and could throw no
light on it, and told Tiffles that he was not wanted further.

"And you mean to tell me, sir, that I am not to be locked up in the
station house to-night," said Tiffles.

"No, unless yer want ter be."

"Of course not--of course not." But the interior Tiffles was
disappointed at this sudden and unromantic termination of his case. A
few more nights in the station house, or in the Tombs, would have given
him capital material for a book, of which he had already projected the
first chapter. He sat down, and execrated his ill luck.

Patching, the artist, was then interrogated, to the extent of two
minutes, and corroborated Tiffles's testimony as to the sad and strange
appearance of Mr. Wilkeson on the day after the supposed murder.
Patching was then informed by the coroner that his further attendance at
the inquest would not be required.

Patching, on rising, had assumed the attitude of Paul before Felix, as
set forth in some ancient cartoon; and in that position of mingled
innocence, dignity, and defiance, the artist of the illustrated paper
got a spirited sketch of him. Had Patching dreamed how capitally his
long hair, peaked beard, thin nose, and bony forehead would be taken
off, in a rough but faithful character portrait, he would have sunk in
confusion. Happily, the newspaper artist was sitting almost behind his
more pretentious brother of the canvas, and the latter knew not what had
been done, until, the following week, he saw a striking intensification
of himself staring into the street from numerous bulletin boards and
shop windows.

Before sitting down, Mr. Patching begged to explain to the jury, and to
the public through the reporters (who did not take down a word of the
explanation), that he had painted the panorama of Africa to oblige his
friend, "Wesley Tiffles. It was hardly necessary for him to say, in this
community, that he was more at home among higher walks of Art.

"Are you a sign painter, Mr. Patching?" asked the coroner. "No, sir; I
am not," said Patching, with dignified contempt.

"Perhaps you're a carriage painter, then? Them's the fellers for
picturin'. The woman and flowers on the Bully Boys' hose carriage wos
well done. Hey, Jack?"

"That it wos, Harry," returned the assistant foreman of the Bully Boys.
"If Patching can do that sort o' thing, he'll pass."

Patching fixed looks of professional indignation on the coroner and the
assistant foreman, and sat down gloomily,