“‘How are you, old boy?’ said Tom. He was bolder in the daylight—most men are.
“The chair remained motionless, and spoke not a word.
“‘Miserable morning,’ said Tom. No. The chair would not be drawn into conversation.
“‘Which press did you point to?—you can tell me that,’ said Tom. Devil a word, gentlemen, the chair would say.
“‘It’s not much trouble to open it, anyhow,’ said Tom, getting out of bed very deliberately. He walked up to one of the presses. The key was in the lock; he turned it, and opened the door. There was a pair of trousers there. He put his hand into the pocket, and drew forth the identical letter the old gentleman had described!
“‘Queer sort of thing, this,’ said Tom Smart; looking first at the chair and then at the press, and then at the letter, and then at the chair again. ‘Very queer,’ said Tom. But, as there was nothing in either to lessen the queerness, he thought he might as well dress himself and settle the tall man’s business at once—just to put him out of his misery.
“Tom surveyed the rooms he passed through, on his way down-stairs, with the scrutinising eye of a landlord; thinking it not impossible that, before long, they and their contents would be his property. The tall man was standing in the snug little bar, with his hands behind him, quite at home. He grinned vacantly at Tom. A casual observer might have supposed he did it, only to show his white teeth; but Tom Smart thought that a consciousness of triumph was passing through the place where the tall man’s mind would have been, if he had had any. Tom laughed in his face; and summoned the landlady.
“‘Good morning, ma’am,’ said Tom Smart, closing the door of the little parlour as the widow entered.
“‘Good morning, sir,’ said the widow. ‘What will you take for breakfast, sir?’