'I have nothing to say to that,' returned the lawyer. 'I have sometimes thought I should like to try to behave like a gentleman myself; only it's such a one-sided business, with the world and the legal profession as they are.'
'Then, in the third,' resumed the drawing-master, 'if it's Uncle Tim, of course, our fortune's made.'
'It's not Uncle Tim, though,' said the lawyer.
'Have you observed that very remarkable expression: SOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE?' enquired Pitman shrewdly.
'You innocent mutton,' said Michael, 'it's the seediest commonplace in the English language, and only proves the advertiser is an ass. Let me demolish your house of cards for you at once. Would Uncle Tim make that blunder in your name?--in itself, the blunder is delicious, a huge improvement on the gross reality, and I mean to adopt it in the future; but is it like Uncle Tim?'
'No, it's not like him,' Pitman admitted. 'But his mind may have become unhinged at Ballarat.'
'If you come to that, Pitman,' said Michael, 'the advertiser may be Queen Victoria, fired with the desire to make a duke of you. I put it to yourself if that's probable; and yet it's not against the laws of nature. But we sit here to consider probabilities; and with your genteel permission, I eliminate her Majesty and Uncle Tim on the threshold. To proceed, we have your second idea, that this has some connection with the statue. Possible; but in that case who is the advertiser? Not Ricardi, for he knows your address; not the person who got the box, for he doesn't know your name. The vanman, I hear you suggest, in a lucid interval. He might have got your name, and got it incorrectly, at the station; and he might have failed to get your address. I grant the vanman.
But a question: Do you really wish to meet the vanman?'
'Why should I not?' asked Pitman.
'If he wants to meet you,' replied Michael, 'observe this: it is because he has found his address-book, has been to the house that got the statue, and-mark my words!--is moving at the instigation of the murderer.'
'I should be very sorry to think so,' said Pitman; 'but I still consider it my duty to Mr Sernitopolis. . .'
'Pitman,' interrupted Michael, 'this will not do. Don't seek to impose on your legal adviser; don't try to pass yourself off for the Duke of Wellington, for that is not your line. Come, I wager a dinner I can read your thoughts. You still believe it's Uncle Tim.'
'Mr Finsbury,' said the drawing-master, colouring, 'you are not a man in narrow circumstances, and you have no family. Guendolen is growing up, a very promising girl--she was confirmed this year; and I think you will be able to enter into my feelings as a parent when I tell you she is quite ignorant of dancing. The boys are at the board school, which is all very well in its way; at least, I am the last man in the world to criticize the institutions of my native land. But I had fondly hoped that Harold might become a professional musician; and little Otho shows a quite remarkable vocation for the Church. I am not exactly an ambitious man...'
'Well, well,' interrupted Michael. 'Be explicit; you think it's Uncle Tim?'
'It might be Uncle Tim,' insisted Pitman, 'and if it were, and I neglected the occasion, how could I ever took my children in the face? I do not refer to Mrs Pitman. . .'
'No, you never do,' said Michael.
'. . . but in the case of her own brother returning from Ballarat. . .' continued Pitman.
'. . . with his mind unhinged,' put in the lawyer.
'. . . returning from Ballarat with a large fortune, her impatience may be more easily imagined than described,' concluded Pitman.
'All right,' said Michael, 'be it so. And what do you propose to do?'
'I am going to Waterloo,' said Pitman, 'in disguise.'
'All by your little self?' enquired the lawyer. 'Well, I hope you think it safe. Mind and send me word from the police cells.'
'O, Mr Finsbury, I had ventured to hope--perhaps you might be induced to--to make one of us,' faltered Pitman.
'Disguise myself on Sunday?' cried Michael. 'How little you understand my principles!'
'Mr Finsbury, I have no means of showing you my gratitude; but let me ask you one question,' said Pitman. 'If I were a very rich client, would you not take the risk?'
'Diamond, Diamond, you know not what you do!' cried Michael.
'Why, man, do you suppose I make a practice of cutting about London with my clients in disguise? Do you suppose money would induce me to touch this business with a stick? I give you my word of honour, it would not. But I own I have a real curiosity to see how you conduct this interview--that tempts me; it tempts me, Pitman, more than gold--it should be exquisitely rich.' And suddenly Michael laughed. 'Well, Pitman,' said he, 'have all the truck ready in the studio. I'll go.'
About twenty minutes after two, on this eventful day, the vast and gloomy shed of Waterloo lay, like the temple of a dead religion, silent and deserted. Here and there at one of the platforms, a train lay becalmed; here and there a wandering footfall echoed; the cab-horses outside stamped with startling reverberations on the stones; or from the neighbouring wilderness of railway an engine snorted forth a whistle. The main-line departure platform slumbered like the rest; the booking-hutches closed; the backs of Mr Haggard's novels, with which upon a weekday the bookstall shines emblazoned, discreetly hidden behind dingy shutters; the rare officials, undisguisedly somnambulant; and the customary loiterers, even to the middle-aged woman with the ulster and the handbag, fled to more congenial scenes. As in the inmost dells of some small tropic island the throbbing of the ocean lingers, so here a faint pervading hum and trepidation told in every corner of surrounding London.
At the hour already named, persons acquainted with John Dickson, of Ballarat, and Ezra Thomas, of the United States of America, would have been cheered to behold them enter through the booking-office.
