the whole on a cart, and carry it to the chambers of a young gentleman
whom I know by sight.'

'Whom do you know by sight?' repeated Pitman.

'And what is more to the purpose,' continued Michael, 'whose chambers I
know better than he does himself. A friend of mine--I call him my friend
for brevity; he is now, I understand, in Demerara and (most likely)
in gaol--was the previous occupant. I defended him, and I got him off
too--all saved but honour; his assets were nil, but he gave me what he
had, poor gentleman, and along with the rest--the key of his chambers.
It's there that I propose to leave the piano and, shall we say,
Cleopatra?'

'It seems very wild,' said Pitman. 'And what will become of the poor
young gentleman whom you know by sight?'

'It will do him good,'--said Michael cheerily. 'Just what he wants to
steady him.'

'But, my dear sit, he might be involved in a charge of--a charge of
murder,' gulped the artist.

'Well, he'll be just where we are,' returned the lawyer. 'He's
innocent, you see. What hangs people, my dear Pitman, is the unfortunate
circumstance of guilt.'

'But indeed, indeed,' pleaded Pitman, 'the whole scheme appears to me so
wild. Would it not be safer, after all, just to send for the police?'