e vere you are. I shall not tell
any soul, bot ven I can, I shall gom up, and ve shall sup togezzer vunce
more. Pairhaps ve may haf anozzer adventure, ha, ha!"

The Baron's laugh was almost too hearty to be true.

"I shall let you know, as soon as I find a room. It won't be in the
Mayonaise this time! Good-bye: good sport and luck in love!"

"Good-bye, my frient, good-bye," said the Baron, squeezing his hand.

His friend was half out of the door when he turned, and said with an
intonation quite foreign either to Beveridge or Bunker, and yet which came
very pleasantly, "I forgot to warn you of one thing when I advised you to
try the _role_ of certified lunatic--you are not likely to make so good a
friend as I have."

He shut the door noiselessly and was gone.

The Baron stood in the middle of the floor for fully five minutes, looking
blankly at the closed door; then with a sigh he turned out the light and
tumbled into bed again.

PART IV.

CHAPTER I.

The Dover express was nearing town: evening had begun to draw in, and from
the wayside houses people saw the train roar by like a huge glowworm; but
they could hardly guess that it was hurrying two real actors to the climax
of a real comedy.

From the opposite sides of a first-class carriage these two looked
cheerfully at one another. The Channel was safely behind them, London was
close ahead, and the piston of the engine seemed to thump a triumphal air.

"We've done it, Twiddel, my boy!" said the one.

"Thank Heaven!" replied the other.

"_And_ myself," added his friend.

"Yes," said Twiddel; "you played your part uncommonly well, Welsh."

"It was the deuce of a fine spree!" sighed Welsh.

"The deuce," assented Twiddel.

"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!"

"It's all over now," said Twiddel, philosophically, and yet rather
nervously--"at least the amusing part of it."

"All the fun, my boy, all the fun. All the dinners and the drinks, and the
touching of hats to the aristocratic travellers, and the girls that
sighed, and the bowing and scraping. Do you remember