“A word is enough, Mr. Pitman,” said Joseph, with one of his Oriental reverences.
Half an hour later, the drawing-master found Michael in bed and reading a book, the picture of good-humour and repose.
“Hillo, Pitman,” he said, laying down his book, “what brings you here at this inclement hour? Ought to be in church, my boy!”
“I have little thought of church to-day, Mr. Finsbury,” said the drawing-master. “I am on the brink of something new, sir.” And he presented the advertisement.
“Why, what is this?” cried Michael, sitting suddenly up. He studied it for half a minute with a frown. “Pitman, I don’t care about this document a particle,” said he.
“It will have to be attended to, however,” said Pitman.
“I thought you’d had enough of Waterloo,” returned the lawyer. “Have you started a morbid craving? You’ve never been yourself anyway since you lost that beard. I believe now it was where you kept your senses.”
“Mr. Finsbury,” said the drawing-master, “I have tried to reason this matter but, and, with your permission, I should like to lay before you the results.”
“Fire away,” said Michael; “but please, Pitman, remember it’s Sunday, and let’s have no bad language.”
“There are three views open to us,” began Pitman. “First this may be connected with the barrel; second, it may be connected with Mr. Semitopolis’s statue; and third, it may be from my wife’s brother, who went to Australia. In the first case, which is of course possible, I confess the matter would be best allowed to drop.”