And in effect my visitor had carried out his illustration to the fullest extent, so that I sat before him handcuffed, and he resumed his seat smiling with triumph and LL. I suggested the removal of my bonds; but my captor, as he seemed to consider himself, merely smiled again, helped himself to a cigar, lighted it, and began to smoke. This was as bad as being a Lambeth casual. Anybody, even Mrs Scribe might come in, and the thought was more powerful than any sudorific in the pharmacopoeia. It was no use to appeal to K9, for he seemed to consider Brag was a good dog, but Holdfast a better; and he did nothing but smile and smoke. Getting an idea for an article was all very well, but at what a cost! It would not do at all. Why the special correspondent of the _PMG_ would not have rested upon his hay-bag if a committee to whom he was well-known had entered the place to inspect him. He would have fled without his bundle. Ay, and so would I, but there was some one coming up the stairs, and I should have run right into some one's arms. A last appeal to the fellow before me only produced another smile; so, as a _dernier ressort_, I drew my chair towards the table, and thrust my manacled hands out of sight. I was just in time, for the handle turned, and in walked an artist friend, who always makes a point of considering himself as much at home in my room as I do myself in his. "How are you, old boy?" said he, which was hardly the thing, considering the company I was in. I muttered something about being very well, and Chrayonne seated himself by the fire. "Pass the cigar-box, old fellow," said he. But I couldn't hear him, and tried to appear as if sitting at my ease--of course, a very simple thing with one's hands pinioned. "Pass the cigars, Scribe," said Chrayonne, again, in a louder key; while the policeman wagged his head, and smiled knowingly. "He can't," said the wretch, grinning outright. "Can't?" said Chrayonne, with a puzzled look. "Can't? But, I say," he exclaimed, jumping up, "I beg your pardon, old fellow, I never thought about your being engaged. I'm off. _Excusez_." "Pris'ner," said K9, grinning. "I am not," I exclaimed, indignantly; but it was of no avail, for the wretch pulled the table-cover on one side, and pointed to my manacled hands. Chrayonne blew out his cheeky opened his eyes widely, and then whistled very softly. Then, after a pause-- "Very sorry, old fellow. Can I do anything? Bail--friends-- solicitors--" "Yes," I exclaimed, furiously. "Knock that scoundrel down, and take the key of these confounded handcuffs from him. It's a rascally piece of humbug--it's a trick." Chrayonne looked at the constable, who winked at him in reply, and, to my intense disgust, I could see that for the moment he was more disposed to place faith in the impassive demeanour of the myrmidon of the law than in my indignant protestations.