aid, raising himself on his
elbows, "I shall raise ze house upon you!"

"Have you forgotten that you are talking to a dangerous lunatic, who
probably never stirs without his razor?"

The Baron looked at him and turned a little pale. He made no further
movement, but answered stoutly enough, "Vat do you vant?"

"In the first place, I want my brush and comb, a few clothes, and my
hand-bag. Events happened rather more quickly this evening than I had
anticipated."

"Take zem."

"I should also like," continued Mr Bunker, unmoved, "to have a little talk
with you. I think I owe you some explanation--perhaps an apology or two--and
I'm afraid it's my last chance."

"Zay it zen."

"Of course I understand that you make no hostile demonstration till I am
finished? A hunted man must take precautions, you know."

"I vill let you go."

"Thanks, Baron."

Mr Bunker folded his arms, leaned his back against the foot of the bed,
and began in his half-bantering way, "I have amused you, Baron, now and
then, you must admit?"

The Baron made no reply.

"That I place to my credit, and I think few debts are better worth
repaying. On the other hand, I confess I have subsisted for some time
entirely on your kindness. I'm afraid that alone counterbalances the debt,
and when it comes to my being the means of your taking a bath in mixed
company and spending an evening in a locked room, there's no doubt the
balance is greatly on your side."

"I zink so," observed the Baron.

"So I'll tell you a true story, a favour with which I haven't indulged any
one for some considerable time."

The Baron coughed, but said nothing.

"My biography for all practical purposes," Mr Bunker continued, "begins in
that sequestered retreat, Clankwood Asylum. How and with whom I came there
I haven't the very faintest recollection. I simply woke up from an
extraordinary drowsiness to find myself recovering from a sharp attack of
what I may most euphoniously call mental excitement. The original cause of
it is very dim in my mind, and has, so far as I remember, nothing to do
with the rest of the story. The attack was very short, I believe. I soon
came to something more or less like myself; only, Baron, the singular
thing is, that it was to all intents and purposes a new self--whether
better or worse, my faulty memory does not permit me to say. I'd clean
forgotten who I was and all about me. I found myself called Francis
Beveridge, but that wasn't my old nam