When I returned alone to the picture-gallery--when I remembered that I had not even had the wit to improve my opportunity by discovering her name and address--I did really and seriously ask myself if these were the first symptoms of softening of the brain. I got up, and sat down again. I, the most audacious man of my age in London, had behaved like a bashful boy! Once more I had lost her--and this time, also, I had nobody but myself to blame for it. These melancholy meditations were interrupted by the appearance of my friend, the artist, in the picture-gallery. He approached me confidentially, and spoke in a mysterious whisper. “Pickup is suspicious,” he said; “and I have had all the difficulty in the world to pave your way smoothly for you at the outset. However, if you can contrive to make a small Rembrandt, as a specimen, you may consider yourself employed here until further notice. I am obliged to particularize Rembrandt, because he is the only Old Master disengaged at present. The professional gentleman who used to do him died the other day in the Fleet--he had a turn for Rembrandts, and can’t be easily replaced. Do you think you could step into his shoes? It’s a peculiar gift, like an ear for music, or a turn for mathematics. Of course you will be put up to the simple elementary rules, and will have the professional gentleman’s last Rembrandt as a guide; the rest depends, my dear friend, on your powers of imitation. Don’t be discouraged by failures, but try again and again; and mind you are dirty and dark enough. You have heard a great deal about the light and shade of Rembrandt--Remember always that, in your case, light means dusky yellow, and shade dense black; remember that, and--” “No pay,” said the voice of Mr. Pickup behind me; “no pay, my dear, unlesh your Rembrandt ish good enough to take me in--even me, Ishmael, who dealsh in pictersh and knowsh what’sh what.” What did I care about Rembrandt at that moment? I was thinking of my lost young lady; and I should probably have taken no notice of Mr. Pickup, if it had not occurred to me that the old wretch must know her father’s name and address. I at once put the question. The Jew grinned, and shook his grisly head. “Her father’sh in difficultiesh, and mum’s the word, my dear.” To that answer he adhered, in spite of all that I could say to him. With equal obstinacy I determined, sooner or later, to get my information.