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“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?”
Now, I’m plain Robert Welsh, whose uncles, as far as I am aware, don’t know a baronet among ’em.” He smiled a little sardonically. “And the baron at Fogelschloss,” said Twiddel. “Who insisted on learning my pedigree back to Alfred the Great! Gad, I gave it him, though, and I doubt whether the real Essington could have done as much.
“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.
“We’ll catch him soon, old man,” said Welsh, smiling more affably than he had smiled since they came back. “A day or two more of this kind of work and even London won’t be able to conceal him any longer.” “Dash it, we must,” replied Twiddel, bravely. “We’ll show old Congleton how to look for a lunatic.” “Ha, ha!” laughed Welsh, “I think he’ll be rather relieved himself.
“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.”
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.” “Confound her!” said Twiddel, taking the letter.
“I’m only sorry it’s all over,” Welsh went on, gazing regretfully up at the lamp of the carriage. “I’d give the remains of my character and my chance of a public funeral to be starting again from Paris by the morning train!” Twiddel laughed. “With the same head you had that morning?” “Yes, by George! Even with the same mile of dusty gullet!”
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