Then he reached down a finished picture, wrapped it in brown paper, put the parcel under his arm and started off.
He took a complication of omnibuses, and arrived in Wardour Street about half-past nine.
"Mr Fernandez is gone to the country on pizzines," said the Jew-boy slave of the picture dealer, who came from the interior of the gloomy shop like a dirty gnome, called forth by the ring of the door bell.
"Oh, d——n!" said Leavesley.
"He's gone on pizzines," replied the other.
"Where's he gone to?"
"Down in the country."
"Look here, I want to sell a picture."
"Mr Fernandez is gone on pizzines."
"Oh, dash Mr Fernandez! Is there no one here I can show the thing to? He knows me."