you been invited, Bonker?”“Oh, I used to have a standing invitation to Lady Tulliwuddle’s dances, and I’m certain she would be glad to see me again.”“Can you take me?”“Of course, my dear Baron, she will be honoured.”“Goot!”cried the Baron.“Ve shall go.”Mr Bunker explained that it was the proper thing to arrive very late, and so it was not until after twelve o’clock that they left the Hôtel Mayonaise for the regions of Belgravia. The Baron, primed with a bottle of champagne, and arrayed in a costume which Mr Bunker had assured him was the very latest extreme of fashion, and which included a scarlet watered silk waistcoat, a pair[pg 102]of white silk socks, and a lavender tie, was in a condition of cheerfulness verging closely on hilarity. Mr Bunker, that, as he said, he might better serve as a foil to his friend’s splendour, went more inconspicuously dressed, but was likewise well charged with champagne. He too was in his happiest vein, and the vision of the Baron’s finery appeared to afford him peculiar gratification.Their hansom stopped in front of a large and gaily lit-up mansion, with an awning leading to the door, and a cluster of carriages and footmen by the kerbstone. They entered, and having divested themselves of their coats, Mr Bunker proposed that they should immediately seek the supper-room.“Bot should I not be first introduced to mine hostess?”asked the Baron.“My dear Baron! a formal reception of the guests is entirely foreign to English etiquette.”“Zo? I did not know zat.”The supper-room was crowded, and having secured a table with some difficulty, Mr Bunker entered immediately into conversation with a solitary young gentleman who was consuming a plate of oysters. Before they had exchanged six sentences the young man had entirely succumbed to Mr Bunker’s address, aided possibly by the young man’s supper.“Permit me to introduce my friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg, a nobleman strange as yet to England, but renowned throughout his native land alike for his talents and his lofty position,”said Mr Bunker.[pg 103]“Ach, my good friend,”exclaimed the Baron, grasping the young man’s hand,“das ist Bonker’s vat you call nonsense; bot I am delighted, zehr delighted, to meet you, and if you gom to Bavaria you most shoot vid me! Bravo! Ha!”From which it may be gathered that the Baron was in a genial humour.“Who is that girl?”asked Mr Bunker, pointing to an extremely pretty damsel just leaving the room.“Oh, that’s my cousin, Lady Muriel Hilton. She’s thought rather pretty, I believe,”answered the young man.“Do you mind introducing me?”“Certainly,”said their new friend.“Come along.”As they were passing through the room a little incident occurred that, if the Baron’s perceptions had been keener, might have given him cause for some speculation. Two men standing by the door looked hard at Mr Bunker, and then at each other, and as the Baron passed them he heard one say,“It looks devilish like him.”“He has shaved, then,”said the other.“Evidently,”replied the first speaker;“but I thought he was unlikely to appear in any society for some time.”They both laughed, and the Baron heard no more.When they reached the ballroom the band was striking up a polka, and presently Mr Bunker, with his accustomed grace, was tearing round the room with Lady Muriel, while the Baron—the delight of all eyes in his red waistcoat—led out her sister. In a very short time the other dancers found the Baron and his friend’s onslaught so[pg 104]vigorous that prudence compelled them to take shelter along the wall, and from a safe distance admire the evolutions of these two mysterious guests.Mr Bunker was enlivening the monotony of the polka by the judicious introduction of hornpipe steps, while the Baron, his coat-tails high above his head, shouted and stamped in his wild career.“Do stop for a minute, Baron,”gasped his fair partner.“Himmel, nein!”roared the Baron.“I haf gom here for to dance! Ha, Bonker, ha!”At last Lady Muriel had to stop through sheer exhaustion, but Mr Bunker, merely letting her go, pursued his solitary way, double-shuffling and kicking unimpeded.The Baron stopped, breathless, to admire him. Round and round he went, the only figure in the middle of the room, his arms akimbo, his feet rat-tatting and kicking to the music, while high above the band resounded his friend’s shouts of“Bravo, Bonker! Wunderschön! Gott in himmel, higher, higher!”till at length, missing the wall in an attempt to find support, the Baron dropped with a thud into a sitting posture and continued his demonstrations from the floor.Meanwhile their alarmed hostess was holding a hasty consultation with her husband, and when the music at last stopped and Mr Bunker was advancing with his most courteous air towards his late partner, Lord Tulliwuddle stepped up to him and touched his arm.“May I speak to you, sir?”he said.“Certainly,”replied Mr Bunker.“I shall be honoured. Excuse me for one moment, Lady Muriel.”[pg 105]“At whose invitation have you come here to-night?”demanded his host, sternly.“I have the pleasure of addressing Lord Tulliwuddle, have I not?”“You have, sir.”Mr Bunker bent towards him and whispered something in his ear.“From Scotland Yard?”exclaimed his lordship.“Hush!”said Mr Bunker, glancing cautiously round the room, and then he added, with an air of impressive gravity,“You have a bathroom on the third floor, I believe?”“I have,”replied his host in great surprise.“Has it a bell?”“No, I believe not.”“Ah, I thought so. If you will favour me by coming up-stairs for a minute, my Lord, you will avoid a serious private scandal. Say nothing about it at present to any one.”In blank astonishment and some alarm Lord Tulliwuddle went up with him to the third floor, where the house was still and the sounds of revelry reached faintly.“What does this mean, sir?”he asked.“If I am right in my conjectures you will need no explanation from me, my Lord.”His lordship opened a door, and turning on an electric light, revealed a small and ordinary-looking bathroom.“Ha, no bell—excellent!”said Mr Bunker.“What are you doing with the key?”exclaimed his host.[pg 106]“Good night, my Lord. I shall tell them to send up breakfast at nine,”said Mr Bunker, and stepping quickly out, he shut and locked the door.A minute later he was back in the ballroom looking anxiously for the Baron, but that nobleman was nowhere to be seen.“The devil!”he said to himself.“Can they have tackled him too?”But as he ran downstairs a gust of cheerful laughter set his mind at ease.“Ha, ha, ha! Vere is old Bonker? He also vill shoot vid me!”“Here I am, my dear Baron,”he exclaimed gaily, as he tracked the voice into the supper-room.“Ach, mine dear Bonker!”cried the Baron, folding him in his muscular embrace,“I haf here met friends, ve are merry! Ve drink to Bavaria, to England, to everyzing!”The“friends”consisted of two highly amused young men and two half-scandalised, half-hysterical ladies, into the midst of whose supper-table the Baron had projected himself with infectious hilarity. They all looked up with great curiosity at Mr Bunker, but that gentleman was not in the least put about. He bowed politely to the table generally, and took his friend by the arm.“It is time we were going, Baron, I’m afraid,”he said.“Vat for? Ah, not yet, Bonker, not yet. I am enjoying myself down to ze floor. I most dance again, Bonker, jost vunce more,”pleaded the Baron.“My dear Baron, the noblemen of highest rank must[pg 107]always leave first, and people are talking of going now. Come along, old man.”“Ha, is zat so?”said the Baron.“Zen vill I go. Good night!”he cried, waving his hand to the room generally.“Ven you gom to Bavaria you most all shoot vid me. Bravo, my goot Bonker! Ha! ha!”As they turned away from the table, one of the young men, who had been looking very hard at Mr Bunker, rose and touched his sleeve.“I say, aren’t you——?”he began.“Possibly I am,”interrupted Mr Bunker,“only I haven’t the slightest recollection of the fact.”An astonished lady was indicated by Mr Bunker as the hostess, and to her the Baron bade an affectionate adieu. He handed a sovereign to the footman, embraced the butler, and as they sped eastwards in their hansom, a rousing chorus from the two friends awoke the echoes of Piccadilly.“Bravo, Bonker! Himmel, I haf enjoyed myself!”sighed the exhausted Baron.CHAPTER VII.The Baron and Mr Bunker discussed a twelve o’clock breakfast with the relish of men who had done a good night’s work. The Baron was full of his exploits.“Ze lofly Lady Hilton”and his new“friends”seemed to have made a vivid impression.[pg 108]“Zey vill be in ze Park to-day, of course?”he suggested.“Possibly,”replied Mr Bunker, without any great enthusiasm.“But surely.”“After a dance it is rather unlikely.”“Ze Lady Hilton did say she vent to ze Park.”“To-day, Baron?”“I do not remember to-day. I did dance so hard I was not perhaps distinct. But I shall go and see.”As Mr Bunker’s attempts to throw cold water on this scheme proved quite futile, he made a graceful virtue of necessity, dressed himself with care, and set out in the afternoon for the Park. They had only walked as far as Piccadilly Circus when in the crowd at the corner his eye fell upon a familiar figure. It was the burly, red-faced man.“The devil! Moggridge again!”he muttered.For a moment he thought they were going to pass unobserved: then the man turned his head their way, and Mr Bunker saw him start. He never looked over his shoulder, but after walking a little farther he called the Baron’s attention to a shop window, and they stopped to look at it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Moggridge about twenty yards behind them stopping too. He was glancing towards them very doubtfully. Evidently his mind was not yet made up, and at once Mr Bunker’s fertile brain began to revolve plans.A little farther on they paused before another window, and exactly the same thing happened. Then Mr Bunker[pg 109]made up his mind. He looked carefully at the cabs, and at last observed a smart-looking young man driving a fresh likely horse at a walking pace beside the pavement.He caught the driver’s eye and raised his stick, and turning suddenly to the Baron with a gesture of annoyance, exclaimed,“Forgive my rudeness, Baron, I’m afraid I must leave you. I had clean forgotten an important engagement in the city for this afternoon.”“Appointment in ze city?”said the Baron in considerable surprise.“I did not know you had friends in ze city.”“I have just heard from my father’s man of business, and I’m afraid it would be impolitic not to see him. Do you mind if I leave you here?”“Surely, my dear fellow, I vould not stop you. Already I feel at home by myself.”“Then we shall meet at the hotel before dinner. Good luck with the ladies, Baron.”Mr Bunker jumped into the cab, saying only to the driver,“To the city, as quick as you can.”“What part, sir?”“Oh, say the Bank. Hurry up!”Then as the man whipped up, Mr Bunker had a glimpse of Moggridge hailing another cab, and peeping cautiously through the little window at the back he saw him starting in hot pursuit. He took five shillings out of his pocket and opened the trap-door in the roof.“Do you see that other cab chasing us, with a red-faced man inside?”“Yes, sir.”[pg 110]Mr Bunker handed his driver the money.“Get rid of him, then. Take me anywhere through the city you like, and when he’s off the scent let me know.”“Very good, sir,”replied the driver, cracking his whip till his steed began to move past the buses and the other cabs like a train.On they flew, clatter and jingle, twisting like a snipe through the traffic. Mr Bunker perceived that he had a good horse and a good driver, and he smiled in pleasant excitement. He lit a cigar, leaned his arms on the doors, and settled himself to enjoy the race.The black lions of Trafalgar Square flew by, then the colossal hotels of Northumberland Avenue and the railway bridge at Charing Cross, and they were going at a gallop along the Embankment. He got swift glimpses of other cabs and foot-passengers, the trees seemed to flit past like telegraph-posts on a railway, the barges and lighters on the river dropped one by one behind them: it was a fair course for a race, with never a check before Blackfriar’s Bridge.As they turned into Queen Victoria Street he opened the lid and asked,“Are they still in sight?”“Yes, sir; I’m afraid we ain’t gaining much yet. But I’ll do it, sir, no fears.”Mr Bunker lay back and laughed.“This is better than the Park,”he said to himself.They had a fine drive up Queen Victoria Street before they plunged into the whirlpool of traffic at the Bank. They were slowly making their way across when the[pg 111]driver, spying an opening in another stream, abruptly wheeled round for Cornhill, and presently they were off again at top speed.“Thrown them off?”asked Mr Bunker.“Tried to, sir, but they were too sharp and got clear away too.”Mr Bunker saw that it was going to be a stern chase, and laughed again. In order that he might not show ostensibly that he was running away, he resisted the temptation of having another peep through the back, and resigned himself to the chances of the chase.Through and through the lanes and byways of the city they drove, and after each double the answer from the box was always the same. The cab behind could not be shaken off.“Work your way round to Holborn and try a run west,”Mr Bunker suggested.So after a little they struck Newgate Street, and presently their steed stretched himself again in Holborn Viaduct.“Gaining now, cabby?”“A little, sir, I think.”Mr Bunker sat placidly till they were well along Holborn before he inquired again.“Can’t get rid of ’im no ’ow. Afride it ain’t much good, sir.”Mr Bunker passed up five shillings more.“Keep your tail up. You’ll do it yet,”he exhorted.“Try a turn north; you may bother him among the squares.”So they doubled north, and as the evening closed in[pg 112]their wearied horse was lashed through a maze of monotonous streets and tarnished Bloomsbury Squares. And still the other cab stuck to their trail. But when they emerged on the Euston Road, Mr Bunker was as cheerful as ever.“They can’t last much longer,”he said to his driver.“Turn up Regent’s Park way.”A little later he put the usual question and got the same unvarying answer.The horse was evidently beginning to fail, and he saw that this chariot-race must soon come to an end. The street-lamps and the shop windows were all lit up by this time, and the dusk was pretty thick. It seemed to him that he might venture to try his luck on foot, and he began to look out for an opening where a cab could not follow.They were flogging along a noisy stone-paved road where there was little other traffic; on one side stood an unbroken row of houses, and on the other were small semi-detached villas with little strips of garden about them. All at once he saw a doctor’s red lamp over the door of one of these half villas, and an inspiration came upon him.“One can always visit a doctor,”he said to himself, and smiled in great amusement at something in the reflection.He stopped the cab, handed the man half a sovereign, and saying only,“Drive away again, quickly,”jumped out, glanced at the name on the plate, and pulled the bell. As he waited on the step he saw the other cab stop a little way back, and his pursuer emerge.[pg 113]A frowsy little servant opened the door.“Is Dr Twiddel at home?”he asked.“Dr Twiddel’s abroad, sir,”said the maid.“No one in at all, then?”“Dr Billson sees ’is patients, sir—w’en therehisany.”“When do you expect Dr Billson?”“In about an hour, sir, ’e usually comes hin.”“Excellent!”thought Mr Bunker. Aloud he said,“Well, I’m a patient. I’ll come in and wait.”He stepped in, and the door banged behind him.CHAPTER VIII.“This w’y, sir,”said the maid, and Mr Bunker found himself in the little room where this story opened.The moment he was alone he went to the window and peeped cautiously between the slats of the venetian blind.The street was quiet, both cabs had disappeared, and for a minute or two he could see nothing even of Moggridge. Then a figure moved carefully from the shelter of a bush a little way down the railings, and, after a quick look at the house, stepped back again.“He means to play the waiting game,”said Mr Bunker to himself.“Long may you wait, my wary Moggridge!”He took a rapid survey of the room. He saw the medical library, the rented furniture, and the unlit gas-stove; and at last his eye fell upon a box of cigarettes. To one of these he helped himself and leaned his back against the mantelpiece.[pg 114]“There must be at least one room at the back,”he reflected;“that room must have a window, and beyond that window there is all London to turn to. Friend Moggridge, I trust you are prepared to spend the evening behind your bush.”He had another look through the blind and shook his head.“A little too light yet,—I’d better wait for a quarter of an hour or so.”To while away the time he proceeded to make a tour of the room, for, as he said to himself, when in an unknown country any information may possibly come in useful. There was nothing whatever from which he could draw even the most superficial deduction till he came to the writing-desk. Here a heap of bills were transfixed by a long skewer, and at his first glance at the uppermost his face assumed an expression of almost ludicrous bewilderment. He actually rubbed his eyes before he looked a second time.“One dozen shirts,”he read,“four under-flannels, four pair socks, one dozen handkerchiefs, two sleeping-suits—marked Francis Beveridge! the account rendered to Dr G. Twiddel! What in the name of wonderment is the meaning of this?”He sat down with the bill in his hand and gazed hard at it.“Precisely my outfit,”he said to himself.“Am I—Does it——? What a rum thing!”He sat for about ten minutes looking hard at the floor. Then he burst out laughing, resumed in a moment his[pg 115]air of philosophical opportunism, and set about a further search of the desk. He looked at the bills and seemed to find nothing more to interest him. Then he glanced at one or two letters in the drawers, threw the first few back again, and at last paused over one.“Twiddel to Billson,”he said to himself.“This may possibly be worth looking at.”It was dated more than a month back from the town of Fogelschloss.“Dear Tom,”it ran,“we are having an A 1 time. Old Welsh is in splendid form, doing the part to perfection. He has never given himself away yet, not even when drunk, which, I am sorry to say, he has been too often. But then old Welsh is so funny when he is drunk that it makes him all the more like the original, or at least what the original is supposed to be.“Of course we don’t dare to venture into places where we would see too many English. This is quite an amusing place for a German town, some baths and a kind of a gambling-table, and some pretty girls—for Germans. There is a sporting aristocrat here, in an old castle, who is very friendly, and is much impressed with Welsh’s account of his family plate and deer-forest, and has asked us once or twice to come out and see him. We are no end of swells, I assure you.“Ta, ta, old chap. Hope the practice prospers in your hands. Don’t killallthe patients before I come back.—Ever thine,GEORGE TWIDDEL.”“From this I conclude that Dr Twiddel is on the festive side of forty,”he reflected;“there are elements of mystery and a general atmosphere of alcohol about it, but that’s all, I’m afraid.”[pg 116]He put it back in the drawer, but the bill he slipped into his pocket.“And now,”thought he,“it is time I made the first move.”After waiting for a minute or two to make sure that everything was quiet, he gently stepped out into a little linoleum-carpeted hall. On the right hand was the front door, on the left two others that must, he thought, open into rooms on the back. He chose the nearer at a venture, and entered boldly. It was quite dark. He closed the door again softly, struck a match, and looked round the room. It seemed to be Dr Twiddel’s dining- and sitting-room.“Pipes, photographs, well-sat-in chairs,”he observed,“anda window.”He pulled aside the blind and looked out into the darkness of a strip of back-garden. For a minute he listened intently, but no sound came from the house. Then he threw up the sash and scrambled out. It was quite dark by this time: he was enclosed between two rows of vague, black houses, with bright windows here and there, and chimney-cans faintly cutting their uncouth designs among a few pale London stars. The space between was filled with the two lines of little gardens and the ranks of walls, and in the middle the black chasm of a railway cutting.A frightened cat bolted before him as he hurried down to the foot of the strip, but that was all the life he saw. He looked over the wall right into the deep crevasse. A little way off, on the one hand, hung a cluster of signal-lights, and the shining rails reflected them all along to[pg 117]the mouth of a tunnel on the other. Turning his head this way and that, there was nothing to be seen anywhere else but garden wall after garden wall.“It’s a choice between a hurdle-race through these gardens, a cat-walk along this wall, and a descent into the cutting,”he reflected.“The walls look devilish high and the cutting devilish deep. Hang me if I know which road to take.”While he was still debating this somewhat perplexing question, he felt the ground begin to quiver under him. Through the hum of London there gradually arose a louder roar, and in a minute the head-lights of an engine flashed out of the tunnel. One after another a string of bright carriages followed it, each more slowly than the carriage in front, till the whole train was at a standstill below him with the red signal-lamp against it.In an instant his decision was taken. At the peril of life and garments he scrambled down the rocky bank, picking as he went an empty first-class compartment, and just as the train began to move again he swung himself up and sprang into a carriage.Unfortunately he had chosen the wrong one in his haste, and as he opened the door he saw a comical vision of a stout little old gentleman huddling into the farther corner in the most dire consternation.“Who are you, sir? What do you want, sir?”spluttered the old gentleman.“If you come any nearer me, sir—one step, sir!—I shall instantly communicate with the guard! I have no money about me. Go away, sir!”[pg 118]“I regret to learn that you have no money,”replied Mr Bunker, imperturbably;“but I am sorry that I am not at present in a condition to offer a loan.”He sat down and smiled amicably, but the little gentleman was not to be quieted so easily. Seeing that no violence was apparently intended, his fright changed into respectable indignation.“You needn’t try to be funny with me, sir. You are committing an illegal act. You have placed yourself in an uncommonly serious position, sir.”“Indeed, sir?”replied Mr Bunker.“I myself should have imagined that by remaining on the rails I should have been much more seriously situated.”The old gentleman looked at him like an angry small dog that longs to bite if it only dared.“What is the meaning of this illegal intrusion?”he demanded.“Who are you? Where did you come from?”“I had the misfortune, sir,”explained Mr Bunker, politely,“to drop my hat out of the window of a neighbouring carriage. While I was picking it up the train started, and I had to enter the first compartment I could find. I am sorry that my entry frightened you.”“Frightened me!”spluttered the old gentleman.“I am not afraid, sir. I am an honest man who need fear no one, sir. I do not believe you dropped your hat. It is perfectly uninjured.”“It may be news to you, sir,”replied Mr Bunker,“that by gently yet firmly passing the sleeve of your coat round your hat in the direction of the nap, it is possible[pg 119]to restore the gloss. Thus,”and suiting the action to the word he took off his hat, drew his coat-sleeve across it, and with a genial smile at the old gentleman, replaced it on his head.But his neighbour was evidently of that truculent disposition which merely growls at blandishments. He snorted and replied testily,“That is all very well, sir, but I don’t believe a word of it.”“If you prefer it, then, I fell off the telegraph wires in an attempt to recover my boots.”The old gentleman became purple in the face.“Have a care, sir! I am a director of this company, and at the next station I shall see that you give a proper account of yourself. And here we are, sir. I trust you have a more credible story in readiness.”As he spoke they drew up beside an underground platform, and the irascible old gentleman, with a very threatening face that was not yet quite cleared of alarm, bustled out in a prodigious hurry. Mr Bunker lay back in his seat and replied with a smile,“I shall be delighted to tell any story within the bounds of strict propriety.”But the moment he saw the irate director disappear in the crowd he whipped out too, and with the least possible delay transferred himself into a third-class carriage.From his seat near the window he watched the old gentleman hurry back with three officials at his heels, and hastily search each first-class compartment in turn. The last one was so near him that he could hear his friend say,“Damn it, the rascal has bolted in the crowd!”[pg 120]And with that the four of them rushed off to the barrier to intercept or pursue this suspicious character. Then the whistle blew, and as the train moved off Mr Bunker remarked complacently, if a little mysteriously, to himself,“Well, whoever I am, it would seem I’m rather difficult to catch.”
CHAPTER V.A few days passed in the most entertaining manner. A menu of amusements was regularly prepared suitable to a catholic taste, and at every turn the Baron was struck by the enterprise and originality of his friend. He had, however, a national bent for serious inquiry, and now and then doubts crossed his mind whether, with all his moral drawing, he was acquiring quite as much solid information as he had set out to gain. This idea grew upon him, till one morning, after gazing for some time at the English newspaper he always made a[pg 95]point of reading, he suddenly exclaimed,“Bonker, I haf a doubt!”“I have many,”replied Mr Bunker;“in fact, I have few positive ideas left.”“Bot mine is a particulair doubt. Do I lairn enoff?”“My own conception of enough learning, Baron, is a thing like a threepenny-bit—the smallest coin one can do one’s marketing with.”“And yet,”said the Baron, solemnly,“for my own share, I am not satisfied. I vould lairn more of ze British institutions; so far I haf lairned of ze pleasures only.”“My dear Baron, they are the British institutions.”The Baron shook his head and fell to his paper again, while Mr Bunker stretched himself on the sofa and gazed through his cigar-smoke at the ceiling. Suddenly the Baron gave an exclamation of horror.“My dear Baron, what is the matter?”“Yet anozer outrage!”cried the Baron.“Zese anarchists, zey are too scandalous. At all ze stations zere are detectives, and all ze ships are being vatched. Ach, it is terrible!”Mr Bunker seemed struck with an idea, for he stared at the ceiling without making any reply, and his eyes, had the Baron seen them, twinkled curiously.At last the Baron laid down his paper.“Vell, vat shall ve do?”he asked.“Let us come first to Liverpool Street Station, if you don’t mind, Baron,”his friend suggested.“I have something in the cloak-room there I want to pick up.”“My dear Bonker, I shall go vere you vill; bot remember[pg 96]I vant to-day more instrogtion and less entertainment.”“You wish to see the practical side of English life?”“Yah—zat is, yes.”Mr Bunker smiled.“Then I must entertain myself.”As they drove down he was in his wittiest humour, and the Baron, in spite of his desire for instruction, was more charmed with his friend than ever.“Vat fonny zing vill you do next, eh?”he asked, as they walked arm-in-arm into the station.“I am no more the humourist, my dear Baron,—I shall endeavour to edify you.”They had arrived at a busy hour, when the platforms were crowded with passengers and luggage. A train had just come in, and around it the bustle was at its height, and the confusion most bewildering.“Wait for me here,”said Mr Bunker;“I shall be back in a minute.”He started in the direction of the cloak-room, and then, doubling back through the crowd, walked down the platform and stopped opposite a luggage-van. An old gentleman, beside himself with irritation, was struggling with the aid of a porter to collect his luggage, and presently he left the pile he had got together and made a rush in the direction of a large portmanteau that was just being tumbled out. Instantly Mr Bunker picked up a handbag from the heap and walked quickly off with it.“Here you are, Baron,”he said, as he came up to his[pg 97]friend.“I find there is something else I must do, so do you mind holding this bag for a few minutes? If you will walk up and down in front of the refreshment-rooms here, I’ll find you more easily. Is it troubling you too much?”“Not vun bit, Bonker. I am in your sairvice.”He put the bag into the Baron’s hand with his pleasantest smile, and turned away. Rounding a corner, he came cautiously back again through the crowd and stepped up to a policeman.“Keep your eye on that man, officer,”he said, in a low confidential voice, and an air of quiet authority,“and put your plain clothes’ men on his track. I know him for one of the most dangerous anarchists.”The man started and stared hard at the Baron, and presently that unconscious nobleman, pacing the platform in growing wonder at Mr Bunker’s lengthy absence, and looking anxiously round him on all sides, noticed with surprise that a number of quietly dressed men, with no apparent business in the station, were eyeing him with, it seemed to him, an interest that approached suspicion. In time he grew annoyed, he returned their glances with his haughtiest and most indignant look, and finally, stepping up to one of them, asked in no friendly voice,“Vat for do you vatch me?”The man returned an evasive answer, and passing one of his fellow-officers, whispered,“Foreign; I was sure of it.”At last the Baron could stand it no longer, and laying the bag down by the door of the refreshment-room,[pg 98]turned hastily away. On the instant Mr Bunker, who had watched these proceedings from a safe distance, cried in a loud and agonised voice,“Down with your men, sergeant! Down, lie down! It will explode in twenty seconds!”And as he spoke he threw himself flat on his face. So infectious were his commanding voice and his note of alarm that one after another, detectives, passengers, and porters, cast themselves at full length on the platform. The Baron, filled with terror of anarchist plots, was one of the first to prostrate himself, and at that there could be no further doubt of the imminence of the peril.The cabs rattled and voices sounded from outside; an engine whistled and shunted at a far platform, but never before at that hour of the day had Liverpool Street Station been so silent. All held their breath and heard their hearts thump as they gazed in horrible fascination at that fatal bag, or with closed eyes stumbled through a hasty prayer. Fully a minute passed, and the suspense was growing intolerable, when with a loud oath an old gentleman rose to his feet and walked briskly up to the bag.“Have a care, sir! For Heaven’s sake have a care!”cried Mr Bunker; but the old gentleman merely bent over the terrible object, and, picking it up, exclaimed in bewildered wrath,“It’s my bag! Who the devil brought it here, and what’s the meaning of this d—d nonsense?”“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”roared Mr Bunker; while like sheepish mushrooms the people sprang up on all sides.[pg 99]“My dear sir,”said Mr Bunker, coming up to the old gentleman, and raising his hat with his most affable air,“permit me to congratulate you on recovering your lost property, and allow me further to introduce my friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg.”“Baron von damned-humbug!”cried the old gentleman.“Did you take my bag, sir? and if so, are you a thief or a lunatic?”For an instant even Mr Bunker himself seemed a trifle taken aback; then he replied politely,“I am not a thief, sir.”“Then what’aveyou been doing?”demanded the sergeant.“Merely demonstrating to my friend the Baron the extraordinary vigilance of the English police.”For a time neither the old gentleman nor the sergeant seemed quite capable of taking the same view of the episode as Mr Bunker, and, curiously enough, the Baron seemed not disinclined to let his friend extricate himself as best he could. No one, however, could resist Mr Bunker, and before very long he and the Baron were driving up Bishopsgate Street together, with the old gentleman’s four-wheeler lumbering in front of them.“Well, Baron, are you satisfied with your morning’s instruction?”asked his friend.“A German nobleman is not used to be in soch a position,”replied the Baron, stiffly.“You must admit, however, that the object-lesson in the detection of anarchy was neatly presented.”“I admit nozing of ze kind,”said the Baron, stolidly.[pg 100]For the rest of the drive he sat obdurately silent. He went to his room with the mien of an offended man. During lunch he only opened his lips to eat.On his side Mr Bunker maintained a cheerful composure, and seemed not a whit put about by his friend’s lack of appreciation.“Anozzer bottle of claret,”said the Baron, gruffly, to a waiter.Mr Bunker let him consume it entirely by himself, awaiting the results with patience. Gradually his face relaxed a little, until all at once, when the bump in the bottom of the bottle was beginning to appear above the wine, the whole room was startled by a stentorian,“Ha, ha, ha!”“My dear Bonker!”cried the Baron, when he had finished laughing,“forgif me! I begin for to see ze moral, ha, ha, ha!”
A few days passed in the most entertaining manner. A menu of amusements was regularly prepared suitable to a catholic taste, and at every turn the Baron was struck by the enterprise and originality of his friend. He had, however, a national bent for serious inquiry, and now and then doubts crossed his mind whether, with all his moral drawing, he was acquiring quite as much solid information as he had set out to gain. This idea grew upon him, till one morning, after gazing for some time at the English newspaper he always made a[pg 95]point of reading, he suddenly exclaimed,“Bonker, I haf a doubt!”
“I have many,”replied Mr Bunker;“in fact, I have few positive ideas left.”
“Bot mine is a particulair doubt. Do I lairn enoff?”
“My own conception of enough learning, Baron, is a thing like a threepenny-bit—the smallest coin one can do one’s marketing with.”
“And yet,”said the Baron, solemnly,“for my own share, I am not satisfied. I vould lairn more of ze British institutions; so far I haf lairned of ze pleasures only.”
“My dear Baron, they are the British institutions.”
The Baron shook his head and fell to his paper again, while Mr Bunker stretched himself on the sofa and gazed through his cigar-smoke at the ceiling. Suddenly the Baron gave an exclamation of horror.
“My dear Baron, what is the matter?”
“Yet anozer outrage!”cried the Baron.“Zese anarchists, zey are too scandalous. At all ze stations zere are detectives, and all ze ships are being vatched. Ach, it is terrible!”
Mr Bunker seemed struck with an idea, for he stared at the ceiling without making any reply, and his eyes, had the Baron seen them, twinkled curiously.
At last the Baron laid down his paper.
“Vell, vat shall ve do?”he asked.
“Let us come first to Liverpool Street Station, if you don’t mind, Baron,”his friend suggested.“I have something in the cloak-room there I want to pick up.”
“My dear Bonker, I shall go vere you vill; bot remember[pg 96]I vant to-day more instrogtion and less entertainment.”
“You wish to see the practical side of English life?”
“Yah—zat is, yes.”
Mr Bunker smiled.
“Then I must entertain myself.”
As they drove down he was in his wittiest humour, and the Baron, in spite of his desire for instruction, was more charmed with his friend than ever.
“Vat fonny zing vill you do next, eh?”he asked, as they walked arm-in-arm into the station.
“I am no more the humourist, my dear Baron,—I shall endeavour to edify you.”
They had arrived at a busy hour, when the platforms were crowded with passengers and luggage. A train had just come in, and around it the bustle was at its height, and the confusion most bewildering.
“Wait for me here,”said Mr Bunker;“I shall be back in a minute.”
He started in the direction of the cloak-room, and then, doubling back through the crowd, walked down the platform and stopped opposite a luggage-van. An old gentleman, beside himself with irritation, was struggling with the aid of a porter to collect his luggage, and presently he left the pile he had got together and made a rush in the direction of a large portmanteau that was just being tumbled out. Instantly Mr Bunker picked up a handbag from the heap and walked quickly off with it.
“Here you are, Baron,”he said, as he came up to his[pg 97]friend.“I find there is something else I must do, so do you mind holding this bag for a few minutes? If you will walk up and down in front of the refreshment-rooms here, I’ll find you more easily. Is it troubling you too much?”
“Not vun bit, Bonker. I am in your sairvice.”
He put the bag into the Baron’s hand with his pleasantest smile, and turned away. Rounding a corner, he came cautiously back again through the crowd and stepped up to a policeman.
“Keep your eye on that man, officer,”he said, in a low confidential voice, and an air of quiet authority,“and put your plain clothes’ men on his track. I know him for one of the most dangerous anarchists.”
The man started and stared hard at the Baron, and presently that unconscious nobleman, pacing the platform in growing wonder at Mr Bunker’s lengthy absence, and looking anxiously round him on all sides, noticed with surprise that a number of quietly dressed men, with no apparent business in the station, were eyeing him with, it seemed to him, an interest that approached suspicion. In time he grew annoyed, he returned their glances with his haughtiest and most indignant look, and finally, stepping up to one of them, asked in no friendly voice,“Vat for do you vatch me?”
The man returned an evasive answer, and passing one of his fellow-officers, whispered,“Foreign; I was sure of it.”
At last the Baron could stand it no longer, and laying the bag down by the door of the refreshment-room,[pg 98]turned hastily away. On the instant Mr Bunker, who had watched these proceedings from a safe distance, cried in a loud and agonised voice,“Down with your men, sergeant! Down, lie down! It will explode in twenty seconds!”
And as he spoke he threw himself flat on his face. So infectious were his commanding voice and his note of alarm that one after another, detectives, passengers, and porters, cast themselves at full length on the platform. The Baron, filled with terror of anarchist plots, was one of the first to prostrate himself, and at that there could be no further doubt of the imminence of the peril.
The cabs rattled and voices sounded from outside; an engine whistled and shunted at a far platform, but never before at that hour of the day had Liverpool Street Station been so silent. All held their breath and heard their hearts thump as they gazed in horrible fascination at that fatal bag, or with closed eyes stumbled through a hasty prayer. Fully a minute passed, and the suspense was growing intolerable, when with a loud oath an old gentleman rose to his feet and walked briskly up to the bag.
“Have a care, sir! For Heaven’s sake have a care!”cried Mr Bunker; but the old gentleman merely bent over the terrible object, and, picking it up, exclaimed in bewildered wrath,“It’s my bag! Who the devil brought it here, and what’s the meaning of this d—d nonsense?”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”roared Mr Bunker; while like sheepish mushrooms the people sprang up on all sides.
“My dear sir,”said Mr Bunker, coming up to the old gentleman, and raising his hat with his most affable air,“permit me to congratulate you on recovering your lost property, and allow me further to introduce my friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg.”
“Baron von damned-humbug!”cried the old gentleman.“Did you take my bag, sir? and if so, are you a thief or a lunatic?”
For an instant even Mr Bunker himself seemed a trifle taken aback; then he replied politely,“I am not a thief, sir.”
“Then what’aveyou been doing?”demanded the sergeant.
“Merely demonstrating to my friend the Baron the extraordinary vigilance of the English police.”
For a time neither the old gentleman nor the sergeant seemed quite capable of taking the same view of the episode as Mr Bunker, and, curiously enough, the Baron seemed not disinclined to let his friend extricate himself as best he could. No one, however, could resist Mr Bunker, and before very long he and the Baron were driving up Bishopsgate Street together, with the old gentleman’s four-wheeler lumbering in front of them.
“Well, Baron, are you satisfied with your morning’s instruction?”asked his friend.
“A German nobleman is not used to be in soch a position,”replied the Baron, stiffly.
“You must admit, however, that the object-lesson in the detection of anarchy was neatly presented.”
“I admit nozing of ze kind,”said the Baron, stolidly.
For the rest of the drive he sat obdurately silent. He went to his room with the mien of an offended man. During lunch he only opened his lips to eat.
On his side Mr Bunker maintained a cheerful composure, and seemed not a whit put about by his friend’s lack of appreciation.
“Anozzer bottle of claret,”said the Baron, gruffly, to a waiter.
Mr Bunker let him consume it entirely by himself, awaiting the results with patience. Gradually his face relaxed a little, until all at once, when the bump in the bottom of the bottle was beginning to appear above the wine, the whole room was startled by a stentorian,“Ha, ha, ha!”
“My dear Bonker!”cried the Baron, when he had finished laughing,“forgif me! I begin for to see ze moral, ha, ha, ha!”
CHAPTER VI.The Baron expressed no further wish for instruction, but, instead, he began to show a desire for society.“Doesn’t one fool suffice?”his friend asked.“Ach, yes, my vise fool; ha, ha, ha! Bot sometimes I haf ze craving for peoples, museec, dancing—in vun vord, society, Bonker!”“But this is not the season, Baron. You wouldn’t mix with any but the best society, would you?”[pg 101]“Zere are some nobles in town. In my paper I see Lord zis, Duke of zat, in London. Pairhaps my introdogtions might be here now.”This suggestion seemed to strike Mr Bunker unfavourably.“My company is beginning to pall, is it, Baron?”“Ach, no, dear Bonker! I vould merely go out jost vunce or tvice. Haf you no friends now in town?”An idea seemed to seize Mr Bunker.“Let me see the paper,”he said.After perusing it carefully for a little, he at last exclaimed in a tone of pleased discovery,“Hullo! I see that Lady Tulliwuddle is giving a reception and dance to-night. Most of the smart people in town just now are sure to be there. Would you care to go, Baron?”“Ach, surely,”said the Baron, eagerly.“Bot haf you been invited, Bonker?”“Oh, I used to have a standing invitation to Lady Tulliwuddle’s dances, and I’m certain she would be glad to see me again.”“Can you take me?”“Of course, my dear Baron, she will be honoured.”“Goot!”cried the Baron.“Ve shall go.”Mr Bunker explained that it was the proper thing to arrive very late, and so it was not until after twelve o’clock that they left the Hôtel Mayonaise for the regions of Belgravia. The Baron, primed with a bottle of champagne, and arrayed in a costume which Mr Bunker had assured him was the very latest extreme of fashion, and which included a scarlet watered silk waistcoat, a pair[pg 102]of white silk socks, and a lavender tie, was in a condition of cheerfulness verging closely on hilarity. Mr Bunker, that, as he said, he might better serve as a foil to his friend’s splendour, went more inconspicuously dressed, but was likewise well charged with champagne. He too was in his happiest vein, and the vision of the Baron’s finery appeared to afford him peculiar gratification.Their hansom stopped in front of a large and gaily lit-up mansion, with an awning leading to the door, and a cluster of carriages and footmen by the kerbstone. They entered, and having divested themselves of their coats, Mr Bunker proposed that they should immediately seek the supper-room.“Bot should I not be first introduced to mine hostess?”asked the Baron.“My dear Baron! a formal reception of the guests is entirely foreign to English etiquette.”“Zo? I did not know zat.”The supper-room was crowded, and having secured a table with some difficulty, Mr Bunker entered immediately into conversation with a solitary young gentleman who was consuming a plate of oysters. Before they had exchanged six sentences the young man had entirely succumbed to Mr Bunker’s address, aided possibly by the young man’s supper.“Permit me to introduce my friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg, a nobleman strange as yet to England, but renowned throughout his native land alike for his talents and his lofty position,”said Mr Bunker.[pg 103]“Ach, my good friend,”exclaimed the Baron, grasping the young man’s hand,“das ist Bonker’s vat you call nonsense; bot I am delighted, zehr delighted, to meet you, and if you gom to Bavaria you most shoot vid me! Bravo! Ha!”From which it may be gathered that the Baron was in a genial humour.“Who is that girl?”asked Mr Bunker, pointing to an extremely pretty damsel just leaving the room.“Oh, that’s my cousin, Lady Muriel Hilton. She’s thought rather pretty, I believe,”answered the young man.“Do you mind introducing me?”“Certainly,”said their new friend.“Come along.”As they were passing through the room a little incident occurred that, if the Baron’s perceptions had been keener, might have given him cause for some speculation. Two men standing by the door looked hard at Mr Bunker, and then at each other, and as the Baron passed them he heard one say,“It looks devilish like him.”“He has shaved, then,”said the other.“Evidently,”replied the first speaker;“but I thought he was unlikely to appear in any society for some time.”They both laughed, and the Baron heard no more.When they reached the ballroom the band was striking up a polka, and presently Mr Bunker, with his accustomed grace, was tearing round the room with Lady Muriel, while the Baron—the delight of all eyes in his red waistcoat—led out her sister. In a very short time the other dancers found the Baron and his friend’s onslaught so[pg 104]vigorous that prudence compelled them to take shelter along the wall, and from a safe distance admire the evolutions of these two mysterious guests.Mr Bunker was enlivening the monotony of the polka by the judicious introduction of hornpipe steps, while the Baron, his coat-tails high above his head, shouted and stamped in his wild career.“Do stop for a minute, Baron,”gasped his fair partner.“Himmel, nein!”roared the Baron.“I haf gom here for to dance! Ha, Bonker, ha!”At last Lady Muriel had to stop through sheer exhaustion, but Mr Bunker, merely letting her go, pursued his solitary way, double-shuffling and kicking unimpeded.The Baron stopped, breathless, to admire him. Round and round he went, the only figure in the middle of the room, his arms akimbo, his feet rat-tatting and kicking to the music, while high above the band resounded his friend’s shouts of“Bravo, Bonker! Wunderschön! Gott in himmel, higher, higher!”till at length, missing the wall in an attempt to find support, the Baron dropped with a thud into a sitting posture and continued his demonstrations from the floor.Meanwhile their alarmed hostess was holding a hasty consultation with her husband, and when the music at last stopped and Mr Bunker was advancing with his most courteous air towards his late partner, Lord Tulliwuddle stepped up to him and touched his arm.“May I speak to you, sir?”he said.“Certainly,”replied Mr Bunker.“I shall be honoured. Excuse me for one moment, Lady Muriel.”[pg 105]“At whose invitation have you come here to-night?”demanded his host, sternly.“I have the pleasure of addressing Lord Tulliwuddle, have I not?”“You have, sir.”Mr Bunker bent towards him and whispered something in his ear.“From Scotland Yard?”exclaimed his lordship.“Hush!”said Mr Bunker, glancing cautiously round the room, and then he added, with an air of impressive gravity,“You have a bathroom on the third floor, I believe?”“I have,”replied his host in great surprise.“Has it a bell?”“No, I believe not.”“Ah, I thought so. If you will favour me by coming up-stairs for a minute, my Lord, you will avoid a serious private scandal. Say nothing about it at present to any one.”In blank astonishment and some alarm Lord Tulliwuddle went up with him to the third floor, where the house was still and the sounds of revelry reached faintly.“What does this mean, sir?”he asked.“If I am right in my conjectures you will need no explanation from me, my Lord.”His lordship opened a door, and turning on an electric light, revealed a small and ordinary-looking bathroom.“Ha, no bell—excellent!”said Mr Bunker.“What are you doing with the key?”exclaimed his host.[pg 106]“Good night, my Lord. I shall tell them to send up breakfast at nine,”said Mr Bunker, and stepping quickly out, he shut and locked the door.A minute later he was back in the ballroom looking anxiously for the Baron, but that nobleman was nowhere to be seen.“The devil!”he said to himself.“Can they have tackled him too?”But as he ran downstairs a gust of cheerful laughter set his mind at ease.“Ha, ha, ha! Vere is old Bonker? He also vill shoot vid me!”“Here I am, my dear Baron,”he exclaimed gaily, as he tracked the voice into the supper-room.“Ach, mine dear Bonker!”cried the Baron, folding him in his muscular embrace,“I haf here met friends, ve are merry! Ve drink to Bavaria, to England, to everyzing!”The“friends”consisted of two highly amused young men and two half-scandalised, half-hysterical ladies, into the midst of whose supper-table the Baron had projected himself with infectious hilarity. They all looked up with great curiosity at Mr Bunker, but that gentleman was not in the least put about. He bowed politely to the table generally, and took his friend by the arm.“It is time we were going, Baron, I’m afraid,”he said.“Vat for? Ah, not yet, Bonker, not yet. I am enjoying myself down to ze floor. I most dance again, Bonker, jost vunce more,”pleaded the Baron.“My dear Baron, the noblemen of highest rank must[pg 107]always leave first, and people are talking of going now. Come along, old man.”“Ha, is zat so?”said the Baron.“Zen vill I go. Good night!”he cried, waving his hand to the room generally.“Ven you gom to Bavaria you most all shoot vid me. Bravo, my goot Bonker! Ha! ha!”As they turned away from the table, one of the young men, who had been looking very hard at Mr Bunker, rose and touched his sleeve.“I say, aren’t you——?”he began.“Possibly I am,”interrupted Mr Bunker,“only I haven’t the slightest recollection of the fact.”An astonished lady was indicated by Mr Bunker as the hostess, and to her the Baron bade an affectionate adieu. He handed a sovereign to the footman, embraced the butler, and as they sped eastwards in their hansom, a rousing chorus from the two friends awoke the echoes of Piccadilly.“Bravo, Bonker! Himmel, I haf enjoyed myself!”sighed the exhausted Baron.
The Baron expressed no further wish for instruction, but, instead, he began to show a desire for society.
“Doesn’t one fool suffice?”his friend asked.
“Ach, yes, my vise fool; ha, ha, ha! Bot sometimes I haf ze craving for peoples, museec, dancing—in vun vord, society, Bonker!”
“But this is not the season, Baron. You wouldn’t mix with any but the best society, would you?”
“Zere are some nobles in town. In my paper I see Lord zis, Duke of zat, in London. Pairhaps my introdogtions might be here now.”
This suggestion seemed to strike Mr Bunker unfavourably.
“My company is beginning to pall, is it, Baron?”
“Ach, no, dear Bonker! I vould merely go out jost vunce or tvice. Haf you no friends now in town?”
An idea seemed to seize Mr Bunker.
“Let me see the paper,”he said.
After perusing it carefully for a little, he at last exclaimed in a tone of pleased discovery,“Hullo! I see that Lady Tulliwuddle is giving a reception and dance to-night. Most of the smart people in town just now are sure to be there. Would you care to go, Baron?”
“Ach, surely,”said the Baron, eagerly.“Bot haf you been invited, Bonker?”
“Oh, I used to have a standing invitation to Lady Tulliwuddle’s dances, and I’m certain she would be glad to see me again.”
“Can you take me?”
“Of course, my dear Baron, she will be honoured.”
“Goot!”cried the Baron.“Ve shall go.”
Mr Bunker explained that it was the proper thing to arrive very late, and so it was not until after twelve o’clock that they left the Hôtel Mayonaise for the regions of Belgravia. The Baron, primed with a bottle of champagne, and arrayed in a costume which Mr Bunker had assured him was the very latest extreme of fashion, and which included a scarlet watered silk waistcoat, a pair[pg 102]of white silk socks, and a lavender tie, was in a condition of cheerfulness verging closely on hilarity. Mr Bunker, that, as he said, he might better serve as a foil to his friend’s splendour, went more inconspicuously dressed, but was likewise well charged with champagne. He too was in his happiest vein, and the vision of the Baron’s finery appeared to afford him peculiar gratification.
Their hansom stopped in front of a large and gaily lit-up mansion, with an awning leading to the door, and a cluster of carriages and footmen by the kerbstone. They entered, and having divested themselves of their coats, Mr Bunker proposed that they should immediately seek the supper-room.
“Bot should I not be first introduced to mine hostess?”asked the Baron.
“My dear Baron! a formal reception of the guests is entirely foreign to English etiquette.”
“Zo? I did not know zat.”
The supper-room was crowded, and having secured a table with some difficulty, Mr Bunker entered immediately into conversation with a solitary young gentleman who was consuming a plate of oysters. Before they had exchanged six sentences the young man had entirely succumbed to Mr Bunker’s address, aided possibly by the young man’s supper.
“Permit me to introduce my friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg, a nobleman strange as yet to England, but renowned throughout his native land alike for his talents and his lofty position,”said Mr Bunker.
“Ach, my good friend,”exclaimed the Baron, grasping the young man’s hand,“das ist Bonker’s vat you call nonsense; bot I am delighted, zehr delighted, to meet you, and if you gom to Bavaria you most shoot vid me! Bravo! Ha!”
From which it may be gathered that the Baron was in a genial humour.
“Who is that girl?”asked Mr Bunker, pointing to an extremely pretty damsel just leaving the room.
“Oh, that’s my cousin, Lady Muriel Hilton. She’s thought rather pretty, I believe,”answered the young man.
“Do you mind introducing me?”
“Certainly,”said their new friend.“Come along.”
As they were passing through the room a little incident occurred that, if the Baron’s perceptions had been keener, might have given him cause for some speculation. Two men standing by the door looked hard at Mr Bunker, and then at each other, and as the Baron passed them he heard one say,“It looks devilish like him.”
“He has shaved, then,”said the other.
“Evidently,”replied the first speaker;“but I thought he was unlikely to appear in any society for some time.”
They both laughed, and the Baron heard no more.
When they reached the ballroom the band was striking up a polka, and presently Mr Bunker, with his accustomed grace, was tearing round the room with Lady Muriel, while the Baron—the delight of all eyes in his red waistcoat—led out her sister. In a very short time the other dancers found the Baron and his friend’s onslaught so[pg 104]vigorous that prudence compelled them to take shelter along the wall, and from a safe distance admire the evolutions of these two mysterious guests.
Mr Bunker was enlivening the monotony of the polka by the judicious introduction of hornpipe steps, while the Baron, his coat-tails high above his head, shouted and stamped in his wild career.
“Do stop for a minute, Baron,”gasped his fair partner.
“Himmel, nein!”roared the Baron.“I haf gom here for to dance! Ha, Bonker, ha!”
At last Lady Muriel had to stop through sheer exhaustion, but Mr Bunker, merely letting her go, pursued his solitary way, double-shuffling and kicking unimpeded.
The Baron stopped, breathless, to admire him. Round and round he went, the only figure in the middle of the room, his arms akimbo, his feet rat-tatting and kicking to the music, while high above the band resounded his friend’s shouts of“Bravo, Bonker! Wunderschön! Gott in himmel, higher, higher!”till at length, missing the wall in an attempt to find support, the Baron dropped with a thud into a sitting posture and continued his demonstrations from the floor.
Meanwhile their alarmed hostess was holding a hasty consultation with her husband, and when the music at last stopped and Mr Bunker was advancing with his most courteous air towards his late partner, Lord Tulliwuddle stepped up to him and touched his arm.
“May I speak to you, sir?”he said.
“Certainly,”replied Mr Bunker.“I shall be honoured. Excuse me for one moment, Lady Muriel.”
“At whose invitation have you come here to-night?”demanded his host, sternly.
“I have the pleasure of addressing Lord Tulliwuddle, have I not?”
“You have, sir.”
Mr Bunker bent towards him and whispered something in his ear.
“From Scotland Yard?”exclaimed his lordship.
“Hush!”said Mr Bunker, glancing cautiously round the room, and then he added, with an air of impressive gravity,“You have a bathroom on the third floor, I believe?”
“I have,”replied his host in great surprise.
“Has it a bell?”
“No, I believe not.”
“Ah, I thought so. If you will favour me by coming up-stairs for a minute, my Lord, you will avoid a serious private scandal. Say nothing about it at present to any one.”
In blank astonishment and some alarm Lord Tulliwuddle went up with him to the third floor, where the house was still and the sounds of revelry reached faintly.
“What does this mean, sir?”he asked.
“If I am right in my conjectures you will need no explanation from me, my Lord.”
His lordship opened a door, and turning on an electric light, revealed a small and ordinary-looking bathroom.
“Ha, no bell—excellent!”said Mr Bunker.
“What are you doing with the key?”exclaimed his host.
“Good night, my Lord. I shall tell them to send up breakfast at nine,”said Mr Bunker, and stepping quickly out, he shut and locked the door.
A minute later he was back in the ballroom looking anxiously for the Baron, but that nobleman was nowhere to be seen.
“The devil!”he said to himself.“Can they have tackled him too?”
But as he ran downstairs a gust of cheerful laughter set his mind at ease.
“Ha, ha, ha! Vere is old Bonker? He also vill shoot vid me!”
“Here I am, my dear Baron,”he exclaimed gaily, as he tracked the voice into the supper-room.
“Ach, mine dear Bonker!”cried the Baron, folding him in his muscular embrace,“I haf here met friends, ve are merry! Ve drink to Bavaria, to England, to everyzing!”
The“friends”consisted of two highly amused young men and two half-scandalised, half-hysterical ladies, into the midst of whose supper-table the Baron had projected himself with infectious hilarity. They all looked up with great curiosity at Mr Bunker, but that gentleman was not in the least put about. He bowed politely to the table generally, and took his friend by the arm.
“It is time we were going, Baron, I’m afraid,”he said.
“Vat for? Ah, not yet, Bonker, not yet. I am enjoying myself down to ze floor. I most dance again, Bonker, jost vunce more,”pleaded the Baron.
“My dear Baron, the noblemen of highest rank must[pg 107]always leave first, and people are talking of going now. Come along, old man.”
“Ha, is zat so?”said the Baron.“Zen vill I go. Good night!”he cried, waving his hand to the room generally.“Ven you gom to Bavaria you most all shoot vid me. Bravo, my goot Bonker! Ha! ha!”
As they turned away from the table, one of the young men, who had been looking very hard at Mr Bunker, rose and touched his sleeve.
“I say, aren’t you——?”he began.
“Possibly I am,”interrupted Mr Bunker,“only I haven’t the slightest recollection of the fact.”
An astonished lady was indicated by Mr Bunker as the hostess, and to her the Baron bade an affectionate adieu. He handed a sovereign to the footman, embraced the butler, and as they sped eastwards in their hansom, a rousing chorus from the two friends awoke the echoes of Piccadilly.
“Bravo, Bonker! Himmel, I haf enjoyed myself!”sighed the exhausted Baron.
CHAPTER VII.The Baron and Mr Bunker discussed a twelve o’clock breakfast with the relish of men who had done a good night’s work. The Baron was full of his exploits.“Ze lofly Lady Hilton”and his new“friends”seemed to have made a vivid impression.[pg 108]“Zey vill be in ze Park to-day, of course?”he suggested.“Possibly,”replied Mr Bunker, without any great enthusiasm.“But surely.”“After a dance it is rather unlikely.”“Ze Lady Hilton did say she vent to ze Park.”“To-day, Baron?”“I do not remember to-day. I did dance so hard I was not perhaps distinct. But I shall go and see.”As Mr Bunker’s attempts to throw cold water on this scheme proved quite futile, he made a graceful virtue of necessity, dressed himself with care, and set out in the afternoon for the Park. They had only walked as far as Piccadilly Circus when in the crowd at the corner his eye fell upon a familiar figure. It was the burly, red-faced man.“The devil! Moggridge again!”he muttered.For a moment he thought they were going to pass unobserved: then the man turned his head their way, and Mr Bunker saw him start. He never looked over his shoulder, but after walking a little farther he called the Baron’s attention to a shop window, and they stopped to look at it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Moggridge about twenty yards behind them stopping too. He was glancing towards them very doubtfully. Evidently his mind was not yet made up, and at once Mr Bunker’s fertile brain began to revolve plans.A little farther on they paused before another window, and exactly the same thing happened. Then Mr Bunker[pg 109]made up his mind. He looked carefully at the cabs, and at last observed a smart-looking young man driving a fresh likely horse at a walking pace beside the pavement.He caught the driver’s eye and raised his stick, and turning suddenly to the Baron with a gesture of annoyance, exclaimed,“Forgive my rudeness, Baron, I’m afraid I must leave you. I had clean forgotten an important engagement in the city for this afternoon.”“Appointment in ze city?”said the Baron in considerable surprise.“I did not know you had friends in ze city.”“I have just heard from my father’s man of business, and I’m afraid it would be impolitic not to see him. Do you mind if I leave you here?”“Surely, my dear fellow, I vould not stop you. Already I feel at home by myself.”“Then we shall meet at the hotel before dinner. Good luck with the ladies, Baron.”Mr Bunker jumped into the cab, saying only to the driver,“To the city, as quick as you can.”“What part, sir?”“Oh, say the Bank. Hurry up!”Then as the man whipped up, Mr Bunker had a glimpse of Moggridge hailing another cab, and peeping cautiously through the little window at the back he saw him starting in hot pursuit. He took five shillings out of his pocket and opened the trap-door in the roof.“Do you see that other cab chasing us, with a red-faced man inside?”“Yes, sir.”[pg 110]Mr Bunker handed his driver the money.“Get rid of him, then. Take me anywhere through the city you like, and when he’s off the scent let me know.”“Very good, sir,”replied the driver, cracking his whip till his steed began to move past the buses and the other cabs like a train.On they flew, clatter and jingle, twisting like a snipe through the traffic. Mr Bunker perceived that he had a good horse and a good driver, and he smiled in pleasant excitement. He lit a cigar, leaned his arms on the doors, and settled himself to enjoy the race.The black lions of Trafalgar Square flew by, then the colossal hotels of Northumberland Avenue and the railway bridge at Charing Cross, and they were going at a gallop along the Embankment. He got swift glimpses of other cabs and foot-passengers, the trees seemed to flit past like telegraph-posts on a railway, the barges and lighters on the river dropped one by one behind them: it was a fair course for a race, with never a check before Blackfriar’s Bridge.As they turned into Queen Victoria Street he opened the lid and asked,“Are they still in sight?”“Yes, sir; I’m afraid we ain’t gaining much yet. But I’ll do it, sir, no fears.”Mr Bunker lay back and laughed.“This is better than the Park,”he said to himself.They had a fine drive up Queen Victoria Street before they plunged into the whirlpool of traffic at the Bank. They were slowly making their way across when the[pg 111]driver, spying an opening in another stream, abruptly wheeled round for Cornhill, and presently they were off again at top speed.“Thrown them off?”asked Mr Bunker.“Tried to, sir, but they were too sharp and got clear away too.”Mr Bunker saw that it was going to be a stern chase, and laughed again. In order that he might not show ostensibly that he was running away, he resisted the temptation of having another peep through the back, and resigned himself to the chances of the chase.Through and through the lanes and byways of the city they drove, and after each double the answer from the box was always the same. The cab behind could not be shaken off.“Work your way round to Holborn and try a run west,”Mr Bunker suggested.So after a little they struck Newgate Street, and presently their steed stretched himself again in Holborn Viaduct.“Gaining now, cabby?”“A little, sir, I think.”Mr Bunker sat placidly till they were well along Holborn before he inquired again.“Can’t get rid of ’im no ’ow. Afride it ain’t much good, sir.”Mr Bunker passed up five shillings more.“Keep your tail up. You’ll do it yet,”he exhorted.“Try a turn north; you may bother him among the squares.”So they doubled north, and as the evening closed in[pg 112]their wearied horse was lashed through a maze of monotonous streets and tarnished Bloomsbury Squares. And still the other cab stuck to their trail. But when they emerged on the Euston Road, Mr Bunker was as cheerful as ever.“They can’t last much longer,”he said to his driver.“Turn up Regent’s Park way.”A little later he put the usual question and got the same unvarying answer.The horse was evidently beginning to fail, and he saw that this chariot-race must soon come to an end. The street-lamps and the shop windows were all lit up by this time, and the dusk was pretty thick. It seemed to him that he might venture to try his luck on foot, and he began to look out for an opening where a cab could not follow.They were flogging along a noisy stone-paved road where there was little other traffic; on one side stood an unbroken row of houses, and on the other were small semi-detached villas with little strips of garden about them. All at once he saw a doctor’s red lamp over the door of one of these half villas, and an inspiration came upon him.“One can always visit a doctor,”he said to himself, and smiled in great amusement at something in the reflection.He stopped the cab, handed the man half a sovereign, and saying only,“Drive away again, quickly,”jumped out, glanced at the name on the plate, and pulled the bell. As he waited on the step he saw the other cab stop a little way back, and his pursuer emerge.[pg 113]A frowsy little servant opened the door.“Is Dr Twiddel at home?”he asked.“Dr Twiddel’s abroad, sir,”said the maid.“No one in at all, then?”“Dr Billson sees ’is patients, sir—w’en therehisany.”“When do you expect Dr Billson?”“In about an hour, sir, ’e usually comes hin.”“Excellent!”thought Mr Bunker. Aloud he said,“Well, I’m a patient. I’ll come in and wait.”He stepped in, and the door banged behind him.
The Baron and Mr Bunker discussed a twelve o’clock breakfast with the relish of men who had done a good night’s work. The Baron was full of his exploits.“Ze lofly Lady Hilton”and his new“friends”seemed to have made a vivid impression.
“Zey vill be in ze Park to-day, of course?”he suggested.
“Possibly,”replied Mr Bunker, without any great enthusiasm.
“But surely.”
“After a dance it is rather unlikely.”
“Ze Lady Hilton did say she vent to ze Park.”
“To-day, Baron?”
“I do not remember to-day. I did dance so hard I was not perhaps distinct. But I shall go and see.”
As Mr Bunker’s attempts to throw cold water on this scheme proved quite futile, he made a graceful virtue of necessity, dressed himself with care, and set out in the afternoon for the Park. They had only walked as far as Piccadilly Circus when in the crowd at the corner his eye fell upon a familiar figure. It was the burly, red-faced man.
“The devil! Moggridge again!”he muttered.
For a moment he thought they were going to pass unobserved: then the man turned his head their way, and Mr Bunker saw him start. He never looked over his shoulder, but after walking a little farther he called the Baron’s attention to a shop window, and they stopped to look at it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Moggridge about twenty yards behind them stopping too. He was glancing towards them very doubtfully. Evidently his mind was not yet made up, and at once Mr Bunker’s fertile brain began to revolve plans.
A little farther on they paused before another window, and exactly the same thing happened. Then Mr Bunker[pg 109]made up his mind. He looked carefully at the cabs, and at last observed a smart-looking young man driving a fresh likely horse at a walking pace beside the pavement.
He caught the driver’s eye and raised his stick, and turning suddenly to the Baron with a gesture of annoyance, exclaimed,“Forgive my rudeness, Baron, I’m afraid I must leave you. I had clean forgotten an important engagement in the city for this afternoon.”
“Appointment in ze city?”said the Baron in considerable surprise.“I did not know you had friends in ze city.”
“I have just heard from my father’s man of business, and I’m afraid it would be impolitic not to see him. Do you mind if I leave you here?”
“Surely, my dear fellow, I vould not stop you. Already I feel at home by myself.”
“Then we shall meet at the hotel before dinner. Good luck with the ladies, Baron.”
Mr Bunker jumped into the cab, saying only to the driver,“To the city, as quick as you can.”
“What part, sir?”
“Oh, say the Bank. Hurry up!”
Then as the man whipped up, Mr Bunker had a glimpse of Moggridge hailing another cab, and peeping cautiously through the little window at the back he saw him starting in hot pursuit. He took five shillings out of his pocket and opened the trap-door in the roof.
“Do you see that other cab chasing us, with a red-faced man inside?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr Bunker handed his driver the money.
“Get rid of him, then. Take me anywhere through the city you like, and when he’s off the scent let me know.”
“Very good, sir,”replied the driver, cracking his whip till his steed began to move past the buses and the other cabs like a train.
On they flew, clatter and jingle, twisting like a snipe through the traffic. Mr Bunker perceived that he had a good horse and a good driver, and he smiled in pleasant excitement. He lit a cigar, leaned his arms on the doors, and settled himself to enjoy the race.
The black lions of Trafalgar Square flew by, then the colossal hotels of Northumberland Avenue and the railway bridge at Charing Cross, and they were going at a gallop along the Embankment. He got swift glimpses of other cabs and foot-passengers, the trees seemed to flit past like telegraph-posts on a railway, the barges and lighters on the river dropped one by one behind them: it was a fair course for a race, with never a check before Blackfriar’s Bridge.
As they turned into Queen Victoria Street he opened the lid and asked,“Are they still in sight?”
“Yes, sir; I’m afraid we ain’t gaining much yet. But I’ll do it, sir, no fears.”
Mr Bunker lay back and laughed.
“This is better than the Park,”he said to himself.
They had a fine drive up Queen Victoria Street before they plunged into the whirlpool of traffic at the Bank. They were slowly making their way across when the[pg 111]driver, spying an opening in another stream, abruptly wheeled round for Cornhill, and presently they were off again at top speed.
“Thrown them off?”asked Mr Bunker.
“Tried to, sir, but they were too sharp and got clear away too.”
Mr Bunker saw that it was going to be a stern chase, and laughed again. In order that he might not show ostensibly that he was running away, he resisted the temptation of having another peep through the back, and resigned himself to the chances of the chase.
Through and through the lanes and byways of the city they drove, and after each double the answer from the box was always the same. The cab behind could not be shaken off.
“Work your way round to Holborn and try a run west,”Mr Bunker suggested.
So after a little they struck Newgate Street, and presently their steed stretched himself again in Holborn Viaduct.
“Gaining now, cabby?”
“A little, sir, I think.”
Mr Bunker sat placidly till they were well along Holborn before he inquired again.
“Can’t get rid of ’im no ’ow. Afride it ain’t much good, sir.”
Mr Bunker passed up five shillings more.
“Keep your tail up. You’ll do it yet,”he exhorted.“Try a turn north; you may bother him among the squares.”
So they doubled north, and as the evening closed in[pg 112]their wearied horse was lashed through a maze of monotonous streets and tarnished Bloomsbury Squares. And still the other cab stuck to their trail. But when they emerged on the Euston Road, Mr Bunker was as cheerful as ever.
“They can’t last much longer,”he said to his driver.“Turn up Regent’s Park way.”
A little later he put the usual question and got the same unvarying answer.
The horse was evidently beginning to fail, and he saw that this chariot-race must soon come to an end. The street-lamps and the shop windows were all lit up by this time, and the dusk was pretty thick. It seemed to him that he might venture to try his luck on foot, and he began to look out for an opening where a cab could not follow.
They were flogging along a noisy stone-paved road where there was little other traffic; on one side stood an unbroken row of houses, and on the other were small semi-detached villas with little strips of garden about them. All at once he saw a doctor’s red lamp over the door of one of these half villas, and an inspiration came upon him.
“One can always visit a doctor,”he said to himself, and smiled in great amusement at something in the reflection.
He stopped the cab, handed the man half a sovereign, and saying only,“Drive away again, quickly,”jumped out, glanced at the name on the plate, and pulled the bell. As he waited on the step he saw the other cab stop a little way back, and his pursuer emerge.
A frowsy little servant opened the door.
“Is Dr Twiddel at home?”he asked.
“Dr Twiddel’s abroad, sir,”said the maid.
“No one in at all, then?”
“Dr Billson sees ’is patients, sir—w’en therehisany.”
“When do you expect Dr Billson?”
“In about an hour, sir, ’e usually comes hin.”
“Excellent!”thought Mr Bunker. Aloud he said,“Well, I’m a patient. I’ll come in and wait.”
He stepped in, and the door banged behind him.
CHAPTER VIII.“This w’y, sir,”said the maid, and Mr Bunker found himself in the little room where this story opened.The moment he was alone he went to the window and peeped cautiously between the slats of the venetian blind.The street was quiet, both cabs had disappeared, and for a minute or two he could see nothing even of Moggridge. Then a figure moved carefully from the shelter of a bush a little way down the railings, and, after a quick look at the house, stepped back again.“He means to play the waiting game,”said Mr Bunker to himself.“Long may you wait, my wary Moggridge!”He took a rapid survey of the room. He saw the medical library, the rented furniture, and the unlit gas-stove; and at last his eye fell upon a box of cigarettes. To one of these he helped himself and leaned his back against the mantelpiece.[pg 114]“There must be at least one room at the back,”he reflected;“that room must have a window, and beyond that window there is all London to turn to. Friend Moggridge, I trust you are prepared to spend the evening behind your bush.”He had another look through the blind and shook his head.“A little too light yet,—I’d better wait for a quarter of an hour or so.”To while away the time he proceeded to make a tour of the room, for, as he said to himself, when in an unknown country any information may possibly come in useful. There was nothing whatever from which he could draw even the most superficial deduction till he came to the writing-desk. Here a heap of bills were transfixed by a long skewer, and at his first glance at the uppermost his face assumed an expression of almost ludicrous bewilderment. He actually rubbed his eyes before he looked a second time.“One dozen shirts,”he read,“four under-flannels, four pair socks, one dozen handkerchiefs, two sleeping-suits—marked Francis Beveridge! the account rendered to Dr G. Twiddel! What in the name of wonderment is the meaning of this?”He sat down with the bill in his hand and gazed hard at it.“Precisely my outfit,”he said to himself.“Am I—Does it——? What a rum thing!”He sat for about ten minutes looking hard at the floor. Then he burst out laughing, resumed in a moment his[pg 115]air of philosophical opportunism, and set about a further search of the desk. He looked at the bills and seemed to find nothing more to interest him. Then he glanced at one or two letters in the drawers, threw the first few back again, and at last paused over one.“Twiddel to Billson,”he said to himself.“This may possibly be worth looking at.”It was dated more than a month back from the town of Fogelschloss.“Dear Tom,”it ran,“we are having an A 1 time. Old Welsh is in splendid form, doing the part to perfection. He has never given himself away yet, not even when drunk, which, I am sorry to say, he has been too often. But then old Welsh is so funny when he is drunk that it makes him all the more like the original, or at least what the original is supposed to be.“Of course we don’t dare to venture into places where we would see too many English. This is quite an amusing place for a German town, some baths and a kind of a gambling-table, and some pretty girls—for Germans. There is a sporting aristocrat here, in an old castle, who is very friendly, and is much impressed with Welsh’s account of his family plate and deer-forest, and has asked us once or twice to come out and see him. We are no end of swells, I assure you.“Ta, ta, old chap. Hope the practice prospers in your hands. Don’t killallthe patients before I come back.—Ever thine,GEORGE TWIDDEL.”“From this I conclude that Dr Twiddel is on the festive side of forty,”he reflected;“there are elements of mystery and a general atmosphere of alcohol about it, but that’s all, I’m afraid.”[pg 116]He put it back in the drawer, but the bill he slipped into his pocket.“And now,”thought he,“it is time I made the first move.”After waiting for a minute or two to make sure that everything was quiet, he gently stepped out into a little linoleum-carpeted hall. On the right hand was the front door, on the left two others that must, he thought, open into rooms on the back. He chose the nearer at a venture, and entered boldly. It was quite dark. He closed the door again softly, struck a match, and looked round the room. It seemed to be Dr Twiddel’s dining- and sitting-room.“Pipes, photographs, well-sat-in chairs,”he observed,“anda window.”He pulled aside the blind and looked out into the darkness of a strip of back-garden. For a minute he listened intently, but no sound came from the house. Then he threw up the sash and scrambled out. It was quite dark by this time: he was enclosed between two rows of vague, black houses, with bright windows here and there, and chimney-cans faintly cutting their uncouth designs among a few pale London stars. The space between was filled with the two lines of little gardens and the ranks of walls, and in the middle the black chasm of a railway cutting.A frightened cat bolted before him as he hurried down to the foot of the strip, but that was all the life he saw. He looked over the wall right into the deep crevasse. A little way off, on the one hand, hung a cluster of signal-lights, and the shining rails reflected them all along to[pg 117]the mouth of a tunnel on the other. Turning his head this way and that, there was nothing to be seen anywhere else but garden wall after garden wall.“It’s a choice between a hurdle-race through these gardens, a cat-walk along this wall, and a descent into the cutting,”he reflected.“The walls look devilish high and the cutting devilish deep. Hang me if I know which road to take.”While he was still debating this somewhat perplexing question, he felt the ground begin to quiver under him. Through the hum of London there gradually arose a louder roar, and in a minute the head-lights of an engine flashed out of the tunnel. One after another a string of bright carriages followed it, each more slowly than the carriage in front, till the whole train was at a standstill below him with the red signal-lamp against it.In an instant his decision was taken. At the peril of life and garments he scrambled down the rocky bank, picking as he went an empty first-class compartment, and just as the train began to move again he swung himself up and sprang into a carriage.Unfortunately he had chosen the wrong one in his haste, and as he opened the door he saw a comical vision of a stout little old gentleman huddling into the farther corner in the most dire consternation.“Who are you, sir? What do you want, sir?”spluttered the old gentleman.“If you come any nearer me, sir—one step, sir!—I shall instantly communicate with the guard! I have no money about me. Go away, sir!”[pg 118]“I regret to learn that you have no money,”replied Mr Bunker, imperturbably;“but I am sorry that I am not at present in a condition to offer a loan.”He sat down and smiled amicably, but the little gentleman was not to be quieted so easily. Seeing that no violence was apparently intended, his fright changed into respectable indignation.“You needn’t try to be funny with me, sir. You are committing an illegal act. You have placed yourself in an uncommonly serious position, sir.”“Indeed, sir?”replied Mr Bunker.“I myself should have imagined that by remaining on the rails I should have been much more seriously situated.”The old gentleman looked at him like an angry small dog that longs to bite if it only dared.“What is the meaning of this illegal intrusion?”he demanded.“Who are you? Where did you come from?”“I had the misfortune, sir,”explained Mr Bunker, politely,“to drop my hat out of the window of a neighbouring carriage. While I was picking it up the train started, and I had to enter the first compartment I could find. I am sorry that my entry frightened you.”“Frightened me!”spluttered the old gentleman.“I am not afraid, sir. I am an honest man who need fear no one, sir. I do not believe you dropped your hat. It is perfectly uninjured.”“It may be news to you, sir,”replied Mr Bunker,“that by gently yet firmly passing the sleeve of your coat round your hat in the direction of the nap, it is possible[pg 119]to restore the gloss. Thus,”and suiting the action to the word he took off his hat, drew his coat-sleeve across it, and with a genial smile at the old gentleman, replaced it on his head.But his neighbour was evidently of that truculent disposition which merely growls at blandishments. He snorted and replied testily,“That is all very well, sir, but I don’t believe a word of it.”“If you prefer it, then, I fell off the telegraph wires in an attempt to recover my boots.”The old gentleman became purple in the face.“Have a care, sir! I am a director of this company, and at the next station I shall see that you give a proper account of yourself. And here we are, sir. I trust you have a more credible story in readiness.”As he spoke they drew up beside an underground platform, and the irascible old gentleman, with a very threatening face that was not yet quite cleared of alarm, bustled out in a prodigious hurry. Mr Bunker lay back in his seat and replied with a smile,“I shall be delighted to tell any story within the bounds of strict propriety.”But the moment he saw the irate director disappear in the crowd he whipped out too, and with the least possible delay transferred himself into a third-class carriage.From his seat near the window he watched the old gentleman hurry back with three officials at his heels, and hastily search each first-class compartment in turn. The last one was so near him that he could hear his friend say,“Damn it, the rascal has bolted in the crowd!”[pg 120]And with that the four of them rushed off to the barrier to intercept or pursue this suspicious character. Then the whistle blew, and as the train moved off Mr Bunker remarked complacently, if a little mysteriously, to himself,“Well, whoever I am, it would seem I’m rather difficult to catch.”
“This w’y, sir,”said the maid, and Mr Bunker found himself in the little room where this story opened.
The moment he was alone he went to the window and peeped cautiously between the slats of the venetian blind.
The street was quiet, both cabs had disappeared, and for a minute or two he could see nothing even of Moggridge. Then a figure moved carefully from the shelter of a bush a little way down the railings, and, after a quick look at the house, stepped back again.
“He means to play the waiting game,”said Mr Bunker to himself.“Long may you wait, my wary Moggridge!”
He took a rapid survey of the room. He saw the medical library, the rented furniture, and the unlit gas-stove; and at last his eye fell upon a box of cigarettes. To one of these he helped himself and leaned his back against the mantelpiece.
“There must be at least one room at the back,”he reflected;“that room must have a window, and beyond that window there is all London to turn to. Friend Moggridge, I trust you are prepared to spend the evening behind your bush.”
He had another look through the blind and shook his head.
“A little too light yet,—I’d better wait for a quarter of an hour or so.”
To while away the time he proceeded to make a tour of the room, for, as he said to himself, when in an unknown country any information may possibly come in useful. There was nothing whatever from which he could draw even the most superficial deduction till he came to the writing-desk. Here a heap of bills were transfixed by a long skewer, and at his first glance at the uppermost his face assumed an expression of almost ludicrous bewilderment. He actually rubbed his eyes before he looked a second time.
“One dozen shirts,”he read,“four under-flannels, four pair socks, one dozen handkerchiefs, two sleeping-suits—marked Francis Beveridge! the account rendered to Dr G. Twiddel! What in the name of wonderment is the meaning of this?”
He sat down with the bill in his hand and gazed hard at it.
“Precisely my outfit,”he said to himself.
“Am I—Does it——? What a rum thing!”
He sat for about ten minutes looking hard at the floor. Then he burst out laughing, resumed in a moment his[pg 115]air of philosophical opportunism, and set about a further search of the desk. He looked at the bills and seemed to find nothing more to interest him. Then he glanced at one or two letters in the drawers, threw the first few back again, and at last paused over one.
“Twiddel to Billson,”he said to himself.“This may possibly be worth looking at.”
It was dated more than a month back from the town of Fogelschloss.
“Dear Tom,”it ran,“we are having an A 1 time. Old Welsh is in splendid form, doing the part to perfection. He has never given himself away yet, not even when drunk, which, I am sorry to say, he has been too often. But then old Welsh is so funny when he is drunk that it makes him all the more like the original, or at least what the original is supposed to be.“Of course we don’t dare to venture into places where we would see too many English. This is quite an amusing place for a German town, some baths and a kind of a gambling-table, and some pretty girls—for Germans. There is a sporting aristocrat here, in an old castle, who is very friendly, and is much impressed with Welsh’s account of his family plate and deer-forest, and has asked us once or twice to come out and see him. We are no end of swells, I assure you.“Ta, ta, old chap. Hope the practice prospers in your hands. Don’t killallthe patients before I come back.—Ever thine,GEORGE TWIDDEL.”
“Dear Tom,”it ran,“we are having an A 1 time. Old Welsh is in splendid form, doing the part to perfection. He has never given himself away yet, not even when drunk, which, I am sorry to say, he has been too often. But then old Welsh is so funny when he is drunk that it makes him all the more like the original, or at least what the original is supposed to be.
“Of course we don’t dare to venture into places where we would see too many English. This is quite an amusing place for a German town, some baths and a kind of a gambling-table, and some pretty girls—for Germans. There is a sporting aristocrat here, in an old castle, who is very friendly, and is much impressed with Welsh’s account of his family plate and deer-forest, and has asked us once or twice to come out and see him. We are no end of swells, I assure you.
“Ta, ta, old chap. Hope the practice prospers in your hands. Don’t killallthe patients before I come back.—Ever thine,
GEORGE TWIDDEL.”
“From this I conclude that Dr Twiddel is on the festive side of forty,”he reflected;“there are elements of mystery and a general atmosphere of alcohol about it, but that’s all, I’m afraid.”
He put it back in the drawer, but the bill he slipped into his pocket.
“And now,”thought he,“it is time I made the first move.”
After waiting for a minute or two to make sure that everything was quiet, he gently stepped out into a little linoleum-carpeted hall. On the right hand was the front door, on the left two others that must, he thought, open into rooms on the back. He chose the nearer at a venture, and entered boldly. It was quite dark. He closed the door again softly, struck a match, and looked round the room. It seemed to be Dr Twiddel’s dining- and sitting-room.
“Pipes, photographs, well-sat-in chairs,”he observed,“anda window.”
He pulled aside the blind and looked out into the darkness of a strip of back-garden. For a minute he listened intently, but no sound came from the house. Then he threw up the sash and scrambled out. It was quite dark by this time: he was enclosed between two rows of vague, black houses, with bright windows here and there, and chimney-cans faintly cutting their uncouth designs among a few pale London stars. The space between was filled with the two lines of little gardens and the ranks of walls, and in the middle the black chasm of a railway cutting.
A frightened cat bolted before him as he hurried down to the foot of the strip, but that was all the life he saw. He looked over the wall right into the deep crevasse. A little way off, on the one hand, hung a cluster of signal-lights, and the shining rails reflected them all along to[pg 117]the mouth of a tunnel on the other. Turning his head this way and that, there was nothing to be seen anywhere else but garden wall after garden wall.
“It’s a choice between a hurdle-race through these gardens, a cat-walk along this wall, and a descent into the cutting,”he reflected.“The walls look devilish high and the cutting devilish deep. Hang me if I know which road to take.”
While he was still debating this somewhat perplexing question, he felt the ground begin to quiver under him. Through the hum of London there gradually arose a louder roar, and in a minute the head-lights of an engine flashed out of the tunnel. One after another a string of bright carriages followed it, each more slowly than the carriage in front, till the whole train was at a standstill below him with the red signal-lamp against it.
In an instant his decision was taken. At the peril of life and garments he scrambled down the rocky bank, picking as he went an empty first-class compartment, and just as the train began to move again he swung himself up and sprang into a carriage.
Unfortunately he had chosen the wrong one in his haste, and as he opened the door he saw a comical vision of a stout little old gentleman huddling into the farther corner in the most dire consternation.
“Who are you, sir? What do you want, sir?”spluttered the old gentleman.“If you come any nearer me, sir—one step, sir!—I shall instantly communicate with the guard! I have no money about me. Go away, sir!”
“I regret to learn that you have no money,”replied Mr Bunker, imperturbably;“but I am sorry that I am not at present in a condition to offer a loan.”
He sat down and smiled amicably, but the little gentleman was not to be quieted so easily. Seeing that no violence was apparently intended, his fright changed into respectable indignation.
“You needn’t try to be funny with me, sir. You are committing an illegal act. You have placed yourself in an uncommonly serious position, sir.”
“Indeed, sir?”replied Mr Bunker.“I myself should have imagined that by remaining on the rails I should have been much more seriously situated.”
The old gentleman looked at him like an angry small dog that longs to bite if it only dared.
“What is the meaning of this illegal intrusion?”he demanded.“Who are you? Where did you come from?”
“I had the misfortune, sir,”explained Mr Bunker, politely,“to drop my hat out of the window of a neighbouring carriage. While I was picking it up the train started, and I had to enter the first compartment I could find. I am sorry that my entry frightened you.”
“Frightened me!”spluttered the old gentleman.“I am not afraid, sir. I am an honest man who need fear no one, sir. I do not believe you dropped your hat. It is perfectly uninjured.”
“It may be news to you, sir,”replied Mr Bunker,“that by gently yet firmly passing the sleeve of your coat round your hat in the direction of the nap, it is possible[pg 119]to restore the gloss. Thus,”and suiting the action to the word he took off his hat, drew his coat-sleeve across it, and with a genial smile at the old gentleman, replaced it on his head.
But his neighbour was evidently of that truculent disposition which merely growls at blandishments. He snorted and replied testily,“That is all very well, sir, but I don’t believe a word of it.”
“If you prefer it, then, I fell off the telegraph wires in an attempt to recover my boots.”
The old gentleman became purple in the face.
“Have a care, sir! I am a director of this company, and at the next station I shall see that you give a proper account of yourself. And here we are, sir. I trust you have a more credible story in readiness.”
As he spoke they drew up beside an underground platform, and the irascible old gentleman, with a very threatening face that was not yet quite cleared of alarm, bustled out in a prodigious hurry. Mr Bunker lay back in his seat and replied with a smile,“I shall be delighted to tell any story within the bounds of strict propriety.”
But the moment he saw the irate director disappear in the crowd he whipped out too, and with the least possible delay transferred himself into a third-class carriage.
From his seat near the window he watched the old gentleman hurry back with three officials at his heels, and hastily search each first-class compartment in turn. The last one was so near him that he could hear his friend say,“Damn it, the rascal has bolted in the crowd!”[pg 120]And with that the four of them rushed off to the barrier to intercept or pursue this suspicious character. Then the whistle blew, and as the train moved off Mr Bunker remarked complacently, if a little mysteriously, to himself,“Well, whoever I am, it would seem I’m rather difficult to catch.”