The cigars provided for me, if not of the exact brand as those smoked by Mr. Perry, were very good, and I had been enjoying one of them for some little time when I heard the outside door again being unlocked.

"Now," I thought, "I may get some explanation of this extraordinary state of affairs, and may possibly find myself wishing that my entertainment had not cost the ratepayers of this town quite so much money."

But I was in a state of such complete bodily satisfaction that I did not much care what should happen, and sat still until the door of my room was opened and a young man dressed in evening clothes came in.

He seemed to be under the influence of some agitation, and as the reek of my cigar met his nostrils, and his eyes fell upon my bottle of port resting in its cradle, his jaw dropped.

He raised his eyes to mine, and said: "I have come to make an appeal to you, sir."

"Well, sit down and make it," I said, indicating a chair. "Will you have a glass of wine—I can recommend it—or a cigar?"

He looked at me sternly. "I have brought myself to come and ask a favour of you," he said. "You look like a gentleman; you can at least try to behave as such."

I was in that comfortable state in which the idiosyncrasies of other people occasion one more amusement than surprise. I was also a little inclined to loquacity. I smiled at him.

"I don't pretend to understand you," I said; "but I am glad you think I look like a gentleman. I am one. My great-grandfather ruined himself at Crockford's, and although one of my great-uncles set up a shop, he never sold anything, and died poor. I am poor myself, but none the less deserving."

His face brightened a little. "I thought you were a gentleman," he said, "in spite of your behaviour. So am I, and of course my father too, although you might not think it from our appearance. Possibly you are engaged in the same good work as we are."

"I am not engaged in any good work at present," I said, "except that of making myself as comfortable as circumstances will permit. As for you, I think you look very gentlemanlike; I don't think I have had the pleasure of meeting your father."

"He is Mr. Perry," he said, "who tried his utmost to save you from the results of your jest—I don't believe it meant more than that—with Lord Potter. As far as my father was concerned it was an unfortunate jest; and I might say the same as far as you are concerned, to judge from your present serious situation. In spite of his noble and self-sacrificing life, my father is misunderstood by a good many people; and Lord Potter, for one, would like to see his career of usefulness stopped. Now he has a handle against him. He is to be called as a witness when you come up before the magistrate to-morrow morning; and it rests with you whether that kind and good old man, whose life is a lesson to us all, shall be arrested himself and suffer the disgrace of a criminal trial. Surely you cannot be so lost to all sense of gratitude as to bring that about!"

I did not know in the least what he was talking about. His ideas seemed to be as topsy-turvy as those of the rest of the people I had so far met in this curious place. But I was in too lazy a mood to make much effort to get at the bottom of all that was puzzling me.

"I should hate to get your father into trouble," I said. "I don't understand why a prosperous-looking elderly gentleman should pinch my watch and demand all my cash; but I dare say he did it all for the best, and as he didn't get anything, I am prepared to be lenient with him. I'll do what I can."

He thanked me profusely. "You have only to stand on your dignity and refuse to answer questions, and they can prove nothing against him," he said.

"All right! Anything to oblige. You might tell me what all this means, though; and to begin with, what town this is; for I haven't the slightest idea where I am."

At this quite ordinary question, he seemed to be even more puzzled than I was. "I can't understand you," he said, and it was plain by the expression on his face that he spoke the truth. "Where do you come from?"

"I come from a little place called London," I said. "I don't know whether you have ever heard of it."

"No, never," he replied. "What part of the country is it in?"

"Do you ever happen to have heard of England?" I asked; and again he said: "No, never."

"Well, what country are we in now?" I asked, willing to humour him.

"Why, in Upsidonia, of course."

"In what?"

"Upsidonia. Look here, I'm not what I seem to be. Surely you can tell that from the way I speak! Stop trying to play with me, and explain yourself."

"Tell me first what town this is."

"Culbut."

He said it in much the same tone as I might have answered "Manchester" or "Birmingham," to anyone who should have asked me the same question in either of those cities—with a look of surprise and enquiry.

"Oh, Culbut!" I said. "Yes, of course. And Culbut is in Upsidonia. I see. Well, in London, England, where I come from, they don't lock a person up for offering sixpence to a tramp, even when the tramp turns out to be a lord; and if they do lock them up, it isn't in a place like this."

He looked round the cosy little room with some disgust.

"It is disgraceful," he said. "My father ought to know about it. I didn't know there were any such places left. You've a perfect right to make trouble about this. It is a clear case for the Prisoners' Aid Society, and I'm sure, if you act properly, as you promised to, for my father, he will take up the case."

"Thanks very much," I said. "I have no particular complaint to make. The manners and customs of—what's the name of the place?—Culbut—are different from those I've been accustomed to, but they don't seem to be entirely objectionable. Can you tell me what they will do, by the by, supposing I am found guilty of the charge brought against me—whatever it is—to-morrow!"

"Oh, we'll try and get you off. Your appearance is in your favour."

"Thank you. But tell me what they will do if I am found guilty."

"Well, there has been a good deal of it lately, and the police are determined to stamp it out. And Potter is rather high game to fly at, you must admit. He is determined to get you a month, which is the limit without bodily assault."

"Oh, a month!" I said, somewhat taken aback. "With hard labour?"

"I think we ought to be able to manage that. We'll try our best."

"That is very good of you indeed; but I shouldn't like you to put yourselves out at all."

"I'll tell you what," he said, with a laugh, "we will tell them that in the country you come from it isn't a crime to give your money away. Could you remember to stick to that story?"

"I dare say I might," I said, "if I tie a knot in my handkerchief. By the way, isn't it a crime here to take money from people, and watches, and so on?"

"A crime! Of course not. We should call that philanthropy."

"Oh, I see. Then your father is a philanthropist."

"Of course he is; one of the best known in Culbut. You don't really suppose he is the rich man he appears to be, do you?"

"I should have thought he might be fairly well off, if he has been practising philanthropy for any length of time."

"For a lifetime," he said reverentially. "I will tell you my father's story."

"Do!" I encouraged him. "I should like to hear it."

I lit another cigar. He cleared his throat and began.