e door and
locked it; then, with a pale face and bitten lip, he drew near, pulled
aside a corner of the swathing blanket, and recoiled, shuddering.

There was a long silence in the studio.

"Now tell me," said Michael, in a low voice: "Had you any hand in it?"
and he pointed to the body.

The little artist could only utter broken and disjointed sounds.

Michael poured some gin into a glass. "Drink that," he said. "Don't be
afraid of me. I'm your friend through thick and thin."

Pitman put the liquor down untasted.

"I swear before God," he said, "this is another mystery to me. In my
worst fears I never dreamed of such a thing. I would not lay a finger on
a sucking infant."

"That's all square," said Michael, with a sigh of huge relief. "I
believe you, old boy." And he shook the artist warmly by the hand. "I
thought for a moment," he added with rather a ghastly smile, "I thought
for a moment you might have made away with Mr. Semitopolis."

"It would make no difference if I had," groaned Pitman. "All is at an
end for me. There's the writing on the wall."

"To begin with," said Michael, "let's get him out of sight; for to be
quite plain with you, Pitman, I don't like your friend's appearance."
And with that the lawyer shuddered. "Where can we put it?"

"You might put it in the closet there--if you could bear to touch it,"
answered the artist.

"Somebody has to do it, Pitman," returned the lawyer; "and it seems as
if it had to be me. You go over to the table, turn your back, and mix me
a grog; that's a fair division of labour."

About ninety seconds later the closet-door was heard to shut.

"There," observed Michael, "that's more home-like. You can turn now, my
pallid Pitman. Is this the grog?" he ran on. "Heaven forgive you, it's
a lemonade."

"But, O, Finsbury, what are we to do with it?" wailed the artist, laying
a clutching hand upon the lawyer's arm.

"Do with it?" repeated Michael. "Bury it in one of your flower-beds, and
erect one of your own statues for a monument. I tell you we should look
devilish romantic shovelling out the sod by the moon's pale ray. Here,
put some gin in this."

"I beg of you, Mr. Finsbury, do not trifle with my misery," cried
Pitman. "You see before you a man who has been all his life--I do not
hesitate to say it--eminently respectable. Even in this solemn hour I
can lay my hand upon my heart without a blush. Except on the really
trifling point of the smuggling of the Hercu