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.'

236

The Wrong Box