He was rewarded with two of the kindest smiles ever bestowed upon him, and as they drove away each secretly wondered why she had previously preferred the Baron to the Count.  It seemed a singular folly.

“Two deuced nice girls,” mused he; “I do believe I told ’em the truth in every particular!”

He watched their car dwindle to a scurrying speck, and then strolled back thoughtfully to purchase his ticket.

He found the signals down, and the far-off clatter of the train distinctly audible through the early morning air.  A few minutes more and he was stepping into a first-class compartment, his remarkable costume earning (he could not but observe) the pronounced attention of the guard.  The Baron and Alicia, with an air of mutual affection, entered another; both the doors were closed, everything seemed ready, yet the train lingered.

“Start ze train!  Start ze train!  I vill give you a pound—­two pound—­tree pound, to start him!”

The Count leaped up and thrust his head through the window.

“What the dickens——!” thought he.

Hanging out of the other window he beheld the clamant Baron urging the guard with frenzied entreaty.

“But they’re wanting to go by the train, sir,” said the guard.

“No, no.  Zey do not!  It is a mistake!  Start him!”

Following their gaze he saw, racing toward them, the cause of their delay.  It was a motor car, yet not the same that had so lately departed.  In this were seated a young man and an elderly lady, both waving to hold back the train; and to his vast amazement he recognized in the man Darius Maddison, junior, in the lady the Countess of Grillyer.

The car stopped, the occupants alighted, and the Countess, supported on the strong arm of Ri, scuttled down the platform.

“Bonker, take her in mit you!” groaned the Baron, and his head vanished from the Count’s sight.

Even this ordeal was not too much for Bunker’s fidelity.

“Madam, there is room here!” he announced politely, as they swept past; but with set faces they panted toward the doomed von Blitzenberg.

All of the tragedy that the Count, with strained neck, could see or overhear, was a vision of the Countess being pushed by the guard and her escort into that first-class compartment whence so lately the Baron’s crimson visage had protruded, and the voice of Ri stridently declaring—­

“Guess you’ll recognize your momma this time, Baron!”

A whistle from the guard, another from the engine, and they were off, clattering southward in the first of the morning sunshine.

Inadequately attired, damp, hungry, and divorced from tobacco as the Count was, he yet could say to himself with the sincerest honesty

“I wouldn’t change carriages with the Baron von Blitzenberg—­not even for a pair of dry socks and a cigar!  Alas, poor Rudolph!  May this teach all young men a lesson in sobriety of conduct!”