"Well, all right," said Steve. "Let's see it."
Durkin led the way to the lower hall and then down a pair of dark and very steep stairs to the basement. "You wait there," he instructed, "until I switch the light on. Now then, this way."
Durkin took a key from a nail and unlocked the door of a room partitioned off in a corner of the basement. The boys waited, and Durkin, having disappeared into the gloom of the storeroom, presently reappeared, dragging after him a very dusty brown-oak chair with a slat back, broad arms and a much-worn leather seat.
"There you are," he said triumphantly, pushing the object into the faint gleam of light which reached them from the foot of the stairs. "There's a chair that'll last for years."
"But you said it was a Morris chair," exclaimed Tom. "That's no Morris chair!"
"Oh, yes, it is," Durkin assured them earnestly. "I bought it from him myself last June."
"Bought it from whom?" asked Steve derisively.
"From Spencer Morris, of course. Paid a lot for it, too. Have a look at it. It's just as good as it ever was. The leather's a little bit worn at the edges, but you can fix that all right. It wouldn't cost more than half a dollar, I suppose, to put a new piece on there."
"Look here," said Steve disgustedly, "you're a fakir! What do you suppose we want with a relic like that? You said you had a Morris chair and now you pull this thing out to show us. Is that all you've got?"
"Oh, no, I've got a lot of good things in there," answered Durkin cheerfully, peering into the gloomy recesses of the storeroom. "How about some pictures, or a pair of fine vases, or——"