At the moment when we must present him to our readers, Pitman was in his studio alone, by the dying light of the October day.  He sat (sure enough with ‘unaffected simplicity’) in a Windsor chair, his low-crowned black felt hat by his side; a dark, weak, harmless, pathetic little man, clad in the hue of mourning, his coat longer than is usual with the laity, his neck enclosed in a collar without a parting, his neckcloth pale in hue and simply tied; the whole outward man, except for a pointed beard, tentatively clerical.  There was a thinning on the top of Pitman’s head, there were silver hairs at Pitman’s temple.  Poor gentleman, he was no longer young; and years, and poverty, and humble ambition thwarted, make a cheerless lot.

In front of him, in the corner by the door, there stood a portly barrel; and let him turn them where he might, it was always to the barrel that his eyes and his thoughts returned.

’Should I open it?  Should I return it?  Should I communicate with Mr Sernitopolis at once?’ he wondered.  ‘No,’ he concluded finally, ’nothing without Mr Finsbury’s advice.’  And he arose and produced a shabby leathern desk.  It opened without the formality of unlocking, and displayed the thick cream-coloured notepaper on which Mr Pitman was in the habit of communicating with the proprietors of schools and the parents of his pupils.  He placed the desk on the table by the window, and taking a saucer of Indian ink from the chimney-piece, laboriously composed the following letter: 

‘My dear Mr Finsbury,’ it ran, ’would it be presuming on your kindness if I asked you to pay me a visit here this evening?  It is in no trifling matter that I invoke your valuable assistance, for need I say more than it concerns the welfare of Mr Semitopolis’s statue of Hercules?  I write you in great agitation of mind; for I have made all enquiries, and greatly fear that this work of ancient art has been mislaid.  I labour besides under another perplexity, not unconnected with the first.  Pray excuse the inelegance of this scrawl, and believe me yours in haste, William D. Pitman.’

Armed with this he set forth and rang the bell of No. 233 King’s Road, the private residence of Michael Finsbury.  He had met the lawyer at a time of great public excitement in Chelsea; Michael, who had a sense of humour and a great deal of careless kindness in his nature, followed the acquaintance up, and, having come to laugh, remained to drop into a contemptuous kind of friendship.  By this time, which was four years after the first meeting, Pitman was the lawyer’s dog.

‘No,’ said the elderly housekeeper, who opened the door in person, ’Mr Michael’s not in yet.  But ye’re looking terribly poorly, Mr Pitman.  Take a glass of sherry, sir, to cheer ye up.’

‘No, I thank you, ma’am,’ replied the artist.  ’It is very good in you, but I scarcely feel in sufficient spirits for sherry.  Just give Mr Finsbury this note, and ask him to look round—­to the door in the lane, you will please tell him; I shall be in the studio all evening.’