IN WHICH MICHAEL FINSBURY ENJOYS A HOLIDAY
Punctually at eight o'clock next morning the lawyer rattled (according
to previous appointment) on the studio door. He found the artist sadly
altered for the worse--bleached, bloodshot, and chalky--a man upon
wires, the tail of his haggard eye still wandering to the closet. Nor
was the professor of drawing less inclined to wonder at his friend.
Michael was usually attired in the height of fashion, with a certain
mercantile brilliancy best described perhaps as stylish; nor could
anything be said against him, as a rule, but that he looked a trifle too
like a wedding guest to be quite a gentleman. To-day he had fallen
altogether from these heights. He wore a flannel shirt of washed-out
shepherd's tartan, and a suit of reddish tweeds, of the colour known to
tailors as "heather mixture"; his neckcloth was black, and tied loosely
in a sailor's knot; a rusty ulster partly concealed these advantages;
and his feet were shod with rough walking boots. His hat was an old soft
felt, which he removed with a flourish as he entered.
"Here I am, William Dent!" he cried, and drawing from his pocket two
little wisps of reddish hair, he held them to his cheeks like
side-whiskers and danced about the studio with the filmy graces of a
ballet-girl.
Pitman laughed sadly. "I should never have known you," said he.
"Nor were you intended to," returned Michael, replacing his false
whiskers in his pocket. "Now we must overhaul you and your wardrobe, and
disguise you up to the nines."
"Disguise!" cried the artist. "Must I indeed disguise myself? Has it
come to that?"
"My dear creature," returned his companion, "disguise is the spice of
life. What is life, passionately exclaimed a French philosopher, without
the pleasures of disguise? I don't say it's always good taste, and I
know it's unprofessional; but what's the odds, downhearted
drawing-master? It has to be. We have to leave a false impression on the
minds of many persons, and in particular on the mind of Mr. Gideon
Forsyth--the young gentleman I know by sight--if he should have the bad
taste to be at home."
"If he be at home?" faltered the artist. "That would be the end of all."
"Won't matter a d----," returned Michael airily. "Let me see your
clothes, and I'll make a new man of you in a jiffy."
In the bedroom, to which he was at once conducted, Michael examined
Pitman's poor and scanty wardrobe with a humorous eye, picked out a
short jacket of black alpaca, and presently added to that a pair of
summer trousers which somehow took his fancy as incongruous. Then, with
the garments in his hand, he scrutinised the artist closely.
"I don't like that clerical collar," he remarked. "Have you nothing
else?"
The professor of drawing pondered for a moment, and then brightened; "I
have a pair of low-necked shirts," he said, "that I used to wear in
Paris as a student. They are rather loud."
"The very thing!" ejaculated Michael. "You'll look perfectly beastly.
Here are spats, too," he continued, drawing forth a pair of those
offensive little gaiters. "Must have spats! And now you jump into these,
and whistle a tune at the window for (say) three-quarters of an hour.
After that you can rejoin me on the field of glory."
So saying, Michael returned to the studio. It was the morning of the
easterly gale; the wind blew shrilly among the statues in the garden,
and drove the rain upon the skylight in the studio ceiling; and at about
the same moment of the time when Morris attacked the hundredth version
of his uncle's signature in Bloomsbury, Michael, in Chelsea, began to
rip the wires out of the Broadwood grand.
Three-quarters of an hour later Pitman was admitted, to find the
closet-door standing open, the closet untenanted, and the piano
discreetly shut.
"It's a remarkably heavy instrument," observed Michael, and turned to
consider his friend's disguise. "You must shave off that beard of
yours," he said.
"My beard!" cried Pitman. "I cannot shave my beard. I cannot tamper with
my appearance--my principals would object. They hold very strong views
as to the appearance of the professors--young ladies are considered so
romantic. My beard was regarded as quite a feature when I went about the
place. It was regarded," said the artist, with rising colour, "it was
regarded as unbecoming."
"You can let it grow again," returned Michael, "and then you'll be so
precious ugly that they'll raise your salary."
"But I don't want to be ugly," cried the artist.
"Don't be an ass," said Michael, who hated beards and was delighted to
destroy one. "Off with it like a man!"
"Of course, if you insist," said Pitman; and then he sighed, fetched
some hot water from the kitchen, and setting a glass upon his easel,
first clipped his beard with scissors and then shaved his chin. He could
not conceal from himself, as he regarded the result, that his last
claims to manhood had been sacrificed, but Michael seemed delighted.
"A new man, I declare!" he cried. "When I give you the window-glass
spectacles I have in my pocket, you'll be the beau-ideal of a French
commercial traveller."
Pitman did not reply, but continued to gaze disconsolately on his image
in the glass.
"Do you know," asked Michael, "what the Governor of South Carolina said
to the Governor of North Carolina? 'It's a long time between drinks,'
observed that powerful thinker; and if you will put your hand into the
top left-hand pocket of my ulster, I have an impression you will find a
flask of brandy. Thank you, Pitman," he added, as he filled out a glass
for each. "Now you will give me news of this."
The artist reached out his hand for the water-jug, but Michael arrested
the movement.
"Not if you went upon your knees!" he cried. "This is the finest liqueur
brandy in Great Britain."
Pitman put his lips to it, set it down again, and sighed.
"Well, I must say you're the poorest companion for a holiday!" cried
Michael. "If that's all you know of brandy, you shall have no more of
it; and while I finish the flask, you may as well begin business. Come
to think of it," he broke off, "I have made an abominable error: you
should have ordered the cart before you were disguised. Why, Pitman,
what the devil's the use of you? why couldn't you have reminded me of
that?"
"I never even knew there was a cart to be ordered," said the artist.
"But I can take off the disguise again," he suggested eagerly.
"You would find it rather a bother to put on your beard," observed the
lawyer. "No, it's a false step; the sort of thing that hangs people," he
continued, with eminent cheerfulness, as he sipped his brandy; "and it
can't be retraced now. Off to the mews with you, make all the
arrangements; they're to take the piano from here, cart it to Victoria,
and despatch it thence by rail to Cannon Street, to lie till called for
in the name of Fortune du Boisgobey."
"Isn't that rather an awkward name?" pleaded Pitman.
"Awkward?" cried Michael scornfully. "It would hang us both! Brown is
both safer and easier to pronounce. Call it Brown."
"I wish," said Pitman, "for my sake, I wish you wouldn't talk so much of
hanging."
"Talking about it's nothing, my boy!" returned Michael. "But take your
hat and be off, and mind and pay everything beforehand."
Left to himself, the lawyer turned his attention for some time
exclusively to the liqueur brandy, and his spirits, which had been
pretty fair all morning, now prodigiously rose. He proceeded to adjust
his whiskers finally before the glass. "Devilish rich," he remarked, as
he contemplated his reflection. "I look like a purser's mate." And at
that moment the window-glass spectacles (which he had hitherto destined
for Pitman) flashed into his mind; he put them on, and fell in love with
the effect. "Just what I required," he said. "I wonder what I look like
now? A humorous novelist, I should think," and he began to practise
divers characters of walk, naming them to himself as he proceeded. "Walk
of a humorous novelist--but that would require an umbrella. Walk of a
purser's mate. Walk of an Australian colonist revisiting the scenes of
childhood. Walk of Sepoy colonel, ditto, ditto." And in the midst of the
Sepoy colonel (which was an excellent assumption, although inconsistent
with the style of his make-up), his eye lighted on the piano. This
instrument was made to lock both at the top and at the keyboard, but the
key of the latter had been mislaid. Michael opened it and ran his
fingers over the dumb keys. "Fine instrument--full, rich tone," he
observed, and he drew in a seat.
When Mr. Pitman returned to the studio, he was appalled to observe his
guide, philosopher, and friend performing miracles of execution on the
silent grand.
"Heaven help me!" thought the little man, "I fear he has been drinking!
Mr. Finsbury," he said aloud; and Michael, without rising, turned upon
him a countenance somewhat flushed, encircled with the bush of the red
whiskers, and bestridden by the spectacles. "Capriccio in B-flat on the
departure of a friend," said he, continuing his noiseless evolutions.
Indignation awoke in the mind of Pitman. "Those spectacles were to be
mine," he cried. "They are an essential part of my disguise."
"I am going to wear them myself," replied Michael; and he added, with
some show of truth, "There would be a devil of a lot of suspicion
aroused if we both wore spectacles."
"O, well," said the assenting Pitman, "I rather counted on them; but of
course, if you insist. And at any rate, here is the cart at the door."
While the men were at work, Michael concealed himself in the closet
among the debris of the barrel and the wires of the piano; and as soon
as the coast was clear the pair sallied forth by the lane, jumped into a
hansom in the King's Road, and were driven rapidly toward town. It was
still cold and raw and boisterous; the rain beat strongly in their
faces, but Michael refused to have the glass let down; he had now
suddenly donned the character of cicerone, and pointed out and lucidly
commented on the sights of London, as they drove. "My dear fellow," he
said, "you don't seem to know anything of your native city. Suppose we
visited the Tower? No? Well, perhaps it's a trifle out of our way. But,
anyway--Here, cabby, drive round by Trafalgar Square!" And on that
historic battle-field he insisted on drawing up, while he criticised the
statues and gave the artist many curious details (quite new to history)
of the lives of the celebrated men they represented.
It would be difficult to express what Pitman suffered in the cab: cold,
wet, terror in the capital degree, a grounded distrust of the commander
under whom he served, a sense of imprudency in the matter of the
low-necked shirt, a bitter sense of the decline and fall involved in the
deprivation of his beard, all these were among the ingredients of the
bowl. To reach the restaurant, for which they were deviously steering,
was the first relief. To hear Michael bespeak a private room was a
second and a still greater. Nor, as they mounted the stair under the
guidance of an unintelligible alien, did he fail to note with gratitude
the fewness of the persons present, or the still more cheering fact that
the greater part of these were exiles from the land of France. It was
thus a blessed thought that none of them would be connected with the
Seminary; for even the French professor, though admittedly a Papist, he
could scarce imagine frequenting so rakish an establishment.
The alien introduced them into a small bare room with a single table, a
sofa, and a dwarfish fire; and Michael called promptly for more coals
and a couple of brandies and sodas.
"O, no," said Pitman, "surely not--no more to drink."
"I don't know what you would be at," said Michael plaintively. "It's
positively necessary to do something; and one shouldn't smoke before
meals--I thought that was understood. You seem to have no idea of
hygiene." And he compared his watch with the clock upon the
chimney-piece.
Pitman fell into bitter musing; here he was, ridiculously shorn,
absurdly disguised, in the company of a drunken man in spectacles, and
waiting for a champagne luncheon in a restaurant painfully foreign. What
would his principals think, if they could see him? What if they knew his
tragic and deceitful errand?
From these reflections he was aroused by the entrance of the alien with
the brandies and sodas. Michael took one and bade the waiter pass the
other to his friend.
Pitman waved it from him with his hand. "Don't let me lose all
self-respect," he said.
"Anything to oblige a friend," returned Michael. "But I'm not going to
drink alone. Here," he added to the waiter, "you take it." And, then,
touching glasses, "The health of Mr. Gideon Forsyth," said he.
"Meestare Gidden Borsye," replied the waiter, and he tossed off the
liquor in four gulps.
"Have another?" said Michael, with undisguised interest. "I never saw a
man drink faster. It restores one's confidence in the human race."
But the waiter excused himself politely, and, assisted by some one from
without, began to bring in lunch.
Michael made an excellent meal, which he washed down with a bottle of
Heidsieck's dry monopole. As for the artist, he was far too uneasy to
eat, and his companion flatly refused to let him share in the champagne
unless he did.
"One of us must stay sober," remarked the lawyer, "and I won't give you
champagne on the strength of a leg of grouse. I have to be cautious," he
added confidentially. "One drunken man, excellent business--two drunken
men, all my eye."
On the production of coffee and departure of the waiter, Michael might
have been observed to make portentous efforts after gravity of mien. He
looked his friend in the face (one eye perhaps a trifle off), and
addressed him thickly but severely.
"Enough of this fooling," was his not inappropriate exordium. "To
business. Mark me closely. I am an Australian. My name is John Dickson,
though you mightn't think it from my unassuming appearance. You will be
relieved to hear that I am rich, sir, very rich. You can't go into this
sort of thing too thoroughly, Pitman; the whole secret is preparation,
and I can get up my biography from the beginning, and I could tell it
you now, only I have forgotten it."
"Perhaps I'm stupid----" began Pitman.
"That's it!" cried Michael. "Very stupid; but rich too--richer than I
am. I thought you would enjoy it, Pitman, so I've arranged that you were
to be literally wallowing in wealth. But then, on the other hand, you're
only an American, and a maker of india-rubber overshoes at that. And the
worst of it is--why should I conceal it from you?--the worst of it is
that you're called Ezra Thomas. Now," said Michael, with a really
appalling seriousness of manner, "tell me who we are."
The unfortunate little man was cross-examined till he knew these facts
by heart.
"There!" cried the lawyer. "Our plans are laid. Thoroughly
consistent--that's the great thing."
"But I don't understand," objected Pitman.
"O, you'll understand right enough when it comes to the point," said
Michael, rising.
"There doesn't seem any story to it," said the artist.
"We can invent one as we go along," returned the lawyer.
"But I can't invent," protested Pitman. "I never could invent in all my
life."
"You'll find you'll have to, my boy," was Michael's easy comment, and he
began calling for the waiter, with whom he at once resumed a sparkling
conversation.
It was a downcast little man that followed him. "Of course he is very
clever, but can I trust him in such a state?" he asked himself. And when
they were once more in a hansom, he took heart of grace.
"Don't you think," he faltered, "it would be wiser, considering all
things, to put this business off?"
"Put off till to-morrow what can be done to-day?" cried Michael, with
indignation. "Never heard of such a thing! Cheer up, it's all right, go
in and win--there's a lion-hearted Pitman!"
At Cannon Street they inquired for Mr. Brown's piano, which had duly
arrived, drove thence to a neighbouring mews, where they contracted for
a cart, and while that was being got ready, took shelter in the
harness-room beside the stove. Here the lawyer presently toppled against
the wall and fell into a gentle slumber; so that Pitman found himself
launched on his own resources in the midst of several staring loafers,
such as love to spend unprofitable days about a stable.
"Rough day, sir," observed one. "Do you go far?"
"Yes, it's a--rather a rough day," said the artist; and then, feeling
that he must change the conversation, "My friend is an Australian; he is
very impulsive," he added.
"An Australian?" said another. "I've a brother myself in Melbourne. Does
your friend come from that way at all?"
"No, not exactly," replied the artist, whose ideas of the geography of
New Holland were a little scattered. "He lives immensely far inland, and
is very rich."
The loafers gazed with great respect upon the slumbering colonist.
"Well," remarked the second speaker, "it's a mighty big place, is
Australia. Do you come from thereaway too?"
"No, I do not," said Pitman. "I do not, and I don't want to," he added
irritably. And then, feeling some diversion needful, he fell upon
Michael and shook him up.
"Hullo," said the lawyer, "what's wrong?"
"The cart is nearly ready," said Pitman sternly. "I will not allow you
to sleep."
"All right--no offence, old man," replied Michael, yawning. "A little
sleep never did anybody any harm; I feel comparatively sober now. But
what's all the hurry?" he added, looking round him glassily. "I don't
see the cart, and I've forgotten where we left the piano."
What more the lawyer might have said, in the confidence of the moment,
is with Pitman a matter of tremulous conjecture to this day; but by the
most blessed circumstance the cart was then announced, and Michael must
bend the forces of his mind to the more difficult task of rising.
"Of course you'll drive," he remarked to his companion, as he clambered
on the vehicle.
"I drive!" cried Pitman. "I never did such a thing in my life. I cannot
drive."
"Very well," responded Michael with entire composure, "neither can I
see. But just as you like. Anything to oblige a friend."
A glimpse of the ostler's darkening countenance decided Pitman. "All
right," he said desperately, "you drive. I'll tell you where to go."
On Michael in the character of charioteer (since this is not intended to
be a novel of adventure) it would be superfluous to dwell at length.
Pitman, as he sat holding on and gasping counsels, sole witness of this
singular feat, knew not whether most to admire the driver's valour or
his undeserved good fortune. But the latter at least prevailed, the cart
reached Cannon Street without disaster; and Mr. Brown's piano was
speedily and cleverly got on board.
"Well, sir," said the leading porter, smiling as he mentally reckoned up
a handful of loose silver, "that's a mortal heavy piano."
"It's the richness of the tone," returned Michael, as he drove away.
It was but a little distance in the rain, which now fell thick and
quiet, to the neighbourhood of Mr. Gideon Forsyth's chambers in the
Temple. There, in a deserted by-street, Michael drew up the horses and
gave them in charge to a blighted shoe-black; and the pair descending
from the cart, whereon they had figured so incongruously, set forth on
foot for the decisive scene of their adventure. For the first time
Michael displayed a shadow of uneasiness.
"Are my whiskers right?" he asked. "It would be the devil and all if I
was spotted."
"They are perfectly in their place," returned Pitman, with scant
attention. "But is my disguise equally effective? There is nothing more
likely than that I should meet some of my patrons."
"O, nobody could tell you without your beard," said Michael. "All you
have to do is to remember to speak slow; you speak through your nose
already."
"I only hope the young man won't be at home," sighed Pitman.
"And I only hope he'll be alone," returned the lawyer. "It will save a
precious sight of manoeuvring."
And sure enough, when they had knocked at the door, Gideon admitted them
in person to a room, warmed by a moderate fire, framed nearly to the
roof in works connected with the bench of British Themis, and offering,
except in one particular, eloquent testimony to the legal zeal of the
proprietor. The one particular was the chimney-piece, which displayed a
varied assortment of pipes, tobacco, cigar-boxes, and yellow-backed
French novels.
"Mr. Forsyth, I believe?" It was Michael who thus opened the engagement.
"We have come to trouble you with a piece of business. I fear it's
scarcely professional----"
"I am afraid I ought to be instructed through a solicitor," replied
Gideon.
"Well, well, you shall name your own, and the whole affair can be put on
a more regular footing to-morrow," replied Michael, taking a chair and
motioning Pitman to do the same. "But you see we didn't know any
solicitors; we did happen to know of you, and time presses."
"May I inquire, gentlemen," asked Gideon, "to whom it was I am indebted
for a recommendation?"
"You may inquire," returned the lawyer, with a foolish laugh; "but I
was invited not to tell you--till the thing was done."
"My uncle, no doubt," was the barrister's conclusion.
"My name is John Dickson," continued Michael; "a pretty well-known name
in Ballarat; and my friend here is Mr. Ezra Thomas, of the United States
of America, a wealthy manufacturer of india-rubber overshoes."
"Stop one moment till I make a note of that," said Gideon; any one might
have supposed he was an old practitioner.
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind my smoking a cigar?" asked Michael. He had
pulled himself together for the entrance; now again there began to
settle on his mind clouds of irresponsible humour and incipient slumber;
and he hoped (as so many have hoped in the like case) that a cigar would
clear him.
"Oh, certainly," cried Gideon blandly. "Try one of mine; I can
confidently recommend them." And he handed the box to his client.
"In case I don't make myself perfectly clear," observed the Australian,
"it's perhaps best to tell you candidly that I've been lunching. It's a
thing that may happen to any one."
"O, certainly," replied the affable barrister. "But please be under no
sense of hurry. I can give you," he added, thoughtfully consulting his
watch--"yes, I can give you the whole afternoon."
"The business that brings me here," resumed the Australian with gusto,
"is devilish delicate, I can tell you. My friend Mr. Thomas, being an
American of Portuguese extraction, unacquainted with our habits, and a
wealthy manufacturer of Broadwood pianos--"
"Broadwood pianos?" cried Gideon, with some surprise. "Dear me, do I
understand Mr. Thomas to be a member of the firm?"
"O, pirated Broadwoods," returned Michael. "My friend's the American
Broadwood."
"But I understood you to say," objected Gideon, "I certainly have it so
in my notes--that your friend was a manufacturer of india-rubber
overshoes."
"I know it's confusing at first," said the Australian, with a beaming
smile. "But he--in short, he combines the two professions. And many
others besides--many, many, many others," repeated Mr. Dickson, with
drunken solemnity. "Mr. Thomas's cotton-mills are one of the sights of
Tallahassee; Mr. Thomas's tobacco-mills are the pride of Richmond, Va.;
in short, he's one of my oldest friends, Mr. Forsyth, and I lay his case
before you with emotion."
The barrister looked at Mr. Thomas and was agreeably prepossessed by his
open although nervous countenance, and the simplicity and timidity of
his manner. "What a people are these Americans!" he thought. "Look at
this nervous, weedy, simple little bird in a low-necked shirt, and think
of him wielding and directing interests so extended and seemingly
incongruous! But had we not better," he observed aloud, "had we not
perhaps better approach the facts?"
"Man of business, I perceive, sir!" said the Australian. "Let's approach
the facts. It's a breach of promise case."
The unhappy artist was so unprepared for this view of his position that
he could scarce suppress a cry.
"Dear me," said Gideon, "they are apt to be very troublesome. Tell me
everything about it," he added kindly; "if you require my assistance,
conceal nothing."
"_You_ tell him," said Michael, feeling, apparently, that he had done
his share. "My friend will tell you all about it," he added to Gideon,
with a yawn. "Excuse my closing my eyes a moment; I've been sitting up
with a sick friend."
Pitman gazed blankly about the room; rage and despair seethed in his
innocent spirit; thoughts of flight, thoughts even of suicide, came and
went before him; and still the barrister patiently waited, and still
the artist groped in vain for any form of words, however insignificant.
"It's a breach of promise case," he said at last, in a low voice. "I--I
am threatened with a breach of promise case." Here, in desperate quest
of inspiration, he made a clutch at his beard; his fingers closed upon
the unfamiliar smoothness of a shaven chin; and with that, hope and
courage (if such expressions could ever have been appropriate in the
case of Pitman) conjointly fled. He shook Michael roughly. "Wake up!" he
cried, with genuine irritation in his tones. "I cannot do it, and you
know I can't."
"You must excuse my friend," said Michael; "he's no hand as a narrator
of stirring incident. The case is simple," he went on. "My friend is a
man of very strong passions, and accustomed to a simple, patriarchal
style of life. You see the thing from here: unfortunate visit to Europe,
followed by unfortunate acquaintance with sham foreign count, who has a
lovely daughter. Mr. Thomas was quite carried away; he proposed, he was
accepted, and he wrote--wrote in a style which I am sure he must regret
to-day. If these letters are produced in court, sir, Mr. Thomas's
character is gone."
"Am I to understand----" began Gideon.
"My dear sir," said the Australian emphatically, "it isn't possible to
understand unless you saw them."
"That is a painful circumstance," said Gideon; he glanced pityingly in
the direction of the culprit, and, observing on his countenance every
mark of confusion, pityingly withdrew his eyes.
"And that would be nothing," continued Mr. Dickson sternly, "but I
wish--I wish from my heart, sir, I could say that Mr. Thomas's hands
were clean. He has no excuse; for he was engaged at the time--and is
still engaged--to the belle of Constantinople, Ga. My friend's conduct
was unworthy of the brutes that perish."
"Ga.?" repeated Gideon inquiringly.
"A contraction in current use," said Michael. "Ga. for Georgia, in the
same way as Co. for Company."
"I was aware it was sometimes so written," returned the barrister, "but
not that it was so pronounced."
"Fact, I assure you," said Michael. "You now see for yourself, sir, that
if this unhappy person is to be saved, some devilish sharp practice will
be needed. There's money, and no desire to spare it. Mr. Thomas could
write a cheque to-morrow for a hundred thousand. And, Mr. Forsyth,
there's better than money. The foreign count--Count Tarnow, he calls
himself--was formerly a tobacconist in Bayswater, and passed under the
humble but expressive name of Schmidt; his daughter--if she is his
daughter--there's another point--make a note of that, Mr. Forsyth--his
daughter at that time actually served in the shop--and she now proposes
to marry a man of the eminence of Mr. Thomas! Now do you see our game?
We know they contemplate a move; and we wish to forestall 'em. Down you
go to Hampton Court, where they live, and threaten, or bribe, or both,
until you get the letters; if you can't, God help us, we must go to
court and Thomas must be exposed. I'll be done with him for one," added
the unchivalrous friend.
"There seem some elements of success," said Gideon. "Was Schmidt at all
known to the police?"
"We hope so," said Michael. "We have every ground to think so. Mark the
neighbourhood--Bayswater! Doesn't Bayswater occur to you as very
suggestive?"
For perhaps the sixth time during this remarkable interview, Gideon
wondered if he were not becoming light-headed. "I suppose it's just
because he has been lunching," he thought; and then added aloud, "To
what figure may I go?"
"Perhaps five thousand would be enough for to-day," said Michael. "And
now, sir, do not let me detain you any longer; the afternoon wears on;
there are plenty of trains to Hampton Court; and I needn't try to
describe to you the impatience of my friend. Here is a five-pound note
for current expenses; and here is the address." And Michael began to
write, paused, tore up the paper, and put the pieces in his pocket. "I
will dictate," he said, "my writing is so uncertain."
Gideon took down the address, "Count Tarnow, Kurnaul Villa, Hampton
Court." Then he wrote something else on a sheet of paper. "You said you
had not chosen a solicitor," he said. "For a case of this sort, here is
the best man in London." And he handed the paper to Michael.
"God bless me!" ejaculated Michael, as he read his own address.
"O, I daresay you have seen his name connected with some rather painful
cases," said Gideon. "But he is himself a perfectly honest man, and his
capacity is recognised. And now, gentlemen, it only remains for me to
ask where I shall communicate with you."
"The Langham, of course," returned Michael. "Till to-night."
"Till to-night," replied Gideon, smiling. "I suppose I may knock you up
at a late hour?"
"Any hour, any hour," cried the vanishing solicitor.
"Now there's a young fellow with a head upon his shoulders," he said to
Pitman, as soon as they were in the street.
Pitman was indistinctly heard to murmur, "Perfect fool."
"Not a bit of him," returned Michael. "He knows who's the best solicitor
in London, and it's not every man can say the same. But, I say, didn't I
pitch it in hot?"
Pitman returned no answer.
"Hullo!" said the lawyer, pausing, "what's wrong with the long-suffering
Pitman?"
"You had no right to speak of me as you did," the artist broke out;
"your language was perfectly unjustifiable; you have wounded me deeply."
"I never said a word about you," replied Michael. "I spoke of Ezra
Thomas; and do please remember that there's no such party."
"It's just as hard to bear," said the artist.
But by this time they had reached the corner of the by-street; and there
was the faithful shoeblack, standing by the horses' heads with a
splendid assumption of dignity; and there was the piano, figuring
forlorn upon the cart, while the rain beat upon its unprotected sides
and trickled down its elegantly varnished legs.
The shoeblack was again put in requisition to bring five or six strong
fellows from the neighbouring public-house; and the last battle of the
campaign opened. It is probable that Mr. Gideon Forsyth had not yet
taken his seat in the train for Hampton Court, before Michael opened the
door of the chambers, and the grunting porters deposited the Broadwood
grand in the middle of the floor.
"And now," said the lawyer, after he had sent the men about their
business, "one more precaution. We must leave him the key of the piano,
and we must contrive that he shall find it. Let me see." And he built a
square tower of cigars upon the top of the instrument, and dropped the
key into the middle.
"Poor young man," said the artist, as they descended the stairs.
"He is in a devil of a position," assented Michael drily. "It'll brace
him up."
"And that reminds me," observed the excellent Pitman, "that I fear I
displayed a most ungrateful temper. I had no right, I see, to resent
expressions, wounding as they were, which were in no sense directed."
"That's all right," cried Michael, getting on the cart. "Not a word
more, Pitman. Very proper feeling on your part; no man of self-respect
can stand by and hear his _alias_ insulted."
The rain had now ceased, Michael was fairly sober, the body had been
disposed of, and the friends were reconciled. The return to the mews was
therefore (in comparison with previous stages of the day's adventures)
quite a holiday outing; and when they had returned the cart and walked
forth again from the stable-yard, unchallenged, and even unsuspected,
Pitman drew a deep breath of joy.
"And now," he said, "we can go home."
"Pitman," said the lawyer, stopping short, "your recklessness fills me
with concern. What! we have been wet through the greater part of the
day, and you propose, in cold blood, to go home! No, sir--hot Scotch."
And taking his friend's arm he led him sternly towards the nearest
public-house. Nor was Pitman (I regret to say) wholly unwilling. Now
that peace was restored and the body gone, a certain innocent
skittishness began to appear in the manners of the artist; and when he
touched his steaming glass to Michael's, he giggled aloud like a
venturesome school-girl at a picnic.