oked 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 bluster.

"I say, my man," he cried, "this won't pass. 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," blustered 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 practitioner 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," assented 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 s