CHAPTER XVI.

Observer, Volume 1, Issue 25, 5 March 1881, Page 257

CHAPTER XVI.

Three weeks passed away, during' which Leopold Brownpath had become the inseparable companion of Cooke. He got up in the morning-, went out and betook himself to the Clarendon, where, as a rule, he breakfasted with the police-agent, who was more and more completely disguised and a more perfect travesty of the rich foreigner. In truth, Cboke had so thoroughly lost himself in the Count de liubini that he no longer looked upon that personage as imaginary, nor did he remember that he was only acting a part. He was so used to hearing himself called "count" that plain "sir" irritated him. Even in the solitude of his chamber, when communing with himself alone, he could hardly acknowledge that lie was the Cook of old, .sprung from no noble stock. "As soon as I have done with this St. John's Wood case," he wrote one day to his powerful patron, the Sir John Thornton, " 1 shall be obliged to institute a search after my genealogical tree and ransacked the past both as regards myself and my ancestors ; there must be in my veins a few ounces of right-down aristocratic blood." " And suppose there is, you idiot," was the reply of the ever-encouraging Sir John, " what then ?" On the score of expense Cooke refused himself nothing ; lie might have been living all his life on an income of twenty thousand a -year. A champagne breakfast was the rule whenever Leopold Drownpath made his appearance, and lie did not scruple to tell the famous host of the Clarendon to reserve for him his choicest wines. In common justice, however, to the generous and truly hospitable instincts of the Count de liubini, it must be recorded that he was lavish only to his guest. In his absence, Cooke made the gold seat give way to a thin ein ordinaire which he kept in reserve at the bottom of one of his trunks. The same course was observed in every other particular. For example, if Brownpath was .spending the evening with him, his room was a perfect blaze of light ; but as soon as henvas alone he came down at once to the economical taper. If he shut himself up in his room to write to Sir John Thornton he took off his frock coat, built by a fashionable tailor, and put on a garment for which he appeared to have a special affection, seeing that, to prevent any wear and tear to its sleeves, he always covered them with false ones of alpaca. Thus Cooke succeeded in establishing a •double identity — on the one hand appeared in majestic fashion the Count de Itubini, a nobleman to the tips of his fingers, and on the other hand stood the old insignificant public servant, on one hundred and fifty pounds a-year, economical from force of habit and necessity. Generally speaking, after breakfast the programme for the day was discussed by Cooke and Brownpath over a cigar. "Look here mo euro," said the count, as the smoke curled from his lips in graceful whiffs, <e you are good-nature itself, assiduous in attention and full of freethought for my cousin, and I thank you with all my heart. But we .are not carrying out our famous programme, drawn out with your assistance. Here we tare very nearly at the end of the sixth week, and we can.scarcely be said to know London. Let us reckon up what we have accomplished — do you agree ?" "I have no objection." "First of all, then, you took us to dine at the Alexandra Palace — that day, you know, when you gave us such a stupendous idea of your head ; do you remember it ?" "Perfectly." "Yes, Madame de Echini, in a moment of •caprice, wanted to make you tipsy, and I seconded her in the attempt to the best of my ability. But it was all in vain. You drank whatever was put before you and never lost your head for a moment. \V T e had not a chance of getting at one of your secrets." "Perhaps there was none to get at." " Everybody has one or two, and especially a man who, like yourself, has lived all the days ■of his life. Ah ! you are a model of discretion with your friends — nothing slips out from you. Why not take example by me ? I am the impersonation of candour. You know the whole of my life, and I have let you into all my little secrets. But that is not Aye are talking about. Since the dinner in question what have we done? Nothing, absolutely nothing. We were to visit all the lions of London. I have not seen a single one of them ; yet I cannot go

Lack to Naples and say — I did not see the lions at all." " That would indeed be dreadful." "Now you are making fun of me; but it would certainly be dreadful. It is bad enough to have to keep aloof from the theatre on account of our mourning 1 . The lions remain — let us see the lions. When will you undertake to show us National Gallery, the British Museum, the Crystal Palace, the Bow-street Police Court. "There- is nothing wonderful there." "There speaks the true Londoner. You are all so thoroughly satiated with the marvellous that you have no wonder left in you, literally none. Yon will hardly even condescend to cast a contemptuous glance at your curiosities. Come, I'll bet you anything you like that you have never asked for a permit to visit your prisons." "I should think not, indeed; but, all the same, I have paid them a visit without a 2)erniit." " Indeed ! And how was that?" "That would be too long a tale. I had a friend at court." "You were fortunate, indeed. And could you not do the same for me ? It only requires a little stretch of good-nature. Let us go back there together." "No, thanks ; I cannot say I should care for it." " You do not take any interest in these tilings f "The one view I have had is quite enough for me." "Then get me a permit, and I will go alone." "Agreed — I will see after one." "And then the Tower of London, that I longto see, and the Houses of Parliament, &c, ike, for I should never end, when I have once begun." "That is just the reason why we had better begin." " But I say — yes! 1 want to begin, and as

soon as possible. To think of my .still being ignorant of your principal streets. It is true that you took us one day along Kegent-street, and Piccadilly, but we have never so much as set eyes on St. John's Wood, a street, people are always talking about. Tell me frankly why have we not gone to see >St. John's Wood ?" " Most likely because it was not in our way," replied Brownpath simply, Cooke watching him intently all the time. " Well, when are we to see all these things ?" " Whenever you like." "To-day, I vote." " To-day be if." [To be continued.']