answered the artist.

'Somebody has to do it, Pitman,' returned the lawyer; 'and it seems as
if it had to be me. You go over to the table, turn your back, and mix me
a grog; that's a fair division of labour.'

About ninety seconds later the closet-door was heard to shut.

'There,' observed Michael, 'that's more homelike. You can turn now, my
pallid Pitman. Is this the grog?' he ran on. 'Heaven forgive you, it's a
lemonade.'

'But, O, Finsbury, what are we to do with it?' walled the artist, laying
a clutching hand upon the lawyer's arm.

'Do with it?' repeated Michael. 'Bury it in one of your flowerbeds, and
erect one of your own statues for a monument. I tell you we should look
devilish romantic shovelling out the sod by the moon's pale ray. Here,
put some gin in this.'

'I beg of you, Mr Finsbury, do not trifle with my misery,' cried Pitman.
'You see before you a man who has been all his life--I do not hesitate
to say it--imminently respectable. Even in this solemn hour I can lay my
hand upon my heart without a blush. Except on the really trifling point
of the smuggling of the Hercules (and even of that I now humbly repent),
my life has been entirely fit for publication. I never feared the
light,' cried the little man; 'and now--now--!'

'Cheer up, old boy,' said Michael. 'I assure you we should count this
little contretemps a trifle at the office; it's the sort of thing that