“Now,” said Mr Bunker to Welsh, “you will perhaps be kind enough to give me a precise account of your doings since the middle of November.”
“I’m d——d if I do,” replied Welsh.
“Sare,” interposed the Baron in his stateliest manner, “I know not now who you may be, but I see you are no gentleman. Ven you are viz gentlemen—and noblemen—you vill please to speak respectfully.”
The stare that Welsh attempted in reply was somewhat ineffective.
“Perhaps, Dr Twiddel, you can give the account I want?” said Mr Bunker.
The poor doctor looked at his friend, hesitated, and finally stammered out, “I—I don’t see why.”
Mr Bunker pulled a paper out of his pocket and showed it to him.
“Perhaps this may suggest a why.”
When the doctor saw the bill for Mr Beveridge’s linen, the last of his courage ebbed away. He glanced helplessly at Welsh, but his ally was now leaning back in his chair with such an irritating assumption of indifference, and the prospective fee had so obviously vanished, that he was suddenly seized with the most virtuous resolutions.
“What do you want to know, sir?” he asked.