“You most write,” said the Baron, “tell me 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 [pg 178] to try the rôle 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.