Waiter! another bottle of the same."

The bottle arrived, and the waiter was just filling their gla.s.ses when a young clergyman entered the room and walked quietly towards the farther end. Welsh raised his gla.s.s and exclaimed, "Here's luck to ourselves, Twiddel, old man!"

At that moment the clergyman was pa.s.sing their table, and at the mention of this toast he started almost imperceptibly, and then, throwing a quick glance at the two, stopped and took a seat at the next table, with his back turned towards them. Welsh, who was at the farther side, looked at him with some annoyance, and made a sign to Twiddel to talk a little more quietly.

To the waiter, who came with the _menu_, the clergyman explained in a quiet voice that he was waiting for a friend, and asked for an evening paper instead, in which he soon appeared to be deeply engrossed.

At first the conversation went on in a lower tone, but in a few minutes they insensibly forgot their neighbour, and the voices rose again by starts.

"My dear fellow," Welsh was saying, "we can discuss that afterwards; we haven't caught him yet."

"I want to settle it now."

"But I thought it was settled."

"No, it wasn't," said Twiddel, with a foreign and vinous doggedness.

"What do you suggest then?"

"Divide it equally-250 each."

"You think you can claim half the credit for the idea and half the trouble?"

"I can claim _all_ the risk-practically."

"Pooh!" said Welsh. "You think I risked nothing? Come, come, let's talk of something else."

"Oh, rot!" interrupted Twiddel, who by this time was decidedly flushed.

"You needn't ride the high horse like that, you are not Mr Mandell-Essington any longer."

With a violent start, the clergyman brought his fist crash on the table, and exclaimed aloud, "By Heaven, that's it!"

CHAPTER V.

As one may suppose, everybody in the room started in great astonishment at this extraordinary outburst. With a sharp "Hollo!" Twiddel turned in his seat, to see the clergyman standing over him with a look of the keenest inquiry in his well-favoured face.

"May I ask, Dr Twiddel, what you know of the gentleman you just named?" he said, with perfect politeness.

The conscience-smitten doctor gazed at him blankly, and the colour suddenly left his face. But Welsh's nerves were stronger; and, as he looked hard at the stranger, a jubilant light leaped to his eyes.

"It's our man!" he cried, before his friend could gather his wits. "It's Beveridge, or Bunker, or whatever he calls himself! Waiter!"

Instantly three waiters, all agog, hurried at his summons.

Mr Bunker regarded him with considerable surprise. He had quite expected that the pair would be thrown into confusion, but not that it would take this form.

"Excuse me, sir," he began, but Welsh interrupted him by crying to the leading waiter-

"Fetch a four-wheeled cab and a policeman, quick!" As the man hesitated, he added, "This man here is an escaped lunatic."

The waiter was starting for the door, when Mr Bunker stepped out quickly and interrupted him.

"Stop one minute, waiter," he said, with a quiet, unruffled air that went far to establish his sanity. "Do I look like a lunatic? Kindly call the proprietor first."

The stout proprietor was already on his way to their table, and the one or two other diners were beginning to gather round. Mr Bunker's manner had impressed even Welsh, and after his nature he took refuge in bl.u.s.ter.

"I say, my man," he cried, "this won't pa.s.s. Somebody fetch a cab."

"Vat is dees about?" asked the proprietor, coming up.

"Your wine, I'm afraid, has been rather too powerful for this gentleman,"

Mr Bunker explained, with a smile.

"Look here," bl.u.s.tered Welsh, "do you know you've got a lunatic in the room?"

"You can perhaps guess it," smiled Mr Bunker, indicating Welsh with his eyes.

The waiters began to twitter, and Welsh, with an effort, pulled himself together.

"My friend here," he said, "is Dr Twiddel, a well-known pract.i.tioner in London. He can tell you that he certified this man as a lunatic, and that he afterwards escaped from his asylum. That is so, Twiddel?"

"Yes," a.s.sented Twiddel, whose colour was beginning to come back a little.

"Who are you, sare?" asked the proprietor.

"Show him your card, Twiddel," said Welsh, producing his own and handing it over.

The proprietor looked at both cards, and then turned to Mr Bunker.

"And who are you, sare?"

"My name is Mandell-Essington."

"His name--" began Welsh.

"Have you a card?" interposed the proprietor.

"I am sorry I have not," replied Mr Bunker (to still call him by the name of his choice).

"His name is Francis Beveridge," said Welsh.

"I beg your pardon; it is Mandell-Essington."

"Any other description?" Welsh asked, with a sneer.