They were all queer. Hargrave, the second
brother, was the fellow that made that shindy
in the Mauritius, and our friend Shalley isn't a
conjuror. And we thought you were larking
the old lady, I assure you we did."

" 'We' were once more mistaken, then," said
I sneeringly.

"We all said, too, at the time, that
Doubleton had been 'let in.' He gave you a good
round sum for expenses on the road, didn't he,
and you sent it all back to him?"

"Every shilling of it."

"So he told us, and that was what puzzled us
more than ail the rest. Why did you give up
the money?"

"Simply, sir, because it was not mine."

"Yes, yes, to be sure, I know that; but I
mean, what suggested the restitution?"

"Really, sir, your question leads me to
suppose that the 'we' so often referred to are not
eminently remarkable for integrity."

"Like their neighbours, I take it—neither
better nor worse. But won't you tell why you
gave up the tin?"

"I should be hopeless of any attempt to
explain my motives, sir; so pray excuse me."

"You were right, at all events," said he, not
heeding the sarcasm of my manner. "There's
no chance for the knaves now, with the telegraph
system. As it was, there were orders flying
through Europe to arrest Pottinger—I can't
forget the name. We used to have it every day
in the Chancellerie: Pottinger, five feet nine,
weak-looking and vulgar, low forehead, light
hair and eyes, slight lisp, talks German fluently,
but ill. I have copied that portrait of you
twenty, ay, thirty times."

"And yet, sir, neither the name nor the
description apply. I am no more Pottinger than
I am ignoble-looking and vulgar."

"What's the name, then?—not Harpar, not
Pottinger? But who cares a rush for the name
of fellows like you? You change them just as
you do the colour of your coat."

"May I take the liberty of asking, sir, just
for information, as you said a while ago, how
you would take it were I to make as free with
you as you have been pleased to do with me?
To give a mock inventory of your external
characteristics, and a false name to yourself?"

"Laugh, probably, if I were amused—throw
it of the window, if you offended me."

"The very thing I'd do with you this moment
if I was strong enough," said I, resolutely. And
he flung himself into a chair, and laughed as I
did not believe he could laugh.

"Well," cried he, at last, "as this room is
about fifty feet or so from the ground, it's just
as well as it is. But now let us wind up this
affair. You want to get away from this, I
suppose; and as nobody wants to detain you, the
thing is easy enough. You needn't make a fuss
about compensation, for they'll not give a
kreutzer, and you'd better not write a book
about it, because 'we' don't stand fellows who
write books; so just take a friend's advice, and
go off without military honours of any kind."

"I neither acknowledge the friendship nor
accept the advice, sir. The motives which
induced me to suffer imprisonment for another
are quite sufficient to raise me above any desire
to make a profit of it."

"I think I understand you" said he, with a
cunning expression in his half-closed eyes.
"You go in for being a 'character.' Haven't
I hit it? You want to be thought a strange,
eccentric sort of fellow. Now, there was a time
the world had a taste for that kind of thing,
Romeo Coates, and Brummel, and that Irish
fellow that walked to Jerusalem, and half a
dozen others, used to amuse the town in those
days, but it's all as much bygone now as starched
neckcloths and Hessian boots. Ours is an age
of paletots and easy manners, and you are trying
to revive what our grandfathers discarded and
got rid of. It won't do, Pottinger; it will
not."

"I am not Pottinger; my name is Algernon
Sydney Potts."

"Ah! there's the mischief all out at last.
What could come of such a collocation of names
but a life of incongruity and absurdity! You
owe all your griefs to your godfathers, Potts.
If they'd have called you Peter, you'd have been
a well-conducted poor creature. Well, I'm to
give you a passport. Where do you wish to
go?"

"I wish, first of all, to go to Como."

"I think I know why. But you're on a
wrong cast there. They have left that long
since."

"Indeed, and for what place?"

"They've gone to pass the winter at Malta.
Mamma Keats required a dry, warm climate,
and you'll find them at a little country-house
about a mile from Valetta: the Jasmines, I
think it's called. I have a brother quartered in
the island, and he tells me he has seen them,
but they won't receive visits, nor go out
anywhere. But, of course, a royal highness is
always sure of a welcome. Prince Potts is an
Open, sesame! wherever he goes."

"What atrocious tobacco this is of yours,
Buller," said I, taking a cigar from his case as
it lay on the table. "I suppose that you small
fry of diplomacy cannot get things in duty free,
eh?"

"Try this cheroot; you'll find it better," said
he, opening a secret pocket in the case.

"Nothing to boast of," said I, puffing away,
while he continued to fill up the blanks in my
passport. "Would you like an introduction to
my brother? He's on the government staff
there, and knows every one. He's a jolly sort
of fellow, besides, and you'd get on well
together."

"I don't care if I do," said I, carelessly,
"though, as a rule, your red-coat is very bad
style—flippant without smartness, and familiar
without ease."

"Severe, Potts, but not altogether unjust;
but you'll find George above the average of his
class, and I think you'll like him."

"Don't let him ask me to his mess," said I,