When, in the early morning, Fluffy Reubens, yawning in a loose dressing-gown as he shuffled along muttering guttural curses at the violent ringing of the bell, opened the outer door of Doome’s studio, and thrust out a tousled head, a melancholy man came in with the milk, walked gloomily to the oak chest in the hall, and took possession. Fluffy Reubens shut the door, went over to the seated man, and, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his dressing-gown, and straddling out his legs, stood and gazed at him: “Whee-hee-hewy-hewy-hewy!” whistled he. The cadaverous sickly-looking fellow on the oak chest, watching him suspiciously out of anxious eyes, searched in the breast pocket of his dingy coat, and handed him a sheet of blue paper. Fluffy Reubens kicked it out of his hand; and the sickly person ducked his head and raised a defensive elbow: “Chuck it, guv’nor,” he said hoarsely--and coughed. “Don’t talk slang!” said Fluffy Reubens. “What’s your name?” “Sickers,” said the sickly person. “Who gave you that name?” “What are yer gettin’ at, guv’nor?” “Well, look here, Sick Horse----” “By thunder, sick-horse is good.” And he added: “Who are you?” “A bailiff, sir.” “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” “I am.” “Well?” “I’m getting used to shame, guv’nor.” The man was seized with a fit of coughing. “You look beastly nervous, Sick-horse. You’d think I was going to kick you from behind.” Sickers sighed gloomily: “The last gentleman did,” he said hoarsely; and added, with a dry throat: “It’s a very assailable calling, sir.” “Look here, Sick-horse,” said Reubens--“I want you to go out and send a telegram for me.” “Oh, no, you don’t, guv’nor.” The man smiled cunningly, laughing a husky laugh. “Why not?” “Well--yer see, guv’nor--when I’ve got my back on a oak chest--well--I know where I are.” Reubens laughed loud and long: “You ass,” roared he--“I’ve only got slippers on.” “I’d rather not, guv’nor--if yer don’t mind.” Fluffy Reubens gazed at him: “Sick-horse,” said he, “don’t move. I’ll be back again in a minute. Stay like that for awhile--you look terrific in that light--sort of Judas Iscariot in the gloom wishing to God he hadn’t taken the money.” He strolled off into the great studio and returned with a canvas and painting materials, and a large yellow official paper. He put the things on the floor, drew up a chair, and, shading his eyes with his hand, tried several views of the uncomfortable man. Sitting down at last, he began rapidly, with swift telling strokes of colour, to sketch in an impression of the dejected figure before him where he sat in the deep shadows of the ill-lit place. “By the way, Sick-horse,” said he--“I suppose I must put you down in the census-paper--you are going to stay the night, of course.” “Ye--yes, sir,” said the man. “So am I--Mr. Doome has lent me his studio, so let us begin. We’ve got your name and your calling. Are you of unsound mind?” The man laughed huskily: