“Sure now? I don’t imagine that you are very tidy.”
“The cheek! I tell you the things were rummaged.”
“And nothing stolen?”
“Ghosts are not thieves. They only come back to pretend to themselves that they are still living in the old scenes, and that their bit of a fling is not all over forever. I can well imagine how the poor things feel, can’t you? Of course, nothing was stolen, though I did miss something out of the trunk a day or two afterward—”
“What was that?”
“My agreement with the theater. Couldn’t find it high or low in the place; though I was pretty sure that I had put it into that very trunk. Three weeks after it had disappeared, lo and behold! my agreement comes to me one morning through the post! No letter with it, not a word of explanation, just the blessed agreement of itself staring me in the face, like a miracle. Now, I’m rather off miracles—aren’t you? So I said to myself—”
“But stay, what was the postmark on the envelope which brought you back this agreement?” asked David.
“Just London, and a six-barred gate.”
“You couldn’t perhaps find that envelope now?”
“Now, do I look like anybody who ties up old envelopes in packets? Or do you take me for an old maid? Because, if you do, just let me know.”