“There! what did I tell you?” said Baldry, triumphantly.
“Baldry, I give you my word of honour,” said Hoskyns, “that I was not out of the house after eight o’clock, and that I never met you yesterday at all—indeed, I’ve not seen you to speak to you for nearly a week.”
“Evidently a case of mistaken identity,” said Tom.
“Mistaken identity be hanged!” said the irate wine merchant. “How about the snuff-box? Could I be mistaken in that? Not likely. No—no. I respect old friends, but I’ll take the evidence of my own senses in preference to any man’s word, however long I’ve known him.” And with these words, Baldry retired into the recesses of his counting-house, and shut the door behind him with a bang.
Hoskyns and Tom resumed their walk down the street.
“An extraordinary circumstance, very,” said the lawyer. “I am quite at a loss how to explain it.”
“Baldry was always noted as being fond of his own spirits, wasn’t he?” asked Tom.
“He was indeed, poor man: and I am afraid the habit clings to him still. He must have been in liquor last evening. That is the only way in which I can account for his hallucination.”