'Poor young man,' said the artist, as they descended the stairs.

'He is in a devil of a position,' assented Michael drily. 'It'll brace
him up.'

'And that reminds me,' observed the excellent Pitman, 'that I fear I
displayed a most ungrateful temper. I had no right, I see, to resent
expressions, wounding as they were, which were in no sense directed.'

'That's all right,' cried Michael, getting on the cart. 'Not a word
more, Pitman. Very proper feeling on your part; no man of self-respect
can stand by and hear his alias insulted.'

The rain had now ceased, Michael was fairly sober, the body had been
disposed of, and the friends were reconciled. The return to the mews was
therefore (in comparison with previous stages of the day's adventures)
quite a holiday outing; and when they had returned the cart and walked
forth again from the stable-yard, unchallenged, and even unsuspected,
Pitman drew a deep breath of joy. 'And now,' he said, 'we can go home.'

'Pitman,' said the lawyer, stopping short, 'your recklessness fills me
with concern. What! we have been wet through the greater part of the
day, and you propose, in cold blood, to go home! No, sir--hot Scotch.'

And taking his friend's arm he led him sternly towards the nearest
public-house. Nor was Pitman (I regret to say) wholly unwilling.
Now that peace was restored and the body gone, a certain innocent
skittishness began to appear in the manners of the artist; and when
he touched his steaming glass to Michael's, he giggled aloud like a
venturesome schoolgirl at a picnic.