"Thank the Lord, we're not likely to meet them again!" exclaimed the doctor, devoutly.

"No," said Welsh; "here endeth the second lesson."

His friend, who had been well brought up, looked a trifle uncomfortable at this quotation.

"I say," he remarked a few minutes later, "we haven't finished yet. We've got to get the man out again, and hand him back to his friends."

"Cured," said Welsh, with a laugh.

"I wonder how he is?"

"We'll soon see."

They fell silent again, while the train hurried nearer and nearer London town. Welsh seemed to be musing on some nice point, it might be of conscience, it might also conceivably be of a more practical texture. At last he said, "There's just one thing, old man. What about the fee?"

"I'll get a cheque for it, I suppose," his friend replied, with an almost excessive air of mastery over the problem.

"Ha, ha!" laughed Welsh; "you know what I mean. It's a delicate question and all that, but, hang it, it's got to be answered."

"What has?"

"The division of the spoil."

Twiddel looked dignified.

"I'll see you get your share, old man," he answered, easily.

"But what share?"

"You suggested 100, I think."

"Out of 500-when I've done all the deceiving and told all the lies! Come, old man!"

"Well, what do you want?"

"Do you remember a certain crisis when we'd made a slip--"

"You'd made a slip!"

"_We_ had made a slip, and you wanted to chuck the game and bolt? Do you remember also the terms I proposed when I offered to beard the local G.o.d almighty in his lair and explain it all away, and how he became our bosom pal and we were saved?"

"Well?"

"300 to me, 200 to you," said Welsh, decisively.

"Rot, old man. I'll share fairly, if you insist. 250 apiece, will that do?"

Welsh said nothing, but his face was no longer the countenance of the jovial adventurer.

"It will have to, I suppose," he replied, at length.

It was with this little cloud on the horizon that they saw the lights of London twinkle through the windows, and were carried into the clamour of the platforms.

They both drove first to Twiddel's rooms; and as they looked out once more on the life and lights and traffic of the streets, their faces cleared again.

"We'll have a merry evening!" cried Welsh.

"A little supper," suggested Twiddel; "a music-hall--"

"Et cetera," added Welsh, with a laugh.

The doctor had written of their coming, and they found a fire in the back room, and the table laid.

"Ah," cried Welsh, "this looks devilish comfortable."

"A letter for me," said Twiddel; "from Billson, I think."

He read it and threw it to his friend, remarking, "I call this rather cool of him."

Welsh read-

"DEAR GEORGE,-I am just off for three weeks' holiday. Sorry for leaving your practice, but I think it can look after itself till you return.

"You have only had two patients, and one fee between them. The second man vanished mysteriously. I shall tell you about it when I come back. He boned a bill, too, I fancy, but the story will keep.

"I am looking forward to hearing the true tale of your adventures. Good luck to you.-Yours ever,

THOMAS BILLSON."

"Boned a bill?" exclaimed Welsh. "What bill, I wonder?"

"Something that came when I was away, I suppose. Hang it, I think Billson might have looked after things better!"

"It sounds queer," said Welsh, reflectively; "I wonder what it was?"

"Confound Billson, he might have told me," observed the doctor. "But, I say, you know we have something more practical to see to."

"Getting the man out again?"

"Yes."

"Well, let's have a little grub first."

Twiddel rang the bell, and the frowsy little maid entered, carrying a letter on a tray.

"Dinner," said he.

"Please, sir," began the maid, holding out the tray, "this come for you near a month agow, but Missis she bin and forgot to send it hafter you."