note.'
Between the possibility of being hanged in all innocence, and the

certainty of a public and merited disgrace, no gentleman of
spirit could long hesitate. After three gulps of that hot,

snuffy, and muddy beverage, that passes on the streets of London
for a decoction of the coffee berry, Gideon's mind was made up.

He would do without the police. He must face the other side of
the dilemma, and be Robert Skill in earnest. What would Robert

Skill have done? How does a gentleman dispose of a dead body,
honestly come by? He remembered the inimitable story of the

hunchback; reviewed its course, and dismissed it for a worthless
guide. It was impossible to prop a corpse on the corner of

Tottenham Court Road without arousing fatal curiosity in the
bosoms of the passers-by; as for lowering it down a London

chimney, the physical obstacles were insurmountable. To get it on
board a train and drop it out, or on the top of an omnibus and

drop it off, were equally out of the question. To get it on a
yacht and drop it overboard, was more conceivable; but for a man

of moderate means it seemed extravagant. The hire of the yacht
was in itself a consideration; the subsequent support of the

whole crew (which seemed a necessary consequence) was simply not
to be thought of. His uncle and the houseboat here occurred in

very luminous colours to his mind. A musicalcomposer (say, of
the name of Jimson) might very well suffer, like Hogarth's

musician before him, from the disturbances of London. He might
very well be pressed for time to finish an opera--say the comic

opera Orange Pekoe--Orange Pekoe, music by Jimson--'this young
maestro, one of the most promising of our recent English

school'--vigorous entrance of the drums, etc.--the whole
character of Jimson and his music arose in bulk before the mind

of Gideon. What more likely than Jimson's arrival with a grand
piano (say, at Padwick), and his residence in a houseboat alone

with the unfinished score of Orange Pekoe? His subsequent
disappearance, leaving nothing behind but an empty piano case, it

might be more difficult to account for. And yet even that was
susceptible of explanation. For, suppose Jimson had gone mad over

a fugal passage, and had thereupon destroyed the accomplice of
his infamy, and plunged into the welcome river? What end, on the

whole, more probable for a modern musician?
'By Jove, I'll do it,' cried Gideon. 'Jimson is the boy!'

CHAPTER XI. The Maestro Jimson
Mr Edward Hugh Bloomfield having announced his intention to stay

in the neighbourhood of Maidenhead, what more probable than that
the Maestro Jimson should turn his mind toward Padwick? Near this

pleasant riverside village he remembered to have observed an
ancient, weedy houseboat lying moored beside a tuft of willows.

It had stirred in him, in his careless hours, as he pulled down
the river under a more familiar name, a certain sense of the

romantic; and when the nice contrivance of his story was already
complete in his mind, he had come near pulling it all down again,

like an ungrateful clock, in order to introduce a chapter in
which Richard Skill (who was always being decoyed somewhere)

should be decoyed on board that lonely hulk by Lord Bellew and
the American desperado Gin Sling. It was fortunate he had not

done so, he reflected, since the hulk was now required for very
different purposes.

Jimson, a man of inconspicuous costume, but insinuating manners,
had little difficulty in finding the hireling who had charge of

the houseboat, and still less in persuading him to resign his
care. The rent was almost nominal, the entry immediate, the key

was exchanged against a suitable advance in money, and Jimson
returned to town by the afternoon train to see about dispatching

his piano.
'I will be down tomorrow,' he had said reassuringly. 'My opera is

waited for with such impatience, you know.'
And, sure enough, about the hour of noon on the following day,

Jimson might have been observed ascending the riverside road that
goes from Padwick to Great Haverham, carrying in one hand a

basket of provisions, and under the other arm a leather case
containing (it is to be conjectured) the score of Orange Pekoe.

It was October weather; the stone-grey sky was full of larks, the
leaden mirror of the Thames brightened with autumnal foliage, and

the fallen leaves of the chestnuts chirped under the composer's
footing. There is no time of the year in England more courageous;

and Jimson, though he was not without his troubles, whistled as
he went.

A little above Padwick the river lies very solitary. On the
opposite shore the trees of a private park enclose the view, the

chimneys of the mansion just pricking forth above their clusters;
on the near side the path is bordered by willows. Close among

these lay the houseboat, a thing so soiled by the tears of the
overhanging willows, so grown upon with parasites, so decayed, so

battered, so neglected, such a haunt of rats, so advertised a
storehouse of rheumatic agonies, that the heart of an intending

occupant might well recoil. A plank, by way of flying drawbridge,
joined it to the shore. And it was a dreary moment for Jimson

when he pulled this after him and found himself alone on this
unwholesome fortress. He could hear the rats scuttle and flop in

the abhorred interior; the key cried among the wards like a thing
in pain; the sitting-room was deep in dust, and smelt strong of

bilge-water. It could not be called a cheerful spot, even for a
composer absorbed in beloved toil; how much less for a young

gentleman haunted by alarms and awaiting the arrival of a corpse!
He sat down, cleared away a piece of the table, and attacked the

cold luncheon in his basket. In case of any subsequent inquiry
into the fate of Jimson, It was desirable he should be little

seen: in other words, that he should spend the day entirely in
the house. To this end, and further to corroborate his fable, he

had brought in the leather case not only writing materials, but a
ream of large-size music paper, such as he considered suitable

for an ambitiouscharacter like Jimson's. 'And now to work,'
said he, when he had satisfied his appetite. 'We must leave

traces of the wretched man's activity.' And he wrote in bold
characters:

ORANGE PEKOE.
Op. 17.

J. B. JIMSON.
Vocal and p. f. score.

'I suppose they never do begin like this,' reflected Gideon; 'but
then it's quite out of the question for me to tackle a full

score, and Jimson was so unconventional. A dedication would be
found convincing, I believe. "Dedicated to" (let me see) "to

William Ewart Gladstone, by his obedient servant the composer."
And now some music: I had better avoid the overture; it seems to

present difficulties. Let's give an air for the tenor: key--O,
something modern!--seven sharps.' And he made a businesslike

signature across the staves, and then paused and browsed for a
while on the handle of his pen. Melody, with no better

inspiration than a sheet of paper, is not usually found to spring
unbidden in the mind of the amateur; nor is the key of seven

sharps a place of much repose to the untried. He cast away that
sheet. 'It will help to build up the character of Jimson,' Gideon

remarked, and again waited on the muse, in various keys and on
divers sheets of paper, but all with results so inconsiderable

that he stood aghast. 'It's very odd,' thought he. 'I seem to
have less fancy than I thought, or this is an off-day with me;

yet Jimson must leave something.' And again he bent himself to
the task.

Presently the penetrating chill of the houseboat began to attack
the very seat of life. He desisted from his unremunerative trial,

and, to the audibleannoyance of the rats, walked briskly up and
down the cabin. Still he was cold. 'This is all nonsense,' said