't be retraced now. Off to the mews with you, make all the
arrangements; they're to take the piano from here, cart it to Victoria,
and despatch it thence by rail to Cannon Street, to lie till called for
in the name of Fortune du Boisgobey."

"Isn't that rather an awkward name?" pleaded Pitman.

"Awkward?" cried Michael scornfully. "It would hang us both! Brown is
both safer and easier to pronounce. Call it Brown."

"I wish," said Pitman, "for my sake, I wish you wouldn't talk so much of
hanging."

"Talking about it's nothing, my boy!" returned Michael. "But take your
hat and be off, and mind and pay everything beforehand."

Left to himself, the lawyer turned his attention for some time
exclusively to the liqueur brandy, and his spirits, which had been
pretty fair all morning, now prodigiously rose. He proceeded to adjust
his whiskers finally before the glass. "Devilish rich," he remarked, as
he contemplated his reflection. "I look like a purser's mate." And at
that moment the window-glass spectacles (which he had hitherto destined
for Pitman) flashed into his mind; he put them on, and fell in love with
the effect. "Just what I required," he said. "I wonder what I look like
now? A humorous novelist, I should think," and he began to practise
divers characters of walk, naming them to himself as he proceeded. "Walk
of a humorous novelist--but that would require an umbrella. Walk of a
purser's mate. Walk of an Australian colonist revisiting the scenes of
childhood. Walk of Sepoy colonel, ditto, ditto." And in the midst of the
Sepoy colonel (which was an excellent assumption, although inconsistent
with the style of his make-up), his eye lighted on the piano. This
instrument was made to lock both at the top and at the keyboard, but the
key of the latter had been mislaid. Michael opened it and ran his
fingers over the dumb keys. "Fine instrument--full, rich tone," he
observed, and he drew in a seat.

When Mr. Pitman returned to the studio, he was appalled to observe his
guide, philosopher, and friend performing miracles of execution on the
silent grand.

"Heaven help me!" thought the little man, "I fear he has been drinking!
Mr. Finsbury," he said aloud; and Michael, without rising, turned upon
him a countenance somewhat flushed, encircled with the bush of the red
whiskers, and bestridden by the spectacles. "Capriccio in B-flat on the
departure of a friend," said he, continuing his noiseless evolutions.

Indignation aw