On the morning of Sunday, William Dent Pitman rose at his usual hour, although with something more than the usual reluctance. The day before (it should be explained) an addition had been made to his family in the person of a lodger. Michael Finsbury had acted sponsor in the business, and guaranteed the weekly bill; on the other hand, no doubt with a spice of his prevailing jocularity, he had drawn a depressing portrait of the lodger’s character. Mr Pitman had been led to understand his guest was not good company; he had approached the gentleman with fear, and had rejoiced to find himself the entertainer of an angel. At tea he had been vastly pleased; till hard on one in the morning he had sat entranced by eloquence and progressively fortified with information in the studio; and now, as he reviewed over his toilet the harmless pleasures of the evening, the future smiled upon him with revived attractions. ‘Mr Finsbury is indeed an acquisition,’ he remarked to himself; and as he entered the little parlour, where the table was already laid for breakfast, the cordiality of his greeting would have befitted an acquaintanceship already old.

‘I am delighted to see you, sir’— these were his expressions —‘and I trust you have slept well.’

‘Accustomed as I have been for so long to a life of almost perpetual change,’ replied the guest, ‘the disturbance so often complained of by the more sedentary, as attending their first night in (what is called) a new bed, is a complaint from which I am entirely free.’

‘I am delighted to hear it,’ said the drawing-master warmly. ‘But I see I have interrupted you over the paper.’

‘The Sunday paper is one of the features of the age,’ said Mr Finsbury. ‘In America, I am told, it supersedes all other literature, the bone and sinew of the nation finding their requirements catered for; hundreds of columns will be occupied with interesting details of the world’s doings, such as water-spouts, elopements, conflagrations, and public entertainments; there is a corner for politics, ladies’ work, chess, religion, and even literature; and a few spicy editorials serve to direct the course of public thought. It is difficult to estimate the part played by such enormous and miscellaneous repositories in the education of the people. But this (though interesting in itself) partakes of the nature of a digression; and what I was about to ask you was this: Are you yourself a student of the daily press?’

‘There is not much in the papers to interest an artist,’ returned Pitman.

‘In that case,’ resumed Joseph, ‘an advertisement which has appeared the last two days in various journals, and reappears this morning, may possibly have failed to catch your eye. The name, with a trifling variation, bears a strong resemblance to your own. Ah, here it is. If you please, I will read it to you:

Wiliam Bent Pitman, if this should meet the eye of, he will hear of something to his advantage at the far end of the main line departure platform, Waterloo Station, 2 to 4 p.m. today.

‘Is that in print?’ cried Pitman. ‘Let me see it! Bent? It must be Dent! Something to my advantage? Mr Finsbury, excuse me offering a word of caution; I am aware how strangely this must sound in your ears, but there are domestic reasons why this little circumstance might perhaps be better kept between ourselves. Mrs Pitman — my dear Sir, I assure you there is nothing dishonourable in my secrecy; the reasons are domestic, merely domestic; and I may set your conscience at rest when I assure you all the circumstances are known to our common friend, your excellent nephew, Mr Michael, who has not withdrawn from me his esteem.’

‘A word is enough, Mr Pitman,’ said Joseph, with one of his Oriental reverences.

Half an hour later, the drawing-master found Michael in bed and reading a book, the picture of good-humour and repose.

‘Hillo, Pitman,’ he said, laying down his book, ‘what brings you here at this inclement hour? Ought to be in church, my boy!’

‘I have little thought of church today, Mr Finsbury,’ said the drawing-master. ‘I am on the brink of something new, Sir.’ And he presented the advertisement.

‘Why, what is this?’ cried Michael, sitting suddenly up. He studied it for half a minute with a frown. ‘Pitman, I don’t care about this document a particle,’ said he.

‘It will have to be attended to, however,’ said Pitman.

‘I thought you’d had enough of Waterloo,’ returned the lawyer. ‘Have you started a morbid craving? You’ve never been yourself anyway since you lost that beard. I believe now it was where you kept your senses.’

‘Mr Finsbury,’ said the drawing-master, ‘I have tried to reason this matter out, and, with your permission, I should like to lay before you the results.’

‘Fire away,’ said Michael; ‘but please, Pitman, remember it’s Sunday, and let’s have no bad language.’

‘There are three views open to us,’ began Pitman. ‘First this may be connected with the barrel; second, it may be connected with Mr Semitopolis’s statue; and third, it may be from my wife’s brother, who went to Australia. In the first case, which is of course possible, I confess the matter would be best allowed to drop.’

‘The court is with you there, Brother Pitman,’ said Michael.

‘In the second,’ continued the other, ‘it is plainly my duty to leave no stone unturned for the recovery of the lost antique.’

‘My dear fellow, Semitopolis has come down like a trump; he has pocketed the loss and left you the profit. What more would you have?’ enquired the lawyer.

‘I conceive, sir, under correction, that Mr Semitopolis’s generosity binds me to even greater exertion,’ said the drawing-master. ‘The whole business was unfortunate; it was — I need not disguise it from you — it was illegal from the first: the more reason that I should try to behave like a gentleman,’ concluded Pitman, flushing.

‘I have nothing to say to that,’ returned the lawyer. ‘I have sometimes thought I should like to try to behave like a gentleman myself; only it’s such a one-sided business, with the world and the legal profession as they are.’

‘Then, in the third,’ resumed the drawing-master, ‘if it’s Uncle Tim, of course, our fortune’s made.’

‘It’s not Uncle Tim, though,’ said the lawyer.

‘Have you observed that very remarkable expression: something to his advantage?’ enquired Pitman shrewdly.

‘You innocent mutton,’ said Michael, ‘it’s the seediest commonplace in the English language, and only proves the advertiser is an ass. Let me demolish your house of cards for you at once. Would Uncle Tim make that blunder in your name? — in itself, the blunder is delicious, a huge improvement on the gross reality, and I mean to adopt it in the future; but is it like Uncle Tim?’

‘No, it’s not like him,’ Pitman admitted. ‘But his mind may have become unhinged at Ballarat.’

‘If you come to that, Pitman,’ said Michael, ‘the advertiser may be Queen Victoria, fired with the desire to make a duke of you. I put it to yourself if that’s probable; and yet it’s not against the laws of nature. But we sit here to consider probabilities; and with your genteel permission, I eliminate her Majesty and Uncle Tim on the threshold. To proceed, we have your second idea, that this has some connection with the statue. Possible; but in that case who is the advertiser? Not Ricardi, for he knows your address; not the person who got the box, for he doesn’t know your name. The vanman, I hear you suggest, in a lucid interval. He might have got your name, and got it incorrectly, at the station; and he might have failed to get your address. I grant the vanman. But a question: Do you really wish to meet the vanman?’

‘Why should I not?’ asked Pitman.

‘If he wants to meet you,’ replied Michael, ‘observe this: it is because he has found his address-book, has been to the house that got the statue, and-mark my words! — is moving at the instigation of the murderer.’

‘I should be very sorry to think so,’ said Pitman; ‘but I still consider it my duty to Mr Sernitopolis. . .’

‘Pitman,’ interrupted Michael, ‘this will not do. Don’t seek to impose on your legal adviser; don’t try to pass yourself off for the Duke of Wellington, for that is not your line. Come, I wager a dinner I can read your thoughts. You still believe it’s Uncle Tim.’

‘Mr Finsbury,’ said the drawing-master, colouring, ‘you are not a man in narrow circumstances, and you have no family. Guendolen is growing up, a very promising girl — she was confirmed this year; and I think you will be able to enter into my feelings as a parent when I tell you she is quite ignorant of dancing. The boys are at the board school, which is all very well in its way; at least, I am the last man in the world to criticize the institutions of my native land. But I had fondly hoped that Harold might become a professional musician; and little Otho shows a quite remarkable vocation for the Church. I am not exactly an ambitious man . . . ’

‘Well, well,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Be explicit; you think it’s Uncle Tim?’

‘It might be Uncle Tim,’ insisted Pitman, ‘and if it were, and I neglected the occasion, how could I ever took my children in the face? I do not refer to Mrs Pitman. . .’

‘No, you never do,’ said Michael.

‘ . . . but in the case of her own brother returning from Ballarat. . .’ continued Pitman.

‘ . . . with his mind unhinged,’ put in the lawyer.

‘ . . . returning from Ballarat with a large fortune, her impatience may be more easily imagined than described,’ concluded Pitman.

‘All right,’ said Michael, ‘be it so. And what do you propose to do?’

‘I am going to Waterloo,’ said Pitman, ‘in disguise.’

‘All by your little self?’ enquired the lawyer. ‘Well, I hope you think it safe. Mind and send me word from the police cells.’

‘O, Mr Finsbury, I had ventured to hope — perhaps you might be induced to — to make one of us,’ faltered Pitman.

‘Disguise myself on Sunday?’ cried Michael. ‘How little you understand my principles!’

‘Mr Finsbury, I have no means of showing you my gratitude; but let me ask you one question,’ said Pitman. ‘If I were a very rich client, would you not take the risk?’

‘Diamond, Diamond, you know not what you do!’ cried Michael. ‘Why, man, do you suppose I make a practice of cutting about London with my clients in disguise? Do you suppose money would induce me to touch this business with a stick? I give you my word of honour, it would not. But I own I have a real curiosity to see how you conduct this interview — that tempts me; it tempts me, Pitman, more than gold — it should be exquisitely rich.’ And suddenly Michael laughed. ‘Well, Pitman,’ said he, ‘have all the truck ready in the studio. I’ll go.’

About twenty minutes after two, on this eventful day, the vast and gloomy shed of Waterloo lay, like the temple of a dead religion, silent and deserted. Here and there at one of the platforms, a train lay becalmed; here and there a wandering footfall echoed; the cab-horses outside stamped with startling reverberations on the stones; or from the neighbouring wilderness of railway an engine snorted forth a whistle. The main-line departure platform slumbered like the rest; the booking-hutches closed; the backs of Mr Haggard’s novels, with which upon a weekday the bookstall shines emblazoned, discreetly hidden behind dingy shutters; the rare officials, undisguisedly somnambulant; and the customary loiterers, even to the middle-aged woman with the ulster and the handbag, fled to more congenial scenes. As in the inmost dells of some small tropic island the throbbing of the ocean lingers, so here a faint pervading hum and trepidation told in every corner of surrounding London.

At the hour already named, persons acquainted with John Dickson, of Ballarat, and Ezra Thomas, of the United States of America, would have been cheered to behold them enter through the booking-office.

‘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 pol............