'What names are we to take?' enquired the latter, anxiously adjusting the window-glass spectacles which he had been suffered on this occasion to assume.
'There's no choice for you, my boy,' returned Michael. 'Bent Pitman or nothing. As for me, I think I look as if I might be called Appleby; something agreeably old-world about Appleby--breathes of Devonshire cider. Talking of which, suppose you wet your whistle? the interview is likely to be trying.'
'I think I'll wait till afterwards,' returned Pitman; 'on the whole, I think I'll wait till the thing's over. I don't know if it strikes you as it does me; but the place seems deserted and silent, Mr Finsbury, and filled with very singular echoes.'
'Kind of Jack-in-the-box feeling?' enquired Michael, 'as if all these empty trains might be filled with policemen waiting for a signal? and Sir Charles Warren perched among the girders with a silver whistle to his lips? It's guilt, Pitman.'
In this uneasy frame of mind they walked nearly the whole length of the departure platform, and at the western extremity became aware of a slender figure standing back against a pillar. The figure was plainly sunk into a deep abstraction; he was not aware of their approach, but gazed far abroad over the sunlit station.
Michael stopped.
'Holloa!' said he, 'can that be your advertiser? If so, I'm done with it.' And then, on second thoughts: 'Not so, either,' he resumed more cheerfully. 'Here, turn your back a moment. So. Give me the specs.'
'But you agreed I was to have them,' protested Pitman.
'Ah, but that man knows me,' said Michael.
'Does he? what's his name?' cried Pitman.
'O, he took me into his confidence,' returned the lawyer. 'But I may say one thing: if he's your advertiser (and he may be, for he seems to have been seized with criminal lunacy) you can go ahead with a clear conscience, for I hold him in the hollow of my hand.'
The change effected, and Pitman comforted with this good news, the pair drew near to Morris.
'Are you looking for Mr William Bent Pitman?' enquired the drawing-master. 'I am he.'
Morris raised his head. He saw before him, in the speaker, a person of almost indescribable insignificance, in white spats and a shirt cut indecently low. A little behind, a second and more burly figure offered little to criticism, except ulster, whiskers, spectacles, and deerstalker hat. Since he had decided to call up devils from the underworld of London, Morris had pondered deeply on the probabilities of their appearance. His first emotion, like that of Charoba when she beheld the sea, was one of disappointment; his second did more justice to the case.
Never before had he seen a couple dressed like these; he had struck a new stratum.
'I must speak with you alone,' said he.
'You need not mind Mr Appleby,' returned Pitman. 'He knows all.'
'All? Do you know what I am here to speak of?' enquired Morris--.
'The barrel.'
Pitman turned pale, but it was with manly indignation. 'You are the man!' he cried. 'You very wicked person.'
'Am I to speak before him?' asked Morris, disregarding these severe expressions.
'He has been present throughout,' said Pitman. 'He opened the barrel; your guilty secret is already known to him, as well as to your Maker and myself.'
'Well, then,' said Morris, 'what have you done with the money?'
'I know nothing about any money,' said Pitman.
'You needn't try that on,' said Morris. 'I have tracked you down; you came to the station sacrilegiously disguised as a clergyman, procured my barrel, opened it, rifled the body, and cashed the bill. I have been to the bank, I tell you! I have followed you step by step, and your denials are childish and absurd.'
'Come, come, Morris, keep your temper,' said Mr Appleby.
'Michael!' cried Morris, 'Michael here too!'
'Here too,' echoed the lawyer; 'here and everywhere, my good fellow; every step you take is counted; trained detectives follow you like your shadow; they report to me every three-quarters of an hour; no expense is spared.'
Morris's face took on a hue of dirty grey. 'Well, I don't care; I have the less reserve to keep,' he cried. 'That man cashed my bill; it's a theft, and I want the money back.'
'Do you think I would lie to you, Morris?' asked Michael.
'I don't know,' said his cousin. 'I want my money.'
'It was I alone who touched the body,' began Michael.
'You? Michael!' cried Morris, starting back. 'Then why haven't you declared the death?' 'What the devil do you mean?' asked Michael.
'Am I mad? or are you?' cried Morris.
'I think it must be Pitman,' said Michael.
The three men stared at each other, wild-eyed.
'This is dreadful,' said Morris, 'dreadful. I do not understand one word that is addressed to me.'
'I give you my word of honour, no more do I,' said Michael.
'And in God's name, why whiskers?' cried Morris, pointing in a ghastly manner at his cousin. 'Does my brain reel? How whiskers?'
'O, that's a matter of detail,' said Michael.
There was another silence, during which Morris appeared to himself to be shot in a trapeze as high as St Paul's, and as low as Baker Street Station.
'Let us recapitulate,' said Michael, 'unless it's really a dream, in which case I wish Teena would call me for breakfast. My friend Pitman, here, received a barrel which, it now appears, was meant for you. The barrel contained the body of a man. How or why you killed him...'
'I never laid a hand on him,' protested Morris. 'This is what I have dreaded all along. But think, Michael! I'm not that kind of man; with all my faults, I wouldn't touch a hair of anybody's head, and it was all dead loss to me. He got killed in that vile accident.'
Suddenly Michael was seized by mirth so prolonged and excessive that his companions supposed beyond a doubt his reason had deserted him. Again and again he struggled to compose himself, and again and again laughter overwhelmed him like a tide. In all this maddening interview there had been no more spectral feature than this of Michael's merriment; and Pitman and Morris, drawn together by the common fear, exchanged glances of anxiety.
