of sight; for to be quite plain with you, Pitman, I don't like your friend's appearance.' And with that the lawyer shuddered. 'Where can we put it?'
'You might put it in the closet there—if you could bear to touch it,' 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 home-like. You can turn now, my pallid Pitman. Is this the grog?' he ran on. 'Heaven forgive you, it's a lemonade.'
'But, oh, Finsbury, what are we to do with it?' wailed the artist, laying a clutching hand upon the lawyer's arm.
'Do with it?' repeated Michael. 'Bury it in one of your flower-beds, 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
