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This might not entirely satisfy the aspirations of his soul, yet it seemed to serve as some vent for his pent-up spirit. He turned to his spouse with a pleasantly meditative air. "I should like to see old Bonker vunce more," he observed. "Bunker? You mean Mr. Mandell-Essington?" said she, with an apprehensive note in her voice. "To me he vill alvays be Bonker."
“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. “His name is Francis Beveridge,” said Welsh.
Nothing so fundamental had happened to either of our friends. The Baron's fullness of contour we have already noticed; in Mandell-Essington, EX Bunker, was to be seen even less evidence of the march of time.
“I am Mr Mandell-Essington, Baron.” The Baron looked at the other two in turn with wide-open eyes. Then he turned indignantly upon Welsh. “You were impostor zen, sare? You gom to my house and call yourself a gentleman, and impose upon me, and tell of your family and your estates. You, a low—er—er—vat you say?—a low cad! Bonker, I cannot sit at ze same table viz zese persons!” He rose as he spoke.
I have now much pleasure in offering you the post, if you would care to accept it. You will find your patient, Mr Mandell-Essington, an extremely agreeable young man when in possession of his proper faculties.
Bot, how? vat makes it here?” “My dear Baron, the most unfortunate mistake has occurred. Two men here——” But at this moment he stopped in great surprise, for the Baron was staring hard first at Welsh and then at Twiddel. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “Mr Mandell-Essington, I zink?” Welsh hesitated for an instant, and his hesitation was evident to all. Then he replied, “No, you are mistaken.”
“Surely I cannot be; you did stay in Fogelschloss?” said the Baron. “Is not zis Dr Twiddel?” “No—er—ah—yes,” stammered Twiddel, looking feebly at Welsh. The Baron looked from the one to the other in great perplexity, when Mr Bunker, who had been much puzzled by this conversation, broke in, “Did you call that person Mandell-Essington?” “I cairtainly zought it vas.” “Where did you meet him?”
“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.”
“I beg your pardon; it is Mandell-Essington.” “Any other description?” Welsh asked, with a sneer. “A gentleman, I believe.” “No other occupation?” “Not unless you can call a justice of the peace such,” replied Mr Bunker, with a smile. “And yet he disguises himself as a clergyman!” exclaimed Welsh, triumphantly, turning to the proprietor.
“I should have thought,” said Welsh, with a laugh, “that they would only matter to himself.” “But he is homicidal too—or at least it’s doubtful. I want to know a little more about that, thank you!” “What is the man’s name?” “Mandell-Essington.” “Sounds aristocratic. He might come in useful afterwards, when he’s cured.”
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