“And now,” said the lawyer, after he had sent the men about their business, “one more precaution. We must leave him the key of the piano, and we must contrive that he shall find it. Let me see.” And he built a square tower of cigars upon the top of the instrument, and dropped the key into the middle.
“Poor young man,” said the artist, as they descended the stairs.
“He is in a devil of a position,” assented Michael drily. “It’ll brace him up.”
“And that reminds me,” observed the excellent Pitman, “that I fear I displayed a most ungrateful temper. I had no right, I see, to resent expressions, wounding as they were, which were in no sense directed.”
“That’s all right,” cried Michael, getting on the cart. “Not a word more, Pitman. Very proper feeling on your part; no man of self-respect can stand by and hear his alias insulted.”
The rain had now ceased, Michael was fairly sober, the body had been disposed of, and the friends were reconciled. The return to the mews was therefore (in comparison with previous stages of the day’s adventures) quite a holiday outing; and when they had returned the cart and walked forth again from the stable-yard, unchallenged, and even unsuspected, Pitman drew a deep breath of joy.
“And now,” he said, “we can go home.”
“Pitman,” said the lawyer, stopping short, “your recklessness fills me with concern. What! we have been wet through the greater part of the day, and you propose, in cold blood, to go home! No, sir—hot Scotch.”
And taking his friend’s arm he led him sternly towards the nearest public-house. Nor was Pitman (I regret to say) wholly unwilling. Now that peace was restored and the body gone, a certain innocent skittishness began to appear in the manners of the artist; and when he touched his steaming glass to Michael’s, he giggled aloud like a venturesome school-girl at a picnic.