My Man Jeeves

the advisability of sending out search–parties. He was worried. So was Stella Vanderley. So, for that matter, were George and I, only not for the same reason.
    We were just arguing the thing out when the visitor appeared. He was a well–built, stiff sort of fellow. He spoke with a German accent.
    "Mr. Marshall?" he said. "I am Count Fritz von Cöslin, equerry to His Serene Highness"—he clicked his heels together and saluted—"the Prince of Saxburg–Leignitz."
    Mrs. Vanderley jumped up.
    "Why, Count," she said, "what ages since we met in Vienna! You remember?"
    "Could I ever forget? And the charming Miss Stella, she is well, I suppose not?"
    "Stella, you remember Count Fritz?"
    Stella shook hands with him.
    "And how is the poor, dear Prince?" asked Mrs. Vanderley. "What a terrible thing to have happened!"
    "I rejoice to say that my high–born master is better. He has regained consciousness and is sitting up and taking nourishment."
    "That's good," said old Marshall.
    "In a spoon only," sighed the Count. "Mr. Marshall, with your permission I should like a word with Mr. Sturgis."
    "Mr. Who?"
    The gimlet–eyed sportsman came forward.
    "I am Denman Sturgis, at your service."
    "The deuce you are! What are you doing here?"
    "Mr. Sturgis," explained the Count, "graciously volunteered his services——"
    "I know. But what's he doing here?"
    "I am waiting for Mr. George Lattaker, Mr. Marshall."
    "Eh?"
    "You have not found him?" asked the Count anxiously.
    "Not yet, Count; but I hope to do so shortly. I know what he looks like now. This gentleman is his twin–brother. They are doubles."
    "You are sure this gentleman is not Mr. George Lattaker?"
    George put his foot down firmly on the suggestion.
    "Don't go mixing me up with my brother," he said. "I am Alfred. You can tell me by my mole."
    He exhibited the mole. He was taking no risks.
    The Count clicked his tongue regretfully.
    "I am sorry," he said.
    George didn't offer to console him,
    "Don't worry," said Sturgis. "He won't escape me. I shall find him."
    "Do, Mr. Sturgis, do. And quickly. Find swiftly that noble young man."
    "What?" shouted George.
    "That noble young man, George Lattaker, who, at the risk of his life, saved my high–born master from the assassin."
    George sat down suddenly.
    "I don't understand," he said feebly.
    "We were wrong, Mr. Sturgis," went on the Count. "We leaped to the conclusion—was it not so?—that the owner of the hat you found was also the assailant of my high–born master. We were wrong. I have heard the story from His Serene Highness's own lips. He was passing down a dark street when a ruffian in a mask sprang out upon him. Doubtless he had been followed from the Casino, where he had been winning heavily. My high–born master was taken by surprise. He was felled. But before he lost consciousness he perceived a young man in evening dress, wearing the hat you found, running swiftly towards him. The hero engaged the assassin in combat, and my high–born master remembers no more. His Serene Highness asks repeatedly, 'Where is my brave preserver?' His gratitude is princely. He seeks for this young man to reward him. Ah, you should be proud of your brother, sir!"
    "Thanks," said George limply.
    "And you, Mr. Sturgis, you must redouble your efforts. You must search the land; you must scour the sea to find George Lattaker."
    "He needn't take all that trouble," said a voice from the gangway.
    It was Voules. His face was flushed, his hat was on the back of his head, and he was smoking a fat cigar.
    "I'll tell you where to find George Lattaker!" he shouted.
    He glared at George, who was staring at him.
    "Yes, look at me," he yelled. "Look at me. You won't be the first this afternoon who's stared at the mysterious stranger who won for two hours without a break. I'll be even with you now, Mr. Blooming Lattaker. I'll learn you to break a poor man's heart. Mr. Marshall and gents, this morning I was on deck, and I over'eard 'im plotting to put up a game on you. They'd spotted that gent there as a detective, and they arranged that blooming Lattaker was to pass himself off as his own twin–brother. And if you wanted proof, blooming Pepper tells him to show them his mole and he'd swear George hadn't one. Those were his very words. That man there is George Lattaker, Hesquire, and let him deny it if he can."
    George got up.
    "I haven't the least desire to deny it, Voules."
    "Mr. Voules, if
you
please."
    "It's true," said George, turning to the