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F. was overjoyed as he read it! No man ever felt a higher pleasure in good company, nor knew better how to make it profitable. If he had been asked to choose, he would infinitely rather have had the invitation to dine than the twenty pounds he had pocketed in the morning. The cognate men of the world–and all members of the diplomatic career are to a certain extent in this category–were in F.’s estimation the “trump cards” of the pack, with which he could “score tricks” innumerable, and so he accepted at once; and, in a very few minutes after his acceptance, made his appearance in a correct dinner-dress and a most unexceptionable white tie.

“Couldn’t refuse that pleasant offer of yours, L.” (he was familiar at once, and called him L.), “and here I am!” said he, as he threw himself into an easy-chair with all the bland satisfaction of one who looked forward to a good dinner and a very enjoyable evening.

“I am happy to have secured you,” said L., with a little laugh to himself at the epigram of his phrase. “Do you like caviar?”

“Delight in it!”

“I have just got some fresh from St Petersburg, and our cook here is rather successful in his caviar soup. We have a red trout from the Tegen See, a saddle of Tyrol mutton, and a pheasant–voila votre diner! but I can promise you a more liberal carte in drinkables; just say what you like in the way of wine!”

F.’s face beamed over with ecstasy. It was one of the grand moments of his life; and if he could, hungry as he was, he would have prolonged it! To be there the guest of her Majesty’s mission; to know, to feel, that the arms of England were over the door! that he was to be waited on by flunkies in the livery of the Legation, fed by the cook who had ministered to official palates, his glass filled with wine from the cellar of him who represented royalty! These were very glorious imaginings; and little wonder that F., whose whole life was a Poem in its way, should feel that they almost overcame him. In fact, like the woman in the nursery song, he was ready to exclaim, “This is none of me!” but still there were abundant evidences around him that all was actual, positive, and real.

“By the way,” said L., in a light, careless way, “did you ever in your wanderings chance upon a namesake of yours, only that he interpolates another Christian name, and calls himself R. Napoleon F.?”

The stranger started: the fresh, ruddy glow of his cheek gave way to a sickly yellow, and, rising from his chair, he said, “Do you mean to ‘split’ on me, sir?”

“I’m afraid, F.,” said the other, jauntily, “the thing looks ugly. You are R. N. F.!”

“And are you, sir, such a scoundrel–such an assassin–as to ask a man to your table in order to betray him?”

“These are strong epithets, F., and I’ll not discuss them; but if you ask, Are you going to dine here today? I’d say, No. And if you should ask, Where are, you likely to pass the evening? I’d hint, In the city jail.”

At this F. lost all command over himself, and broke out into a torrent of the wildest abuse. He was strong of epithets, and did not spare them. He stormed, he swore, he threatened, he vociferated; but L., imperturbable throughout all, only interposed with an occasional mild remonstrance–a subdued hint–that his language was less than polite or parliamentary. At length the door opened, two gendarmes appeared, and N. F. was consigned to their hands and removed.

The accusations against him were manifold; from before and since the day of the governesses, he had been living a life of dishonesty and fraud. German law proceedings are not characterised by any rash impetuosity; the initial steps in F.’s case took about eighteen months, during which he remained a prisoner. At the end of this time the judges discovered some informality in his committal; and as L. was absent from Munich, and no one at the Legation much interested in the case, the man was liberated on signing a declaration–to which Bavarian authorities, it would seem, attach value–that he was “a rogue and a vagabond;” confessions which the Captain possibly deemed as absurd an act of “surplusage” as though he were to give a written declaration that he was a vertebrated animal and a biped.