to tell me that you make the whole blessed
thing yourself, do you--model the figures, group 'em, paint the
blessed background, and all?" said he, with yokel-like amazement.
"You _do_? My hat! but you're a wonder! That background's one of
the best I've ever clapped eyes on. And the figures! I could swear
that that fellow bursting in with a sword in his hand was alive
if I didn't know better; and as for this dead johnnie here in the
foreground that you're working on, he's a marvel. What do you stuff
the blessed things with? Or don't you stuff 'em at all?"

"Oh, yes, signor, they are stuffed, all of them. There is a wicker
framework covered with canvas; and inside cotton waste, old paper,
straw."

"You don't mean it! Well, I'm blest! Nothing but waste stuff and
straw? Why, that fellow over there--the Sepoy chap with the gun in
his hands----Oh, good Lord! just my blessed luck! I hope to heaven
I haven't spoilt anything!" For, in leaning over to indicate the
figure alluded to, he had blundered against the edge of the low
platform, lost his balance, and sprawled over so awkwardly and
abruptly that, but for the fact that the figure of the dead soldier
was there for his hand to fall upon in time to check it, he must
have pitched headlong into the very heart of the tableau, and done no
end of damage. Fortunately, however, not a figure had been thrown
down, and even the "dead soldier" had stood the shock uncommonly
well, not even a dent showing, though Cleek had come down rather
heavily and his palm had struck smack on the figure's chest.

"Tut! tut! tut! tut!" exclaimed the Italian with angry impatience.
"Oh, do have a little care, signor! The bull in a china-shop is alone
like this." And he turned his back upon this stupid blunderer, even
though Cleek was profuse in his apologies, and looked as sorry as he
declared. After a time, however, he went off on another tack, for
his quick-travelling glance had shown him Mr. Narkom in the house
across the passage, and he turned on his heel and walked away rapidly.

"Tell you what it is: it's this blessed glare of light that's
accountable," he said. "A body's likely to stumble over anything with
the light streaming into the place in this fashion. What you want
in here is a bit of shade--like this."

Here he crossed the room hastily and, reaching up, pulled down the
long window blind with a sudden jerk. But before either Trent or the
Italian could offer any objection to this interfe