“You have not introduced me to our host, Tulliwuddle,” he said, with a gay, infectious confidence.

“Ah, so!  Zis is my friend Count Bunker—­gom all ze vay from Austria,” responded the Baron, with no glimmer of his customary aplomb.

Making a mental resolution to warn his ally never to say one word more about his fictitious past than was wrung by cross-examination, the distinguished-looking Austrian shook his host’s hand warmly.

“From Austria via London,” he explained in his pleasantest manner.  “I object altogether to be considered a foreigner, Mr. Gallosh; and, in fact, I often tell Tulliwuddle that people will think me more English than himself.  The German fashions so much in vogue at Court are transforming the very speech of your nobility.  Don’t you sometimes notice it?”

Thus directly appealed to, Mr. Gallosh became manifestly perplexed.

“Yes—­yes, you’re right in a way,” he pronounced cautiously.  “I suppose they do that.  But will ye not take a seat?  This is my launch.  Hi!  Robert, give his lordship a hand on board!”

Two mariners and a second tall footman assisted the guests to embark, and presently they were cutting the waters of the loch at a merry pace.

In the prow, like youth, the Baron insisted upon sitting with folded arms and a gloomy aspect; and as his nerve was so patently disturbed, the Count decidedly approved of an arrangement which left his host and himself alone together in the stern.  In his present state of mind the Baron was capable of any indiscretion were he compelled to talk; while, silent and brooding in isolated majesty, he looked to perfection the part of returning exile.  So, evidently, thought Mr. Gallosh.

“His lordship is looking verra well,” he confided to the Count in a respectfully lowered voice.

“The improvement has been remarkable ever since his foot touched his native heath.”

“You don’t say so,” said Mr. Gallosh, with even greater interest.  “Was he delicate before?”

“A London life, Mr. Gallosh.”

“True—­true, he’ll have been busy seeing his friends; it’ll have been verra wearing.”

“The anxiety, the business of being invested, and so on, has upset him a trifle.  You must put down any little—­well, peculiarity to that, Mr. Gallosh.”

“I understand—­aye, umh’m, quite so.  He’ll like to be left to himself, perhaps?”

“That depends on his condition,” said the Count diplomatically.

“It’s a great responsibility for a young man; yon’s a big property to look after,” observed Mr. Gallosh in a moment.

“You have touched the spot!” said the Count warmly.  “That is, in fact, the chief cause of Tulliwuddle’s curious moodiness ever since he succeeded to the title.  He feels his responsibilities a little too acutely.”

Again Mr. Gallosh ruminated, while his guest from the corner of his eye surveyed him shrewdly.