What
end, on the whole, more probable for a modern musician?

"By Jove, I'll do it," cried Gideon. "Jimson is the boy!"

CHAPTER XI

THE MAESTRO JIMSON

Mr. Edward Hugh Bloomfield having announced his intention to stay in the
neighbourhood of Maidenhead, what more probable than that the Maestro
Jimson should turn his mind toward Padwick? Near this pleasant
river-side village he remembered to have observed an ancient, weedy
houseboat lying moored beside a tuft of willows. It had stirred in him,
in his careless hours, as he pulled down the river under a more familiar
name, a certain sense of the romantic; and when the nice contrivance of
his story was already complete in his mind, he had come near pulling it
all down again, like an ungrateful clock, in order to introduce a
chapter in which Richard Skill (who was always being decoyed somewhere)
should be decoyed on board that lonely hulk by Lord Bellew and the
American desperado Gin Sling. It was fortunate he had not done so, he
reflected, since the hulk was now required for very different purposes.

Jimson, a man of inconspicuous costume, but insinuating manners, had
little difficulty in finding the hireling who had charge of the
houseboat, and still less in persuading him to resign his care. The rent
was almost nominal, the entry immediate, the key was exchanged against a
suitable advance in money, and Jimson returned to town by the afternoon
train to see about despatching his piano.

"I will be down to-morrow," he had said reassuringly. "My opera is
waited for with such impatience, you know."

And, sure enough, about the hour of noon on the following day, Jimson
might have been observed ascending the river-side road that goes from
Padwick to Great Haverham, carrying in one hand a basket of provisions,
and under the other arm a leather case containing (it is to be
conjectured) the score of _Orange Pekoe_. It was October weather; the
stone-grey sky was full of larks, the leaden mirror of the Thames
brightened with autumnal foliage, and the fallen leaves of the chestnuts
chirped under the composer's footing. There is no time of the year in
England more courageous; and Jimson, though he was not without his
troubles, whistled as he went.

A little above Padwick the river lies very solitary. On the opposite
shore the trees of a private park enclose the view, the chimneys of the
mansion just pricking forth above their clusters; on the near side the
path is b