Then, with
the garments in his hand, he scrutinized the artist closely.
'I don't like that clerical collar,' he remarked. 'Have you nothing
else?'
The professor of drawing pondered for a moment, and then brightened;
'I have a pair of low-necked shirts,' he said, 'that I used to wear in
Paris as a student. They are rather loud.'
'The very thing!' ejaculated Michael. 'You'll look perfectly beastly.
Here are spats, too,' he continued, drawing forth a pair of those
offensive little gaiters. 'Must have spats! And now you jump into these,
and whistle a tune at the window for (say) three-quarters of an hour.
After that you can rejoin me on the field of glory.'
So saying, Michael returned to the studio. It was the morning of the
easterly gale; the wind blew shrilly among the statues in the garden,
and drove the rain upon the skylight in the studio ceiling; and at about
the same moment of the time when Morris attacked the hundredth version
of his uncle's signature in Bloomsbury, Michael, in Chelsea, began to
rip the wires out of the Broadwood grand.
Three-quarters of an hour later Pitman was admitted, to find the
closet-door standing open, the closet untenanted, and the piano
discreetly shut.
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