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 it; then, with a pale face and bitten lip, he drew near, pulled aside a corner of the swathing blanket, and recoiled, shuddering.

There was a long silence in the studio.
'Now tell me,' said Michael, in a low voice: 'Had you any hand in it ?' and he pointed to the body.
The little artist could only utter broken and disjointed sounds.
Michael poured some gin into a glass.