‘It seems very wild,’ said Pitman.  ’And what will become of the poor young gentleman whom you know by sight?’

’It will do him good,’—­said Michael cheerily.  ’Just what he wants to steady him.’

’But, my dear sit, he might be involved in a charge of—­a charge of murder,’ gulped the artist.

‘Well, he’ll be just where we are,’ returned the lawyer.  ’He’s innocent, you see.  What hangs people, my dear Pitman, is the unfortunate circumstance of guilt.’

‘But indeed, indeed,’ pleaded Pitman, ’the whole scheme appears to me so wild.  Would it not be safer, after all, just to send for the police?’

‘And make a scandal?’ enquired Michael. ’"The Chelsea Mystery; alleged innocence of Pitman”?  How would that do at the Seminary?’

‘It would imply my discharge,’ admitted the drawing—­master.  ’I cannot deny that.’

‘And besides,’ said Michael, ’I am not going to embark in such a business and have no fun for my money.’

‘O my dear sir, is that a proper spirit?’ cried Pitman.

‘O, I only said that to cheer you up,’ said the unabashed Michael.  ’Nothing like a little judicious levity.  But it’s quite needless to discuss.  If you mean to follow my advice, come on, and let us get the piano at once.  If you don’t, just drop me the word, and I’ll leave you to deal with the whole thing according to your better judgement.’

‘You know perfectly well that I depend on you entirely,’ returned Pitman.  ’But O, what a night is before me with that—­horror in my studio!  How am I to think of it on my pillow?’

‘Well, you know, my piano will be there too,’ said Michael.  ’That’ll raise the average.’

An hour later a cart came up the lane, and the lawyer’s piano—­a momentous Broadwood grand—­was deposited in Mr Pitman’s studio.

CHAPTER VIII.  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.  Today 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.