“I know you do,” said Michael; “but what’s the fiddle—above all as you play it? What you want is polyphonic music. And I’ll tell you what it is—since it’s too late for you to buy a piano I’ll give you mine.”
“Thank you,” said the artist blankly. “You will give me yours? I am sure it’s very good in you.”
“Yes, I’ll give you mine,” continued Michael, “for the inspector of police to play on while his men are digging up your back garden.”
Pitman stared at him in pained amazement.
“No, I’m not insane,” Michael went on. “I’m playful, but quite coherent. See here, Pitman: follow me one half minute. I mean to profit by the refreshing fact that we are really and truly innocent; nothing but the presence of the—you know what—connects us with the crime; once let us get rid of it, no matter how, and there is no possible clue to trace us by. Well, I give you my piano; we’ll bring it round this very night. To-morrow we rip the fittings out, deposit the—our friend—inside, plump the whole on a cart, and carry it to the chambers of a young gentleman whom I know by sight.”
“Whom do you know by sight?” repeated Pitman.
“And what is more to the purpose,” continued Michael, “whose chambers I know better than he does himself. A friend of mine—I call him my friend for brevity; he is now, I understand, in Demerara and (most likely) in gaol—was the previous occupant. I defended him, and I got him off too—all saved but honour; his assets were nil, but he gave me what he had, poor gentleman, and along with the rest—the key of his chambers. It’s there that I propose to leave the piano and, shall we say, Cleopatra?”
“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 sir, he might be involved in a charge of—a charge of murder,” gulped the artist.