“Yes,” I answered.
“Thot had t’hinges; Michael took them t’day t’shutter fell.”
Eagerly I bent over the rude wood-box and examined the hinges carefully, measuring them with my handkerchief, and comparing the size with the lighter spots on the shutter, which showed where the hinges had been. There could be little doubt that what the girl said was true. One doubt remained.
“Why did not your mistress know what became of the hinges?” I asked.
“T’ mistress is rarely fogged, and doan’t know many a thing goes on,” the maid explained. “But to a man thot knows t’ Coal-pits—” She did not finish, but I understood, and a second half crown lighter in purse, I walked away.
All the way home the ludicrousness of our twenty-four hour comedy of errors kept growing on me, and I startled more than one passer-by with a sudden chuckle. Tom and Dorothy sprung up in alarm as I entered and leaned against the wall, weak with laughter.
“Are you hurt, Jim?” cried Dorothy, anxiously turning towards me.
“No! No!” I gasped. “But the disappearing iron hinge of the blind belongs in the same class as the dentist’s laboratory. ‘Michael put them on t’ wood-box in t’ washoose.’ That’s where they disappeared to.”
The full beauty of the situation suddenly dawned upon Tom’s mind, and he broke into inextinguishable laughter while Dorothy, her face lighting with glee, joined in, a moment later, in silvery accord. The adventure of the two young men and the young woman who hunted the disappearing shutter of Bloomsbury ended with our mirth.