'That's the style, William Dent' cried Michael. 'There's fire for--your

money! It may be a romantic visit from one of the young ladies--a sort

of Cleopatra business. Have a care and don't stave in Cleopatra's head.'

But the sight of Pitman's alacrity was infectious. The lawyer could

sit still no longer. Tossing his cigar into the fire, he snatched the

instrument from the unwilling hands of the artist, and fell to himself.

Soon the sweat stood in beads upon his large, fair brow; his stylish

trousers were defaced with iron rust, and the state of his chisel

testified to misdirected energies.

A cask is not an easy thing to open, even when you set about it in the

right way; when you set about it wrongly, the whole structure must be

resolved into its elements. Such was the course pursued alike by the

artist and the lawyer. Presently the last hoop had been removed--a

couple of smart blows tumbled the staves upon the ground--and what

had once been a barrel was no more than a confused heap of broken and

distorted boards.

In the midst of these, a certain dismal something, swathed in blankets,

remained for an instant upright, and then toppled to one side and

heavily collapsed before the fire. Even as the thing subsided, an

eye-glass tingled to the floor and rolled toward the screaming Pitman.

'Hold your tongue!' said Michael. He dashed to the house door and locked

108

The Wrong Box