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It required half an hour of the Count’s most artful blandishments to persuade him that duty, honor, and prudence all summoned him to the feast. This being accomplished, he next endeavored to convince him that he would feel more comfortable in the airy freedom of the Tulliwuddle tartan. But here the Baron was obdurate. Now that the kilt lay ready to his hand he could not be persuaded even to look at it. In gloomy silence he donned his conventional evening dress and announced, last thing before they left their room–

“Bonker, say no more! To-morrow morning I depart!”

Their hostess had explained that a merely informal dinner awaited them, since his lordship (she observed) would no doubt prefer a quiet evening after his long journey. But Mrs. Gallosh was one of those good ladies who are fond of asking their friends to take “pot luck,” and then providing them with fourteen courses; or suggesting a “quiet little evening together,” when they have previously removed the drawing- room carpet. It is an affectation of modesty apt to disconcert the retiring guest who takes them at their word. In the drawing-room of Mrs. Gallosh the startled Baron found assembled–firstly, the Gallosh family, consisting of all those whose acquaintance we have already made, and in addition two stalwart school- boy sons; secondly, their house-party, who comprised a Mr. and Mrs. Rentoul, from the same metropolis of commerce as Mr. Gallosh, and a hatchet-faced young man with glasses, answering to the name of Mr. Cromarty- Gow; and, finally, one or two neighbors. These last included Mr. M’Fadyen, the large factor; the Established Church, U.F., Wee Free, Episcopalian, and Original Secession ministers, all of whom, together with their kirks, flourished within a four-mile radius of the Castle; the wives to three of the above; three young men and their tutor, being some portion of a reading-party in the village; and Mrs. Cameron- Campbell and her five daughters, from a neighboring dower-house upon the loch.

It was fortunate that all these people were prepared to be impressed with Lord Tulliwuddle, whatever he should say or do; and further, that the unique position of such a famous hereditary magnate even led them to anticipate some marked deviation from the ordinary canons of conduct. Otherwise, the gloomy brows; the stare, apparently haughty, in reality alarmed; the strange accent and the brief responses of the chief guest, might have caused an unfavorable opinion of his character.

As it was, his aloofness, however natural, would probably have proved depressing had it not been for the gay charm and agreeable condescension of the other nobleman. Seldom had more rested upon that adventurer’s shoulders, and never had he acquitted himself with greater credit. It was with considerable secret concern that he found himself placed at the opposite end of the table from his friend, but his tongue rattled as gaily and his smiles came as readily as ever. With Mrs. Cameron-Campbell on one side, and a minister’s lady upon the other, his host two places distant, and a considerable audience of silent eaters within earshot, he successfully managed to divert the attention of quite half the table from the chieftain’s moody humor.

“I always feel at home with a Scotsman,” he discoursed genially. “His imagination is so quick, his intellect so clear, his honesty so remarkable, and” (with an irresistible glance at the minister’s lady) “his wife so charming.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Gallosh, who was mellowing rapidly under the influence of his own champagne. “I’m verra glad to see you know good folks when you meet them. What do you think now of the English?”

Having previously assured himself that his audience was neat Scotch, the polished Austrian unblushingly replied–

“The Englishman, I have observed, has a slightly slower imagination, a denser intelligence, and is less conspicuous for perfect honesty. His womankind also have less of that nameless grace and ethereal beauty which distinguish their Scottish sisters.”

It is needless to say that a more popular visitor never was seen than this discriminating foreigner, and if his ambitions had not risen above a merely personal triumph, he would have been in the highest state of satisfaction. But with a disinterested eye he every now and then sought the farther end of the table, where, between his hostess and her charming eldest daughter, and facing his factor, the Baron had to endure his ordeal unsupported.

“I wonder how the devil he’s getting on!” he more than once said to himself.

For better or for worse, as the dinner advanced, he began to hear the Court accent more frequently, till his curiosity became extreme.

“His lordship seems in better spirits,” remarked Mr. Gallosh.

“I hope to Heaven he may be!” was the fervent thought of Count Bunker.

At that moment the point was settled. With his old roar of exuberant gusto the Baron announced, in a voice that drowned even the five ministers–

“Ach, yes, I vill toss ze caber to-morrow! I vill toss him–so high!” (his napkin flapped upwards). “How long shall he be? So tall as my castle: Mees Gallosh, you shall help me? Ach, yes! Mit hands so fair ze caber vill spring like zis!”

His pudding-spoon, in vivid illustration, skipped across the table and struck his factor smartly on the shirt-front.

“Sare, I beg your pardon,” he beamed with a graciousness that charmed Mrs. Gallosh even more than his spirited conversation–“Ach, do not return it, please! It is from my castle silver–keep it in memory of zis happy night!”

The royal generosity of this act almost reconciled Mrs. Gallosh to the loss of one of her own silver spoons.

“Saved!” sighed Bunker, draining his glass with a relish he had not felt in any item of the feast hitherto.

Now that the Baron’s courage had returned, no heraldic lion ever pranced more bravely. His laughter, his jests, his compliments were showered upon the delighted diners. Mr. Gallosh and he drank healths down the whole length of the table “mit no tap-heels!” at least four times. He peeled an orange for Miss Gallosh, and cut the skin into the most diverting figures, pressing her hand tenderly as he presented her with these works of art. He inquired of Mrs. Gallosh the names of the clergymen, and, shouting something distantly resembling these, toasted them each and all with what he conceived to be appropriate comments. Finally he rose to his feet, and, to the surprise and delight of all, delivered the speech they had been disappointed of earlier in the day.

“Goot Mr. Gallosh, fair Mrs. Gallosh, divine Mees Gallosh, and all ze ladies and gentlemans, how sorry I vas I could not make my speech before, I cannot eggspress. I had a headache, and vas not vell vithin. Ach, soch zings vill happen in a new climate. Bot now I am inspired to tell you I loff you all! I zank you eggstremely! How can I return zis hospitality? I vill tell you! You must all go to Bavaria and stay mit—-“

“Tulliwuddle! Tulliwuddle!” shouted Bunker frantically, to the great amazement of the company. “Allow me to invite the company myself to stay with me in Bavaria!”

The Baron turned crimson, as he realized the abyss of error into which he had so nearly plunged. Adroitly the Count covered his confusion with a fit of laughter so ingeniously hearty that in a moment he had joined in it too.

“Ha, ha, ha!” he shouted. “Zat was a leetle joke at my friend’s eggspense. It is here, in my castle, you shall visit me; some day very soon I shall live in him. Meanvile, dear Mrs. Gallosh, gonsider it your home! For me you make it heaven, and I cannot ask more zan zat! Now let us gom and have some fon!”

A salvo of applause greeted this conclusion. At the Baron’s impetuous request the cigars were brought into the hall, and ladies and gentlemen all trooped out together.

“I cannot vait till I have seen Miss Gallosh dance ze Highland reel,” he explained to her gratified mother; “she has promised me.”

“But you must dance too, Lord Tulliwuddle,” said ravishing Miss Gallosh. “You know you said you would.”

“A promise to a lady is a law,” replied the Baron gallantly, adding in a lower tone, “especially to so fair a lady!”

“It’s a pity his lordship hadn’t on his kilt,” put in Mr. Gallosh genially.

“By ze Gad, I vill put him on! Hoch! Ve vill have some fon!”

The Baron rushed from the hall, followed in a moment by his noble friend. Bunker found him already wrapping many yards of tartan about his waist.

“But, my dear fellow, you must take off your trousers,” he expostulated.

Despite his glee, the Baron answered with something of the Blitzenberg dignity–

“Ze bare leg I cannot show to-night–not to dance mit ze young ladies. Ven I have practised, perhaps; but not now, Bonker.”

Accordingly the portraits of four centuries of Tulliwuddles beheld their representative appear in the very castle of Hechnahoul with his trouser-legs capering beneath an ill-hung petticoat of tartan. And, to make matters worse in their canvas eyes, his own shameless laugh rang loudest in the mirth that greeted his entrance.

“Ze garb of Gaul!” he announced, shaking with hilarity. “Gom, Bonker, dance mit me ze Highland fling!”

The first night of Lord Tulliwuddle’s visit to his ancestral halls is still remembered among his native hills. The Count also, his mind now rapturously at ease, performed prodigies. They danced together what they were pleased to call the latest thing in London, sang a duet, waltzed with the younger ladies, till hardly a head was left unturned, and, in short, sent away the ministers and their ladies, the five Miss Cameron-Campbells, the reading-party, and particularly the factor, with a new conception of a Highland chief. As for the house-party, they felt that they were fortunate beyond the lot of most ordinary mortals.

CHAPTER X

The Baron sat among his heirlooms, laboriously disengaging himself from his kilt. Fitfully throughout this process he would warble
snatches of an air which Miss Gallosh had sung.

“Whae vould not dee for Sharlie?” he trolled, “Ze yong chevalier!”

“Then you don’t think of leaving to-morrow morning?” asked Count Bunker, who was watching him with a complacent air.

“Mein Gott, no fears!”

“We had better wait, perhaps, till the afternoon?”

“I go not for tree veeks! Gaben sie–das ist, gim’me zat tombler. Vun more of mountain juice to ze health of all Galloshes! Partic’ly of vun! Eh, old Bonker?”

The Count took care to see that the mountain juice was well diluted. His friend had already found Scottish hospitality difficult to enjoy in moderation.

“Baron, you gave us a marvellously lifelike representation of a Jacobite chieftain!”

The Baron laughed a trifle vacantly.

“Ach, it is easy for me. Himmel, a Blitzenberg should know how! Vollytoddle–Toddyvolly–whatsh my name, Bonker?”

The Count informed him.

“Tollivoddlesh is nozing to vat I am at home! Abs’lutely nozing! I have a house twice as big as zis, and servants–Ach, so many I know not! Bot, mein Bonker, it is not soch fon as zis! Mein Gott, I most get to bed. I toss ze caber to-morrow.”

And upon the arm of his faithful ally he moved cautiously towards his bedroom.

But if he had enjoyed his evening well, his pleasure was nothing to the gratification of his hosts. They could not bring themselves to break up their party for the night: there were so many delightful reminiscences to discuss.

“Of all the evenings ever I spent,” declared Mr. Gallosh, “this fair takes the cake. Just to think of that aristocratic young fellow being as companionable- like! When first I put eyes on him, I said to myself– ‘You’re not for the likes of us. All lords and ladies is your kind. Never a word did he say in the boat till he heard the pipes play, and then I really thought he was frightened! It must just have been a kind of home-sickness or something.”

“It’ll have been the tuning up that set his teeth on edge,” Mrs. Gallosh suggested practically.

“Or perhaps his heart was stirred with thoughts of the past!” said Miss Gallosh, her eyes brightening.

In any case, all were agreed that the development of his hereditary instincts had been extraordinarily rapid.

“I never really properly talked with a lord before,” sighed Mrs. Rentoul; “I hope they’re all like this one.”

Mrs. Gallosh, on the other hand, who boasted of having had one tete-a-tete and joined in several general conversations with the peerage, appraised Lord Tulliwuddle with greater discrimination.

“Ah, he’s got a soupcon!” she declared. “That’s what I admire!”

“Do you mean his German accent?” asked Mr. Cromarty-Gow, who was renowned for a cynical wit, and had been seeking an occasion to air it ever since Lord Tulliwuddle had made Miss Gallosh promise to dance a reel with him.

But the feeling of the party was so strongly against a breath of irreverent criticism, and their protest so emphatic, that he presently strolled off to the smoking- room, wishing that Miss Gallosh, at least, would exercise more critical discrimination.

“Do you think would they like breakfast in their own room, Duncan?” asked Mrs. Gallosh.

“Offer it them–offer it them; they can but refuse, and it’s a kind of compliment to give them the opportunity.”

“His lordship will not be wanting to rise early,” said Mr. Rentoul. “Did you notice what an amount he could drink, Duncan? Man, and he carried it fine! But he’ll be the better of a sleep-in in the morning, him coming from a journey too.”

Mr. Rentoul was a recognized authority on such questions, having, before the days of his affluence, travelled for a notable firm of distillers. His praise of Lord Tulliwuddle’s capacity was loudly echoed by Mr. Gallosh, and even the ladies could not but indulgently agree that he had exhibited a strength of head worthy of his race.

“And yet he was a wee thing touched too,” said Mr. Rentoul sagely. “Maybe you were too far gone yourself, Duncan, to notice it, and the ladies would just think it was gallantry; but I saw it in his voice and his legs–oh, just a wee thingie, nothing to speak of.”

“Surely you are mistaken!” cried Miss Gallosh. “Wasn’t it only excitement at finding himself at Hechnahoul?”

“There’s two kinds of excitement,” answered the oracle. “And this was the kind I’m best acquaint with. Oh, but it was just a wee bittie.”

“And who thinks the worse of him for it?” cried Mr. Gallosh.

This question was answered by general acclamation in a manner and with a spirit that proved how deeply his lordship’s gracious behavior had laid hold of all hearts.

CHAPTER XI

Breakfast in the private parlor was laid for two; but it was only Count Bunker, arrayed in a becoming suit of knickerbockers, and looking as fresh as if he had feasted last night on aerated water, who sat down to consume it.

“Who would be his ordinary everyday self when there are fifty more amusing parts to play,” he reflected gaily, as he sipped his coffee. “Blitzenberg and Essington were two conventional members of society, ageing ingloriously, tamely approaching five- and-thirty in bath-chairs. Tulliwuddle and Bunker are paladins of romance! We thought we had grown up–thank Heaven, we were deceived!”

Having breakfasted and lit a cigarette, he essayed for the second time to arouse the Baron; but getting nothing but the most somnolent responses, he set out for a stroll, visiting the gardens, stables, kennels, and keeper’s house, and even inspecting a likely pool or two upon the river, and making in the course of it several useful acquaintances among the Tulliwuddle retainers.

When he returned he found the Baron stirring a cup of strong tea and staring at an ancestral portrait with a thoughtful frown.

“They are preparing the caber, Baron,” he remarked genially.

“Stoff and nonsense; I vill not fling her!” was the wholly unexpected reply. “I do not love to play ze fool alvays!”

“My dear Baron!”

“Zat picture,” said the Baron, nodding his head solemnly towards the portrait. “It is like ze Lord Tollyvoddle in ze print at ze hotel. I do believe he is ze same.”

“But I explained that he wasn’t Tulliwuddle.”

“He is so like,” repeated the Baron moodily. “He most be ze same.”

Bunker looked at it and shook his head.

“A different man, I assure you.”

“Oh, ze devil!” replied the Baron.

“What’s the matter?”

“I haff a head zat tvists and turns like my head never did since many years.”

The Count had already surmised as much.

“Hang it out of the window,” he suggested.

The Baron made no reply for some minutes. Then with an earnest air he began–

“Bonker, I have somezing to say to you.”

“You have the most sympathetic audience outside the clan.”

The Count’s cheerful tone did not seem to please his friend.

“Your heart, he is too light, Bonker; ja, too light. Last night you did engourage me not to be seemly.”

“I!”

“I did get almost dronk. If my head vas not so hard I should be dronk. Das ist not right. If I am to be ze Tollyvoddle, it most be as I vould be Von Blitzenberg. I most not forget zat I am not as ozzer men. I am noble, and most be so accordingly.”

“What steps do you propose to take?” inquired Bunker with perfect gravity.

The Baron stared at the picture.

“Last night I had a dream. It vas zat man–at least, probably it vas, for I cannot remember eggsactly. He did pursue me mit a kilt.”

“With what did you defend yourself?”

“I know not: I jost remember zat it should be a warning. Ve Blitzenbergs have ze gift to dream.”

The Baron rose from the table and lit a cigar. After three puffs he threw it from him.

“I cannot smoke,” he said dismally. “It has a onpleasant taste.”

The Count assumed a seriously thoughtful air.

“No doubt you will wish to see Miss Maddison as soon as possible and get it over,” he began. “I have just learned that their place is about seven miles away. We could borrow a trap this afternoon—-“

“Nein, nein!” interrupted the Baron. “Donnerwetter! Ach, no, it most not be so soon. I most
practise a leetle first. Not so immediately, Bonker.”

Bunker looked at him with a glance of unfathomable calm.

“I find that it will be necessary for you to observe one or two ancient ceremonies, associated from time immemorial with the accession of a Tulliwuddle. You are prepared for the ordeal?”

“I most do my duty, Bonker.”

“This suggests some more inspiring vision than the gentleman in the gold frame,” thought the Count acutely.

Aloud he remarked

“You have high ideals, Baron.”

“I hope so.”

Again the Baron was the unconscious object of a humorous, perspicacious scrutiny.

“Last night I did hear zat moch was to be expected from me,” he observed at length.

“From Mrs. Gallosh?”

“I do not zink it vas from Mrs. Gallosh.”

Count Bunker smiled.

“You inflamed all hearts last night,” said he.

The Baron looked grave.

“I did drink too moch last night. But I did not say vat I should not, eh? I vas not rude or gross to– Mistair Gallosh?”

“Not to Mr. Gallosh.”

The Baron looked a trifle perturbed at the gravity of his tone.

“I vas not too free, too undignified in presence of zat innocent and charming lady–Miss Gallosh?”

The air of scrutiny passed from Count Bunker’s face, and a droll smile came instead.

“Baron, I understand your ideals and I appreciate your motives. As you suggest, you had better rehearse your part quietly for a few days. Miss Maddison will find you the more perfect suitor.”

The Baron looked as though he knew not whether to feel satisfied or not.

“By the way,” said the Count in a moment, “have you written to the Baroness yet? Pardon me for reminding you, but you must remember that your letters will have to go out to Russia and back.”

The Baron started.

“Teufel!” he exclaimed. “I most indeed write.”

“The post goes at twelve.”

The Baron reflected gloomily, and then slowly moved to the writing-table and toyed with his pen. A few minutes passed, and then in a fretful voice he asked–

“Vat shall I say?”

“Tell her about your journey across Europe–how the crops look in Russia–what you think of St. Petersburg– that sort of thing.”

A silent quarter of an hour went by, and then the Baron burst out

“Ach, I cannot write to-day! I cannot invent like you. Ze crops–I have got zat–and zat I arrived safe –and zat Petersburg is nice. Vat else?”

“Anything you can remember from text-books on Muscovy or illustrated interviews with the Czar. Just a word or two, don’t you know, to show you’ve been there; with a few comments of your own.”

“Vat like comments?”

“Such as–‘Somewhat annoyed with bombs this afternoon,’ or ‘This caused me to reflect upon the disadvantages of an alcoholic marine’–any little bit of philosophy that occurs to you.”

The Baron pondered.

“It is a pity zat I have not been in Rossia,” he observed.

“On the other hand, it is a blessing your wife hasn’t. Look at the bright side of things, my dear fellow.”

For a short time, from the way in which the Baron took hasty notes in pencil and elaborated them in ink (according to the system of Professor Virchausen), it appeared that he was following his friend’s directions. Later, from a sentimental look in his eye, the Count surmised that he was composing an amorous addendum; and at last he laid down his pen with a sigh which the cynical (but only the cynical) might have attributed to relief.

“Ha, my head he is getting more clear!” he announced. “Gom, let us present ourselves to ze ladies, mine Bonker!”

CHAPTER XII

“It is necessary, Bonker–you are sure?”

“No Tulliwuddle has ever omitted the ceremony. If you shirked, I am assured on the very best authority that it would excite the gravest suspicions of your authenticity.”

Count Bunker spoke with an air of the most resolute conviction. Ever since they arrived he had taken infinite pains to discover precisely what was expected of the chieftain, and having by great good luck made the acquaintance of an elderly individual who claimed to be the piper of the clan, and who proved a perfect granary of legends, he was able to supply complete information on every point of importance. Once the Baron had endeavored to corroborate these particulars by interviewing the piper himself, but they had found so much difficulty in understanding one another’s dialects that he had been content to trust implicitly to his friend’s information. The Count, indeed, had rather avoided than sought advice on the subject, and the piper, after several confidential conversations and the passage of a sum of silver into his sporran, displayed an equally Delphic tendency.

The Baron, therefore, argued the present point no longer.

“It is jost a mere ceremony,” he said. “Ach, vell, nozing vill happen. Zis ghost–vat is his name?”

“It is known as the Wraith of the Tulliwuddles. The heir must interview it within a week of coming to the Castle.”

“Vere most I see him?”

“In the armory, at midnight. You bring one friend, one candle, and wear a bonnet with one eagle’s feather in it. You enter at eleven and wait for an hour–and, by the way, neither of you must speak above a whisper.”

“Pooh! Jost hombog!” said the Baron valiantly. “I do not fear soch trash.”

“When the Wraith appears—-“

“My goot Bonker, he vill not gom!”

“Supposing he does come–and mind you, strange things happen in these old buildings, particularly in the Highlands, and after dinner; if he comes, Baron, you must ask him three questions.”

The Baron laughed scornfully.

“If I see a ghost I vill ask him many interesting questions–if he does feel cold, and sochlike, eh? Ha, ha!”

With an imperturbable gravity that was not without its effect upon the other, however gaily he might talk, Bunker continued

“The three questions are: first, ‘What art thou?’ second, ‘Why comest thou here, O spirit?’ third, ‘What instructions desirest thou to give me?’ Strictly speaking, they ought to be asked in Gaelic, but exceptions have been made on former occasions, and Mac- Dui–who pipes, by the way, in the anteroom–assures me that English will satisfy the Wraith in your case.”

The Baron sniffed and laughed, and twirled up the ends of his mustaches till they presented a particularly desperate appearance. Yet there was a faint intonation of anxiety in his voice as he inquired–

“You vill gom as my friend, of course?”

“I? Quite out of the question, I am sorry to say. To bring a foreigner (as I am supposed to be) would rouse the clan to rebellion. No, Baron, you have a chance of paying a graceful compliment to your host which you must not lose. Ask Mr. Gallosh to share your vigil.”

“Gallosh–he vould not be moch good sopposing– Ach, but nozing vill happen! I vill ask him.”

The pride of Mr. Gallosh on being selected as his lordship’s friend on this historic occasion was pleasant to witness.

“It’s just a bit of fiddle-de-dee,” he informed his delighted family. “Duncan Gallosh to be looking for bogles is pretty ridiculous–but oh, I can’t refuse to disoblige his lordship.”

“I should think not, when he’s done you the honor to invite you out of all his friends!” said Mrs. Gallosh warmly. “Eva! do you hear the compliment that’s been paid your papa?”

Eva, their fair eldest daughter, came into the room at a run. She had indeed heard (since the news was on every tongue), and impetuously she flung her arms about her father’s neck.

“Oh, papa, do him credit!” she cried; “it’s like a story come true! What a romantic thing to happen!”

“What a spirit!” her mother reflected proudly. “She is just the girl for a chieftain’s bride!”

That very night was chosen for the ceremony, and eleven o’clock found them all assembled breathless in the drawing-room: all, save Lord Tulliwuddle and his host.

“Will they have to wait for a whole hour?” asked Mrs. Gallosh in a low voice.

Indeed they all spoke in subdued accents.

“I am told,” replied the Count, “that the apparition never appears till after midnight has struck. Any time between twelve and one he may be expected.”

“Think of the terrible suspense after twelve has passed!” whispered Eva.

The Count had thought of this.

“I advised Duncan to take his flask,” said Mr. Rentoul, with a solemn wink. “So he’ll not be so badly off.”

“Papa would never do such a thing to-night!” cried Eva.

“It’s always a kind of precaution,” said the sage.

Presently Count Bunker, who had been imparting the most terrific particulars of former interviews with the Wraith to the younger Galloshes, remarked that he must pass the time by overtaking some pressing correspondence.

“You will forgive me, I hope, for shutting myself up for an hour or so,” he said to his hostess. “I shall come back in time to learn the results of the meeting.”

And with the loss of his encouraging company a greater uneasiness fell upon the party.

Meanwhile, in a vast cavern of darkness, lit only by the solitary candle, the Baron and his host endeavored to maintain the sceptical buoyancy with which they had set forth upon their adventure. But the chilliness of the room (they had no fire, and it was a misty night with a moaning wind), the inordinate quantity of odd- looking shadows, and the profound silence, were immediately destructive to buoyancy and ultimately trying to scepticism.

“I wish ze piper vould play,” whispered the Baron.

“Mebbe he’ll begin nearer the time,” his companion suggested.

The Baron shivered. For the first time he had been persuaded to wear the full panoply of a Highland chief, and though he had exhibited himself to the ladies with much pride, and even in the course of dinner had promised Eva Gallosh that he would never again don anything less romantic, he now began to think that a travelling-rug of the Tulliwuddle tartan would prove a useful addition to the outfit on the occasion of a midnight vigil. Also the stern prohibition against talking aloud (corroborated by the piper with many guttural warnings) grew more and more irksome as the night advanced.

“It’s an awesome place,” whispered Mr. Gallosh.

“I hardly thought it would have been as lonesome- like.”

There was a tremor in his voice that irritated the Baron.

“Pooh!” he answered, “it is jost vun old piece of hombog! I do not believe in soch things myself.”

“Neither do I, my lord; oh, neither do I; but– would you fancy a dram?”

“Not for me, I zank you,” said his lordship stiffly.

Blessing the foresight of Mr. Rentoul, his host unscrewed his flask and had a generous swig. As he was screwing on the top again, the Baron, in a less haughty voice, whispered

“Perhaps jost vun leetle taste.”

They felt now for a few minutes more aggressively disposed.

“Ve need not have ze curtain shut,” said the Baron. “Soppose you do draw him?”

Through the gloom Mr. Gallosh took one or two faltering steps.

“Man, it’s awful hard to see one’s way,” he said nervously.

The Baron took the candle, and with a martial stride escorted him to the window. They pulled aside one corner of the heavy curtain, and then let it fall again and hurried back. So far north there was indeed a gleam of daylight left, but it was such a pale and ghostly ray, and the wreaths of mist swept so eerily and silently across the pane, that candle-light and shadows seemed vastly preferable.

“How much more time will there be?” whispered Mr. Gallosh presently.

“It is twenty-five minutes to twelve.”

“Your lordship! Can we leave at twelve?”

The Baron started.

“Oh, Himmel!” he exclaimed. “Vy did I not realize before? If nozing comes–and nozing vill come–ve most stay till one, I soppose.”

Mr. Gallosh emitted something like a groan.

“Oh my, and that candle will not last more than half an hour at the most!”

“Teufel!” said the Baron. “It vas Bonker did give him to me. He might have made a more proper calculation.”

The prospect was now gloomy indeed. An hour of candle-light had been bad, but an hour of pitch darkness or of mist wreaths would be many times worse.

“A wee tastie more, my lord?” Mr. Gallosh suggested, in a voice whose vibrations he made an effort to conceal.

“Jost a vee,” said his lordship, hardly more firmly.

With a dismal disregard for their suspense the minutes dragged infinitely slowly. The flask was finished; the candle guttered and flickered ominously; the very shadows grew restless.

“There’s a lot of secret doors and such like in this part of the house–let’s hope there’ll be nothing coming through one of them,” said Mr. Gallosh in a breaking voice.

The Baron muttered an inaudible reply, and then with a start their shoulders bumped together.

“Damn it, what’s yon!” whispered Mr. Gallosh.

“Ze pipes! Gallosh, how beastly he does play!”

In point of fact the air seemed to consist of only one wailing note.

“Bong!”–they heard the first stroke of midnight on the big clock on the Castle Tower; and so unfortunately had Count Bunker timed the candle that on the instant its flame expired.

“Vithdraw ze curtains!” gasped the Baron.

“I canna, my lord! Oh, I canna!” wailed Mr. Gallosh, breaking out into his broadest native Scotch.

This time the Baron made no movement, and in the palpitating silence the two sat through one long dark minute after another, till some ten of them had passed.

“I shall stand it no more!” muttered the Baron. “Ve vill creep for ze door.”

“My lord, my lord! For maircy’s sake gie’s a hold of you!” stammered Mr. Gallosh, falling on his hands and knees and feeling for the skirt of his lordship’s kilt.

But their flight was arrested by a portent so remarkable that had there been only a single witness one would suppose it to be a figment of his imagination. Fortunately, however, both the Baron and Mr. Gallosh can corroborate each detail. About the middle, apparently, of the wall opposite, an oblong of light appeared in the thickest of the gloom.

“Mein Gott!” cried the Baron.

“It’s filled wi’ reek!” gasped Mr. Gallosh.

And indeed the space seemed filled with a slowly rising cloud of pungent blue smoke. Then their horrified eyes beheld the figure of an undoubted Being hazily outlined behind the cloud, and at the same time the piper, as if sympathetically aware of the crisis, burst into his most dreadful discords. A yell rang through the gloom, followed by the sounds of a heavy body alternately scuffling across the floor and falling prostrate over unseen furniture. The Baron felt for his host, and realized that this was the escaping Gallosh.

“Tulliwuddle! Speak!” a hollow voice muttered out of the smoke.

The Baron has never ceased to exult over the hardihood he displayed in this unnerving crisis. Rising to his feet and drawing his claymore, he actually managed to stammer out–

“Who–who are you?”

The Being (he could now perceive dimly that it was clad in tartan) answered in the same deep, measured voice–

“Your senses to confound and fuddle, Behold the Wraith of Tulliwuddle!”

This was sufficiently terrifying, one would think, to excuse the Baron for following the example of his host. But, though he found afterwards that he must have perspired freely, he courageously stood his ground.

“Vy have you gomed here?” he demanded in a voice nearly as hollow as the Wraith’

As solemnly as before the spirit replied–

“From Pit that’s bottomless and dark– Methinks I hear it shrieking–Hark!”

(The Baron certainly did hear a tumult that might well be termed infernal; though whether it emanated from Mr. Gallosh, fiends, or the piper, he could not at the moment feel certain.)

“I came o’er many leagues of heather To carry back the answer whether
The noble chieftain of my clan Conducts him like a gentleman.”

After this warning, to put the third question required an effort of the most supreme resolution. The Baron was equal to it, however.

“Vat instroction do you give me?” he managed to utter.

In the gravest accents the Wraith chanted–

“Hang ever kilt above the knee,
With Usquebaugh be not too free, When toasts and sic’like games be mooted See that your dram be well diluted; And oh, if you’d escape from Hades, Lord Tulliwuddle, ‘ware the ladies!”

The spirit vanished as magically as he had appeared, and with this solemn warning ringing in his ears, the Baron found himself in inky darkness again. This time he did not hesitate to grope madly for the door, but hardly had he reached it, when, with a fresh sensation of horror, he stumbled upon a writhing form that seemed to be pawing the panels. He was, fortunately; as quickly reassured by hearing the voice of Mr. Gallosh exclaim in terrified accents–

“I canna find the haundle! Oh, Gosh, where’s the haundle?”

Being the less frenzied of the two, the Baron did succeed in finding the handle, and with a gasp of relief burst into the lighted anteroom. The piper had already departed, and evidently in haste, since he had left some portion of a bottle of whisky unfinished. This fortunate circumstance enabled them to recover something of their color, though, even when he felt his blood warming again, Mr. Gallosh could scarcely speak coherently of his terrible ordeal.

“What an awfu’ night! what an awfu’ night!” he murmured. “Oh, my lord, let’s get out of this!”

He was making for the door when the Baron seized his arm.

“Vait!” he cried. “Ze danger is past! Ach, vas I not brave? Did you not hear me speak to him? You can bear vitness how brave I vas, eh?”

“I’ll not swear I heard just exactly what passed, my lord. Man, I’ll own I was awful feared!”

“Tuts! tuts!” said the Baron kindly. “Ve vill say nozing about zat. You stood vell by me, I shall say. And you vill tell zem I did speak mit courage to ze ghost.”

“I will that!” said Mr. Gallosh.

By the time they reached the drawing-room he had so far recovered his equanimity as to prove a very creditable witness, and between them they gave such an account of their adventure as satisfied even the excited expectations of their friends; though the Baron thought it both prudent and more becoming his dignity to leave considerable mystery attaching to the precise revelations of his ancestral spirit.

“Bot vere is Bonker?” he asked, suddenly noticing the absence of his friend.

A moment later the Count entered and listened with the greatest interest to a second (and even more graphic) account of the adventure. More intimate particulars still were confided to him when they had retired to their own room, and he appeared as surprised and impressed as any wraith-seer could desire. As they parted for the night, the Baron started and sniffed at him.

“Vat a strange smell you have!” he exclaimed.

“Peat smoke, probably. This fire wouldn’t draw.”

“Strange!” mused the Baron. “I did smell a leetle smell of zat before to-night.”

“Yes; one notices it all through the house with an east wind.”

This seemed to the Baron a complete explanation of the coincidence.

CHAPTER XIII

At the house in Belgrave Square at present tenanted by the Baron and Baroness von
Blitzenberg, an event of considerable importance had occurred. This was nothing less than the arrival of the Countess of Grillyer upon a visit both of affection and state. So important was she, and so great the attachment of her daughter, that the preparations for her reception would have served for a reigning sovereign. But the Countess had an eye as quick and an appetite for respect as exacting as Queen Elizabeth, and she had no sooner embraced the Baroness and kissed her ceremoniously upon either cheek, than her glance appeared to seek something that she deemed should have been there also.

“And where is Rudolph?” she demanded. “Is he so very busy that he cannot spare a moment even to welcome me?”

The Baroness changed color, but with as easy an air as she could assume she answered that Rudolph had most unfortunately been summoned from England.

“Indeed?” observed the Countess, and the observation was made in a tone that suggested the advisability of a satisfactory explanation.

This paragon among mothers and peeresses was a lady of majestic port, whose ascendant expression and commanding voice were commonly held to typify all that is best in the feudal system; or, in other words, to indicate that her opinions had never been contradicted in her life. When one of these is a firm belief in the holder’s divine rights and semi-divine origin, the effect is undoubtedly impressive. And the Countess impressed.

“My dear Alicia,” said she, when they had settled down to tea and confidential talk, “you have not yet told me what has taken Rudolph abroad again so soon.”

On nothing had the Baron laid more stress than on the necessity of maintaining the most profound secrecy respecting his mission. “No, not even to your mozzer most you say. My love, you vill remember?” had been almost his very last words before departing for St. Petersburg. His devoted wife had promised this not once, but many times, while his finger was being shaken at her, and would have scorned herself had she thought it possible to break her vows.

“That is a secret, mamma,” she declared.

Her mother opened her eyes.

“A secret from me, Alicia?”

“Rudolph made me promise.”

“Not to tell your friends–but that hardly was intended to include your mother.”

The Baroness looked uncomfortable.

“I–I’m afraid—-” she began, and stopped in hesitation.

“Did he specifically include me?” demanded the Countess in an altered tone.

“I think, mamma, he did,” her daughter faltered.

“Ah!”

And there was a world of meaning in that comment.

“Believe me, mamma, it is something very, very important, or Rudolph would certainly have let me tell you all about it.”

Lady Grillyer opened her eyes still wider.

“Then I am to understand that he wishes to conceal from me anything that he considers of importance?”

“Oh, no! Not that! I only mean that this thing is very secret.”

“Alicia,” pronounced the Countess, “when a man specifically conceals anything from his mother-in-law, you may be quite certain that she ought to be informed of it at once.”

“I–I can’t, mamma!”

“A trip to Germany–for it is there, I presume, he has gone–back to the scenes of his bachelorhood, unprotected by the influence of his wife! Do you call that a becoming procedure?”

“But he hasn’t gone to Germany.”

“He has no business anywhere else!”

“You forget his diplomatic duties.”

“Ah! He professes to have gone on diplomatic business?”

“Professes, mamma?” exclaimed the poor Baroness. “How can you say such a thing! He certainly has gone on a diplomatic mission!”

“To Paris, no doubt?” suggested Lady Grillyer, with an intonation that made it quite impossible not to contradict her.

“Certainly not! He has gone to Russia.”

The more the Countess learned, the more anxious she appeared to grow.

“To Russia, on a diplomatic mission? This is incredible, Alicia!”

“Why should it be incredible?” demanded Alicia, flushing.

“Because he is a mere tyro in diplomacy. Because there is a German embassy at Petersburg, and they would not send a man from London on a mission–at least, it is most unlikely.”

“It seems to me quite natural,” declared the Baroness.

She was showing more fight than her mother had ever encountered from her before, and the opposition seemed to inflame Lady Grillyer’s resentment against the unfilial couple.

“You know nothing about it! What is this mission about?”

“That certainly is a secret,” said Alicia, relieved that there was something left to keep her promise over.

“Has he gone alone?”

“I–I mustn’t tell you, mamma.”

Alicia’s face betrayed this subterfuge.

“You do not know yourself, Alicia,” said the Countess incisively. “And so you need no longer pretend to be keeping a secret from me. It now becomes our joint business to discover the actual truth. Do not attempt to wrangle with me further! This investigation is necessary for your peace of mind, dear.”

The unfortunate Baroness dropped a silent tear. Her peace of mind had been serenely undisturbed till this moment, and now it was only broken by the thought of her husband’s displeasure should he ever learn how she had disobeyed his injunctions. Further investigation was the very last thing to cure it, she said to herself bitterly. She looked piteously at her parent, but there she only saw an expression of concentrated purpose.

“Have you any reason, Alicia, to suspect an attachment–an affair of any kind?”

“Mamma!”

“Do not jump in that excitable manner. Think quietly. He has evidently returned to Germany for some purpose which he wishes to conceal from us: the natural supposition is that a woman is at the bottom of it.”

“Rudolph is incapable—-“

“No man is incapable who is in the full possession of his faculties. I know them perfectly.”

“But, mamma, I cannot bear to think of such a thing!”

“That is a merely middle-class prejudice. I can’t imagine where you have picked it up.”

In point of fact, during Alicia’s girlhood Lady Grillyer had always been at the greatest pains to preserve her daughter’s innocent simplicity, as being preeminently a more marketable commodity than precocious worldliness. But if reminded of this she would probably have retorted that consistency was middle-class also.

“I have no reason to suspect anything of the sort,” the Baroness declared emphatically.

Her mother indulged her with a pitying smile and inquired–

“What other explanation can you offer? Among his men friends is there anyone likely to lead him into mischief?”

“None–at least—-“

“Ah!”

“He promised me he would avoid Mr. Bunker–I mean Mr. Essington.”

The Countess started. She had vivid and exceedingly distasteful recollections of Mr. Bunker.

“That man! Are they still acquainted?”

“Acquainted–oh yes; but I give Rudolph credit for more sense and more truthfulness than to renew their friendship.”

The Countess pondered with a very grave expression upon her face, while Alicia gently wiped her eyes and ardently wished that her honest Rudolph was here to defend his character and refute these baseless insinuations. At length her mother said with a brisker air–

“Ah! I know exactly what we must do. I shall make a point of seeing Sir Justin Wallingford tomorrow.”

“Sir Justin Wallingford!”

“If anybody can obtain private information for us he can. We shall soon learn whether the Baron has been sent to Russia.”

Alicia uttered a cry of protest. Sir Justin, ex- diplomatist, author of a heavy volume of Victorian reminiscences, and confidant of many public personages, was one of her mother’s oldest friends; but to her he was only one degree less formidable than the Countess, and quite the last person she would have chosen for consultation upon this, or indeed upon any other subject.

“I am not going to intrust my husband’s secrets to him!” she exclaimed.

“I am,” replied the Countess.

“But I won’t allow it! Rudolph would be—-“

“Rudolph has only himself to blame. My dear Alicia, you can trust Sir Justin implicitly. When my child’s happiness is at stake I would consult no one who was not discretion itself. I am very glad I thought of him.”

The Baroness burst into tears.

“My child, my child!” said her mother compassionately. “The world is no Garden of Eden, however much we may all try to make it so.”

“You–you don’t se–seem to be trying now, mamma.”

“May Heaven forgive you, my darling,” pronounced the Countess piously.

CHAPTER XIV

“Sir Justin,” said the Countess firmly, “please tell my daughter exactly what you have discovered.”

Sir Justin Wallingford sat in the drawing- room at Belgrave Square with one of these ladies on either side of him. He was a tall, gaunt man with a grizzled black beard, a long nose, and such a formidably solemn expression that ambitious parents were in the habit of wishing that their offspring might some day be as wise as Sir Justin Wallingford looked. His fund of information was prodigious, while his reasoning powers were so remarkable that he had never been known to commit the slightest action without furnishing a full and adequate explanation of his conduct. Thus the discrimination shown by the Countess in choosing him to restore a lady’s peace of mind will at once be apparent.

“The results of my inquiries,” he pronounced, “have been on the whole of a negative nature. If this mission on which the Baron von Blitzenberg professes to be employed is in fact of an unusually delicate nature, it is just conceivable that the answer I received from Prince Gommell-Kinchen, when I sounded him at the Khalifa’s luncheon, may have been intended merely to throw dust in my eyes. At the same time, his highness appeared to speak with the candor of a man who has partaken, not excessively, you understand, but I may say freely, of the pleasures of the table.”

He looked steadily first at one lady and then at the other, to let this point sink in.

“And what did the Prince say?” asked the Baroness, who, in spite of her supreme confidence in her husband, showed a certain eager nervousness inseparable from a judicial inquiry.

“He told me–I merely give you his word, and not my own opinion; you perfectly understand that, Baroness?”

“Oh yes,” she answered hurriedly.

“He informed me that, in fact, the Baron had been obliged to ask for a fortnight’s leave of absence to attend to some very pressing and private business in connection with his Silesian estates.”

“I think, Alicia, we may take that as final,” said her mother decisively.

“Indeed _I_ shan’t!” cried Alicia warmly. “That was just an excuse, of course. Rudolph’s business is so very delicate that–that–well, that you could only expect Prince Gommell-Kinchen to say something of that sort.”

“What do you say to that, Sir Justin?” demanded the Countess.

With the air of a man doing what was only his duty, he replied–

“I say that I think it is improbable. In fact, since you demand to know the truth, I may inform you that the Prince added that leave of absence was readily given, since the Baron’s diplomatic duties are merely nominal. To quote his own words, ‘Von Blitzenberg is a nice fellow, and it pleases the English ladies to play with him.’ “

Even Lady Grillyer was a trifle taken aback at this description of her son-in-law, while Alicia turned scarlet with anger.

“I don’t believe he said anything of the sort!” she cried. “You both of you only want to hurt me and insult Rudolph! I won’t stand it!”

She was already on her feet to leave them, when her mother stopped her, and Sir Justin hastened to explain.

“No reflection upon the Baron’s character was intended, I assure you. The Prince merely meant to imply that he represented the social rather than the business side of the embassy. And both are equally necessary, I assure you–equally essential, Baroness, believe me.”

“In fact,” said the Countess, “the remark comes to this, that Rudolph would never be sent to Russia, whatever else they might expect of him.”

Even through their tears Alicia’s eyes brightened with triumph.

“But he HAS gone, mamma! I got a letter from him this morning–from St. Petersburg!”

The satisfaction of her two physicians on hearing this piece of good news took the form of a start which might well have been mistaken for mere astonishment, or even for dismay.

“And you did not tell ME of it!” cried her mother.

“Rudolph did not wish me to. I have only told you now to prove how utterly wrong you both are.”

“Let me see this letter!”

“Indeed, mamma, I won’t!”

The two ladies looked at one another with such animosity that Sir Justin felt called upon to interfere.

“Suppose the Baroness were to read us as much as is necessary to convince us that there is no possibility of a mistake,” he suggested.

So profoundly did the Countess respect his advice that she graciously waived her maternal rights so far as actually following the text with her eyes went; while her daughter, after a little demur, was induced to depart this one step further from her husband’s injunctions.

“You have no objections to my glancing at the post-mark?” said Sir Justin when this point was settled.

With a toss of her head the Baroness silently handed him the envelope.

“It seems correct,” he observed cautiously.

“But post-marks can be forged, can’t they?” inquired the Countess.

“I fear they can,” he admitted, with a sorrowful air.

Scorning to answer this insinuation, the Baroness proceeded to read aloud the following extracts

” ‘I travelled with comfort through Europe, and having by many countries passed, such as Germany and others, I arrived, my dear Alicia, in Russia.’ “

“Is that all he says about his journey?” interrupted Lady Grillyer.

“It is certainly a curiously insufficient description of a particularly interesting route,” commented Sir Justin.

“It almost seems as if he didn’t know what other countries lie between England and Russia,” added the Countess.

“It only means that he knows geography doesn’t interest me!” replied Alicia. “And he does say more about his journey–‘Alone by myself, in a carriage very quietly I travelled.’ And again–‘To be observed not wishing, and strict orders being given to me, with no man I spoke all the way.’ There!”

“That certainly makes it more difficult to check his statements,” Sir Justin admitted.

“Ah, he evidently thought of that!” said the Countess. “If he had said there was anyone with him, we could have asked him afterwards who it was. What a pity! Read on, my child–we are vastly interested.”

Thus encouraged, the Baroness continued

” ‘In Russia the crops are good, and from my window with pleasure I observe them. Petersburg is a nice town, and I have a pleasant apartment in it!’ “

“What!” exclaimed the Countess. “He is looking at the crops from his window in St. Petersburg!”

Sir Justin grimly pursed his lips, but his silence was more ominous than speech. In fact, the Baron’s unfortunate effort at realism by the introduction of his window struck the first blow at his wife’s implicit trust in him. She was evidently a little disconcerted, though she stoutly declared–

“He is evidently living in the suburbs, mamma.”

“Will you be so kind as to read on a little farther?” interposed Sir Justin in a grave voice.

” ‘The following reflections have I made. Russia is very large and cold, where people in furs are to be seen, and sledges. Bombs are thrown sometimes, and the marine is not good when it does drink too much.’ Now, mamma, he must have seen these things or he wouldn’t put them in his letter.”

The Baroness broke of somewhat hurriedly to make this comment, almost indeed as though she felt it to be necessary. As for her two comforters, they looked at one another with so much sorrow that their eyes gleamed and their lips appeared to smile.

“The Baron did not write that letter in Russia,” said Sir Justin decisively. “Furs are not worn in summer, nor do the inhabitants travel in sledges at this time of the year.”

“But–but he doesn’t say he actually saw them,” pleaded the Baroness.

“Then that remark, just like the rest of his reflections, makes utter nonsense,” rejoined her mother.

“Is that all?” inquired Sir Justin.

“Almost all–all that is important,” faltered the Baroness.

“Let us hear the rest,” said her mother inexorably.

“There is only a postscript, and that merely says– ‘The flask that you filled I thank you for; it was so large that it was sufficient for—-‘ I can’t read the last word.”

“Let me see it, Alicia.”

A few minutes ago Alicia would have torn the precious letter up rather than let another eye fall upon it. That her devotion was a little disturbed was proved by her allowing her two advisers to study even a single sentence. Keeping her hand over the rest, she showed it to them. They bent their brows, and then simultaneously exclaimed–

” ‘Us both!’ “

“Oh, it can’t be!” cried the poor Baroness.

“It is absolutely certain,” said her mother in a terrible voice–” ‘It was so large that it was sufficient for us both!’ “

“There is no doubt about it,” corroborated Sir Justin sternly. “The unfortunate young man has inadvertently confessed his deception.”

“It cannot be!” murmured the Baroness. “He said at the beginning that he travelled quite alone.”

“That is precisely what condemns him,” said her mother.

“Precisely,” reiterated Sir Justin.

The Baroness audibly sobbed, while the two patchers of her peace of mind gazed at her commiserately.

“What am I to do?” she asked at length. “I can’t believe he really—- But how am I to find out?”

“I shall make further investigations,” promptly replied Sir Justin.

“And I also,” added the Countess.

“Meanwhile,” said Sir Justin, “we shall be exceedingly interested to learn what further particulars of his wanderings the Baron supplies you with.”

“Yes,” observed the Countess, “he can fortunately be trusted to betray himself. You will inform me, Alicia, as soon as you hear from him again.”

Her daughter made no reply.

Sir Justin rose and bade them a grave farewell.

“In my daughter’s name I thank you cordially,” said the Countess, as she pressed his hand.

“Anything I have done has been a pleasure to me,” he assured them with a sincerity there was no mistaking.

CHAPTER XV

In an ancient and delightful garden, where glimpses of the loch below gleamed through a mass of summer foliage, and the gray castle walls looked down on smooth, green glades, the Baron slowly paced the shaven turf. But he did not pace it quite alone, for by his side moved a graceful figure in a wide, sun-shading hat and a frock entirely irresistible. Beneath the hat, by bending a little down, you could have seen the dark liquid eyes and tender lips of Eva Gallosh. And the Baron frequently bent down.

“I am proud of everyzing zat I find in my home,” said the Baron gallantly.

The lady’s color rose, but not apparently in anger.

“Ach, here is a pretty leetle seat!” he exclaimed in a tone of pleased discovery, just as though he had not been leading her insidiously towards it ever since they, came into the garden.

It was, indeed, a most shady and secluded bench, an ideal seat for any gallant young Baron who had left his Baroness sufficiently far away. He glanced down complacently upon his brawny knees, displayed (he could not but think) to great advantage beneath his kilt and sporran, and then with a tenderer complacency, turned his gaze upon his fair companion.

“You say you like me in ze tartan?” he murmured.

“I adore everything Highland! Oh, Lord Tulliwuddle, how fortunate you are!”

Nature had gifted Miss Gallosh with a generous share of romantic sentiment. It was she who had egged on her father to rent this Highland castle for the summer, instead of chartering a yacht as he had done for the past few years; and ever since they had come here that sentiment had grown, till she was ready to don the white cockade and plot a new Jacobite uprising. Then, while her heart was in this inspired condition, a noble young chief had stepped in to complete the story. No wonder her dark eyes burned.

“What attachment you must feel for each stone of the Castle!” she continued in a rapt voice. “How your heart must beat to remember that your great- grandfather–wasn’t his name Fergus?”

“Fergus: yes,” said the Baron, blindly but promptly.

“No, no; it was Ian, of course.”

“Ach, so! Ian he vas.”

“You were thinking of his father,” she smiled.

“Yes, his fazzer.”

She reflected sagely.

“I am afraid I get my facts mixed up some times. Ian–ah, Reginald came before him–not Fergus!”

“Reginald–oh yes, so he did!”

She looked a trifle disappointed.

“If I were you I should know them all by heart,” said she.

“I vill learn zem. Oh yes, I most not make soch mistakes.”

Indeed he registered a very sincere vow to study his family history that afternoon.

“What was I saying? Oh yes–about your brave great-grandfather. Do you know, Lord Tulliwuddle, I want to ask you a strange favor? You won’t think it very odd of me?”

“Odd? Never! Already it is granted.”

“I want to hear from your own lips–from the lips of an actual Lord Tulliwuddle–the story of your ancestor Ian’s exploit.”

With beseeching eyes and a face flushed with a sense of her presumption, she uttered this request in a voice that tore the Baron with conflicting emotions.

“Vich exploit do you mean?” he asked in a kindly voice but with a troubled eye.

“You must know! When he defended the pass, of course.”

“Ach, so!”

The Baron looked at her, and though he boasted of no such inventive gifts as his friend Bunker, his ardent heart bade him rather commit himself to perdition than refuse.

“You will tell it to me?”

“I vill!”

Making as much as possible of the raconteur’s privileges of clearing his throat, settling himself into good position, and gazing dreamily at the tree-tops for inspiration, he began in a slow, measured voice–

“In ze pass he stood. Zen gomed his enemies. He fired his gon and shooted some dead. Zen did zey run avay. Zat vas vat happened.”

When he ventured to meet her candid gaze after thus lamely libelling his forefather, he was horrified to observe that she had already recoiled some feet away from him, and seemed still to be in the act of recoiling.

“It would have been kinder to tell me at once that I had asked too much!” she exclaimed in a voice affected by several emotions. “I only wanted to hear you repeat his death-cry as his foes slew him, so that it might always seem more real to me. And you snub me like this!”

The Baron threw himself upon one knee.

“Forgive me! I did jost lose mine head mit your eyes looking so at me! I get confused, you are so lovely! I did not mean to snob!”

In the ardor of his penitence he discovered himself holding her hand; she no longer seemed to be recoiling; and Heaven knows what might have happened next if an ostentatious sound of whistling had not come to their rescue.

“Bot you vill forgive?” he whispered, as they sprang up from their shady seat.

“Ye-es,” she answered, just as the serene glance of Count Bunker fell humorously upon them.

“You seem to have been plucking flowers, Tulliwuddle,” he observed.

“Flowers? Oh, no.”

The Count glanced pointedly at his soiled knee.

“Indeed!” said he. “Don’t I see traces of a flower-bed?”

“I think I should go in,” murmured Eva, and she was gone before the Count had time to frame a compensating speech.

His friend Tulliwuddle looked at him with marked displeasure, yet seemed to find some difficulty in adequately expressing it.

“I do not care for vat you said,” he remarked stiffly. “Nor for ze look now on your face.”

“Baron,” said the Count imperturbably, “what did you tell me the Wraith said to you–something about ‘Beware of the ladies,’ wasn’t it?”

“You do not onderstand. Ze ghost” (he found some difficulty in pronouncing the spirit’s chosen name) “did soppose naturally zat I vas ze real Lord Tollyvoddle, who is, as you have told me yourself, Bonker, somezing of a fast fish. Ze varning vas to him obviously, so you should not turn it upon me.”

Bunker opened his eyes.

“A deuced ingenious argument,” he commented. “It wouldn’t have occurred to me if you hadn’t explained. Then you claim the privilege of wooing whom you wish?”

“Wooing! You forget zat I am married, Bonker.”

“Oh no, I remember perfectly.”

His tone disturbed the Baron. Taking the Count’s arm, he said to him with moving earnestness–

“Have I not told you how constant I am–like ze magnet and ze pole?”

“I have heard you employ the simile.”

“Ach, bot it is true! I am inside my heart so constant as it is possible! But I now represent Tollyvoddle, and for his sake most try to do my best.”

Again Count Bunker glanced at his knee.

“And that is your best, then?”

“Listen, Bonker, and try to onderstand–not jost to make jokes. It appears to me zat Miss Gallosh vill make a good vife to Tollyvoddle. She is so fair, so amiable, and so rich. Could he do better? Should I not lay ze foundations of a happy marriage mit her? Soppose ve do get her instead of Miss Maddison, eh?”

His artful eloquence seemed to impress his friend, for he smiled thoughtfully and did not reply at once. More persuasively than ever the Baron continued–

“I do believe mit patience and mit–er–mit kindness, Bonker, I might persuade Miss Gallosh to listen to ze proposal of Tollyvoddle. And vould it not be better far to get him a lady of his own people, and not a stranger from America? Ve vill not like Miss Maddison, I feel sure. Vy troble mit her–eh, Bonker?”

“But don’t you think, Baron, that we ought to give Tulliwuddle his choice? He may prefer an American heiress to a Scottish.”

“Not if he sees Eva Gallosh!”

Again the Count gently raised his eyebrows in a way that the Baron could not help considering unsuitable to the occasion.

“On the other hand, Baron, Miss Maddison will probably have five or ten times as much money as Miss Gallosh. In arranging a marriage for another man, one must attend to such trifles as a few million dollars more or less.”

For the moment the Baron was silenced, but evidently not convinced.

“Supposing I were to call upon the Maddisons as your envoy?” suggested Bunker, who, to tell the truth, had already begun to tire of a life of luxurious inaction.

“Pairhaps in a few days we might gonsider it.”

“We have been here for a week already.”

“Ven vould you call?”

“To-morrow, for instance.”

The Baron frowned; but argument was difficult.

“You only jost vill go to see?”

“And report to you.”

“And suppose she is ogly–or not so nice–or so on—-zen vill I not see her, eh?”

“But suppose she is tolerable?”

“Zen vill ve give him a choice, and I vill continue to be polite to Miss Gallosh. Ah, Bonker, she is so nice! He vill not like Miss Maddison so vell! Himmel, I do admire her!”

The Baron’s eyes shone with reminiscent affection.

“To how many poles is the magnet usually constant?” inquired the Count with a serious air.

The Baron smiled a little foolishly, and then, with a confidential air, replied–

“Ach, Bonker, marriage is blessed and it is happy, and it is everyzing that my heart desires; only I jost sometimes vish it vas not qvite–qvite so uninterruptable!”

CHAPTER XVI

In a dog-cart borrowed from his obliging host, Count Bunker approached the present residence of Mr. Darius P. Maddison. He saw, and–in his client’s interest–noted with approval the efforts that were being made to convert an ordinary fishing-lodge into a suitable retreat for a gentleman worth so many million dollars. “Corryvohr,” as the house was originally styled, or “Lincoln Lodge,” as the patriotic Silver King had re-named it, had already been enlarged for his reception by the addition of four complete suites of apartments, each suitable for a nobleman and his retinue, an organ hall, 10,000 cubic yards of scullery accommodation, and a billiard-room containing three tables. But since he had taken up his residence there he had discovered the lack of several other essentials for a quiet “mountain life” (as he appropriately phrased it), and these defects were rapidly being remedied as our friend drove up. The conservatory was already completed, with the exception of the orchid and palm houses; the aviary was practically ready, and several crates of the rarer humming-birds were expected per goods train that evening; while a staff of electricians could be seen erecting the private telephone by which Mr. Maddison proposed to keep himself in touch with the silver market.

The Count had no sooner pressed the electric bell than a number of men-servants appeared, sufficient to conduct him in safety to a handsome library fitted with polished walnut, and carpeted as softly as the moss on