‘The what?’ asked Christopher. ‘The props,’ returned the other. ‘Props are properties. Properties are theatrical belongings. There’s nothing diabolical or supernatural about it. Wait a minute, and I’ll light the lamp and set the fire going.’
Christopher stood in silence whilst his new acquaintance bustled about the room. The lamp cast a full and mellow light over the whole apartment, and the fire began to crackle and leap merrily.
‘Sit down,’ said the host, and Christopher obeyed. ‘I always like to take the bull by the horns,’ the host continued with a little blush. ‘I didn’t want to be found out at this game, but you have found me out, and so I make the best of it, and throw myself upon your confidence.’
He took up the wig and beard lightly between his finger and thumb and dropped them again, laughing and blushing.
‘You may rely upon me,’ said Christopher in his own dogged and sulky tones. ‘If I wanted to tell of it, I know nobody in London.’
‘That was your theme, was it?’ said the host, throwing one leg over the other and nursing it with both hands.
‘Yes,’ said Christopher; ‘you played it very accurately, you must have a very fine memory.’
‘I suppose I have,’ said the other, with a little laugh. ‘But it’s a wonderful thing.’
‘Do you think so?’ asked Christopher, blushing with pleasure.
‘I do indeed,’ his new acquaintance answered. ‘Play something else of yours.’