In the upper story of this building, at the end of a long, hall, the floor of which was hollowed in places by the feet of half a century, was the room, or office, as he called it, of Mr. Wesley Tiffles.  There was no number, or sign, on the door, but only a card bearing the inscription, in a bold hand, “Back in five minutes.”  Mr. Tiffles always put out this standing announcement whenever he had occasion to absent himself from his office for an indefinite period.  At the top of the door there was a swinging window, which was ever close fastened, and covered with four thicknesses of newspapers.  Though door and window were shut, there came from this room, as if through pores of the wood and the glass, a strong odor of tobacco smoke.  A voice within could be heard softly humming an operatic air.

Wesley Tiffles opened the door with a latch key, saying, “All right!” in a loud voice, as he did so.  Marcus entered with him into a blue cloud of smoke heated to a sickly degree by a small coal stove with a prodigious quantity of pipe.  Even Marcus’s hardened lungs found it difficult to breathe.

The room was about twenty feet square.  It had been a part of the laundry when the building was a hotel.  The walls, from the floor to the low ceiling, appeared to be hung with a strange, dim tapestry.  A second glance convinced Marcus Wilkeson that this seeming tapestry was the panorama, which was fastened on stretchers along three sides of the room, and rolled up in a corner as fast as completed.  At the farther end of the room, barely visible through the smoke, was the figure of a man in a torn and dirty dressing gown, and an enormous black felt hat with a huge turn-up brim, of the kind supposed to be worn by the bandits of the Pyrenees.  The back of the man was turned to Marcus Wilkeson, and he was making rapid dabs on the canvas with a long brush, frequently dipping into one of a series of pails or pans which stood on the floor by his side.  He was smoking and humming the operatic air at the same time; and he pulled his great slouched hat farther over his eyes, as a signal for impertinent curiosity to keep its distance.

Wesley Tiffles whispered something about the eccentricities of genius, and then said: 

“Mr. Patching.  Allow me.  Mr. Wilkeson.  A capitalist, who thinks of taking a small interest in the panorama.  Confidential, of course.”

The artist turned round during these remarks, and presented the original of a portrait which Marcus remembered to have seen—­dressing gown, hat, and all—­in a small print-shop window in the Sixth Avenue.  Touching the face he might have had doubt, but there was no mistaking the pattern of the dressing gown and the amazing hat.  He also had a faint recollection of the thin face, the Vandyke beard, and the long, tangled hair at Mrs. Slapman’s, on New Year’s, but was not positive as to their identity.  Mr. Patching’s individuality lay chiefly in his hat.

The artist placed a moist hand, with one long finger nail like a claw, at the disposal of Marcus Wilkeson.  The latter gentleman shook the member feebly, and distinctly felt the sharp edge of the long finger nail in his palm.  It was an unpleasant sensation.