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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 kill all the patients before I come back.—Ever thine,
Welsh’s first effort, as soon as they were established in their new quarters, was to induce his friend to go down to Clankwood and make further inquiries, but this Twiddel absolutely declined to do. “My dear chap,” he answered, “supposing anything were found out, or even suspected, what am I to say?
Somehow or other he felt that he was already a kind of Guy Fawkes. There was something so unlawful in Welsh’s expression. They sat there without speaking for about ten minutes, and then all of a sudden Welsh sprang up with a shout of laughter, slapping first his own leg and then the doctor’s back. “By Gad, I’ve got it!” he cried. “I have it!” And he had; hence this tale.
“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.
This confirmation of Mr Bunker’s aliases ought, one would expect, to have delighted the two conspirators, but, instead, it produced the most remarkable effect. Twiddel utterly collapsed, while even Welsh’s impudence at last deserted him. Neither said a word as the Baron von Blitzenberg greeted his friend with affectionate heartiness. “My friend, zis is good for ze heart!
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