“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?” inquired 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 judgment.”
“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.”