J. B. Wheeler shook his head.

“You’re a little previous,” he said.  “But come round in another day or so, and I may be able to do something for you.”  He moved with a certain conspirator-like caution to a corner of the room, and, lifting to one side a pile of canvases, revealed a stout barrel, which, he regarded with a fatherly and benignant eye.  “I don’t mind telling you that, in the fullness of time, I believe this is going to spread a good deal of sweetness and light.”

“Oh, ah,” said Archie, interested.  “Home-brew, what?”

“Made with these hands.  I added a few more raisins yesterday, to speed things up a bit.  There is much virtue in your raisin.  And, talking of speeding things up, for goodness’ sake try to be a bit more punctual to-morrow.  We lost an hour of good daylight to-day.”

“I like that!  I was here on the absolute minute.  I had to hang about on the landing waiting for you.”

“Well, well, that doesn’t matter,” said J. B. Wheeler, impatiently, for the artist soul is always annoyed by petty details.  “The point is that we were an hour late in getting to work.  Mind you’re here to-morrow at eleven sharp.”

It was, therefore, with a feeling of guilt and trepidation that Archie mounted the stairs on the following morning; for in spite of his good resolutions he was half an hour behind time.  He was relieved to find that his friend had also lagged by the wayside.  The door of the studio was ajar, and he went in, to discover the place occupied by a lady of mature years, who was scrubbing the floor with a mop.  He went into the bedroom and donned his bathing suit.  When he emerged, ten minutes later, the charwoman had gone, but J. B. Wheeler was still absent.  Rather glad of the respite, he sat down to kill time by reading the morning paper, whose sporting page alone he had managed to master at the breakfast table.

There was not a great deal in the paper to interest him.  The usual bond-robbery had taken place on the previous day, and the police were reported hot on the trail of the Master-Mind who was alleged to be at the back of these financial operations.  A messenger named Henry Babcock had been arrested and was expected to become confidential.  To one who, like Archie, had never owned a bond, the story made little appeal.  He turned with more interest to a cheery half-column on the activities of a gentleman in Minnesota who, with what seemed to Archie, as he thought of Mr. Daniel Brewster, a good deal of resource and public spirit, had recently beaned his father-in-law with the family meat-axe.  It was only after he had read this through twice in a spirit of gentle approval that it occurred to him that J. B. Wheeler was uncommonly late at the tryst.  He looked at his watch, and found that he had been in the studio three-quarters of an hour.