"Certainly not."
"Then, may I ask what brings you here? Your dog was a subterfuge; I suppose. Do you suspect me, a man who has held Her Majesty's commission, to be guilty of theft?"
"Not at all," I answered, "but I have a theory that the countess's dressing-case was not stolen, but carried off by mistake, and that the present possessor of it is, after all the outcry, either ashamed or afraid to send it back."
"A fine theory. Suppose it correct, could anything be done to the man who gave it up?"
"Nothing whatever."
"You, perhaps, don't know the law. Are you sure of that?"
"Quite sure."
"Well," he whispered, "I have got the dressing-case, and the possession of it has almost killed me. Come, and I will show you how the infernal error occurred."
He took me into his bedroom, and produced two dressing-cases so exactly alike I could scarcely distinguish them.
"This one," he said, "belonged to my deceased wife, and I had it with me in London. When the train was about to start I saw what I thought was my case lying on the platform, instead of being placed in the carriage by the porter, and I immediately went and took possession of it. I did not discover the stupid mistake until my arrival at home. I was the only passenger in the railway compartment, and my servant took everything out as a matter of course. The question is how is it to be restored safely, and without publicity. It would kill me with shame if my name appeared in the papers in connection with this affair."