“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 the sporting baronet who knew my uncle? 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. I’d rather surprise some of these noblemen if I turned up again in my true character!”
“Thank the Lord, we’re not likely to meet them again!” exclaimed the doctor, devoutly.