ch philosopher, without
the pleasures of disguise? I don't say it's always good taste, and I
know it's unprofessional; but what's the odds, downhearted
drawing-master? It has to be. We have to leave a false impression on the
minds of many persons, and in particular on the mind of Mr. Gideon
Forsyth--the young gentleman I know by sight--if he should have the bad
taste to be at home."

"If he be at home?" faltered the artist. "That would be the end of all."

"Won't matter a d----," returned Michael airily. "Let me see your
clothes, and I'll make a new man of you in a jiffy."

In the bedroom, to which he was at once conducted, Michael examined
Pitman's poor and scanty wardrobe with a humorous eye, picked out a
short jacket of black alpaca, and presently added to that a pair of
summer trousers which somehow took his fancy as incongruous. Then, with
the garments in his hand, he scrutinised the artist closely.

"I don't like that clerical collar," he remarked. "Have you nothing
else?"

The professor of drawing pondered for a moment, and then brightened; "I
have a pair of low-necked shirts," he said, "that I used to wear in
Paris as a student. They are rather loud."

"The very thing!" ejaculated Michael. "You'll look perfectly beastly.
Here are spats, too," he continued, drawing forth a pair of those
offensive little gaiters. "Must have spats! And now you jump into these,
and whistle a tune at the window for (say) three-quarters of an hour.
After that you can rejoin me on the field of glory."

So saying, Michael returned to the studio. It was the morning of the
easterly gale; the wind blew shrilly among the statues in the garden,
and drove the rain upon the skylight in the studio ceiling; and at about
the same moment of the time when Morris attacked the hundredth version
of his uncle's signature in Bloomsbury, Michael, in Chelsea, began to
rip the wires out of the Broadwood grand.

Three-quarters of an hour later Pitman was admitted, to find the
closet-door standing open, the closet untenanted, and the piano
discreetly shut.

"It's a remarkably heavy instrument," observed Michael, and turned to
consider his friend's disguise. "You must shave off that beard of
yours," he said.

"My beard!" cried Pitman. "I cannot shave my beard. I cannot tamper with
my appearance--my principals would object. They hold very strong views
as to the appearance of the professors--young ladies are considered so
romantic. My beard was reg