“For his health,” added the Baron.
A light began to dawn on Mr Bunker.
“His health?” he cried, and then smiled politely at Welsh.
“We will talk this over, Mr Welsh.”
“I am sorry I happen to be going,” said Welsh, taking his hat and coat.
“What, without your lunatic?” asked Mr Bunker.
“That is Dr Twiddel’s affair, not mine. Kindly let me pass, sir.”
“No, Mr Welsh; if you go now, it will be in the company [pg 215] of that policeman you were so anxious to send for.” There was such an unmistakable threat in Mr Bunker’s voice and eye that Welsh hesitated. “We will talk it over, Mr Welsh,” Mr Bunker repeated distinctly. “Kindly sit down. I have several things to ask you and your friend Dr Twiddel.”
Muttering something under his breath, Welsh hung up his coat and hat, sat down, and then assuming an air of great impudence, remarked, “Fire away, Mr Mandell-Essington—Beveridge—Bunker, or whatever you call yourself.”
Without paying the slightest attention to this piece of humour, Mr Bunker turned to the bewildered proprietor, and, to the intense disappointment of the audience, said, “You can leave us now, thank you; our talk is likely to be of a somewhat private nature.” As their gallery withdrew, he drew up a chair for the Baron, and all four sat round the small table.