“Splendid! Get ’em round, Rip, quick--by the back way, and into the court here--the door of the dressing-room opens into the court, and was made for taking big pictures through. There’s not a moment to lose.” Rippley hurried out of the room. “Quick, boys--one of you lock the hall door after Rippley!” cried Fluffy Reubens hoarsely; “we’ve got to pack out the whole parcel of toys in a couple of hours.” He flung off his coat, and began to roll up a great Persian carpet. In the early morning, the sleeping bailiff was roused by a rude hand upon his shoulders. “Get up!” said a rough voice. He sat up, untidy, frowsy, weak-eyed, snuffling and grumbling in the ridiculous gorgeousness of the ill-fitting livery. He rubbed his eyes: “God!” said he hoarsely. His jaw dropped; and he stared miserably round the room. Before him stood the vulgar overdressed figure of Mr. Isaac Tankerton Wollup, with his choleric eyes fixed upon him, bullock-like, bloodshot: “You blighter!” said Mr. Isaac Tankerton Wollup. The miserable man rubbed his drowsy eyes--he rubbed them again. His mouth was too dry to utter speech. He was sitting on the top of a scarlet coffin, that stood on two chairs; and, with the solitary exception of these things, the room was wholly empty of furnishment. He burst into tears. “You bleating idiot!” The vulgar dealer’s eyes snapped contempt. “The house is empty as a money-lender’s unwritten promise. They loaded the vans in the night; and you slept through it all!... Get your legs out o’ the light!” He struck the lean shins with his cane. The poor abject fellow cried out, and, rising, like a whipped cur he slunk across the room, buried his face in his arm, and sobbed against the wall. The bloodshot eyes of the company-promoter, as he stooped down putting his thick hands on his great fat thighs, peered at the white paint on the side of the scarlet coffin; there had been no haste, every letter was balanced and well-drawn, and the whole phrase told decoratively on the scarlet lacquer: _Art in England is dead_, it said. _Try France._ The little fat man laughed harshly. He shook his head: “I don’t know how the Beelzebub I shall break this musical comedy to Samuel.... Overreached in my own business and by a Christian!” He walked gloomily out of the place. * * * * * After the irate dealer had departed, his miserable bailiff ceased his sobbing against the wall, took off the gorgeous coat, and staunched his tears on the sleeve of his tattered shirt. He was a broken figure of dejection--blear-eyed, weak-kneed, ragged, snuffling. He changed into his old clothes, went and seated himself on the scarlet coffin, and crouched there, a woe-begone wonderer in despair. He burst into tears. He put his grimy hand into the side-pocket of his greasy coat for a handkerchief--it struck against a sheet of paper. He blew his nose on a rag, soiled to mud-colour, unfolded the paper, and read it: