Veneering having instructed his driver to charge at the public in the streets, like the Lifeguards at Waterloo, is driven furiously to Duke Street, Saint James’s. There, he finds Twemlow in his lodgings, fresh from the hands of a secret artist who has been doing something to his hair with yolks of eggs. The process requiring that Twemlow shall, for two hours after the application, allow his hair to stick upright and dry gradually, he is in an appropriate state for the receipt of startling intelligence; looking equally like the Monument on Fish Street Hill, and King Priam on a certain incendiary occasion not wholly unknown as a neat point from the classics.

“My dear Twemlow,” says Veneering, grasping both his hands, “as the dearest and oldest of my friends⁠—”

(“Then there can be no more doubt about it in future,” thinks Twemlow, “and I am !”)