'I know you do,' said Michael; 'but what's the fiddle—above all as you play it? What you want is polyphonic music. And I'll tell you what it is, since it's too late for you to buy a piano I'll give you mine.'
'Thank you,' said the artist blankly. 'You will give me yours? I am sure it's very good in you.'
'Yes, I'll give you mine,' continued Michael, 'for the inspector of police to play on while his men are digging up your back garden.'
Pitman stared at him in pained amazement.
'No, I'm not insane,' Michael went on. 'I'm playful but quite coherent. See here, Pitman: follow me one half minute. I mean to profit by the refreshing fact that we are really and truly innocent; nothing but the presence of the—you know what—connects us with the crime; once let us get rid of it, no matter how, and there is no possible clue to trace us by. Well, I give you my piano; we'll bring it round this very night. To-morrow we rip the fittings out, deposit the—our friend—inside, plump 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
