The fictitious Mr. Blount did not know what to reply. "Mr. Gerry has it," he answered at last, mentioning the landlord's name at a venture.
"I will ask him, sir," said the servant, "and bring up the box at once."
He disappeared.
"What did it all mean?" thought George to himself.
In a few minutes the servant reappeared with a large leather-covered, nail-studded trunk. "And here's the key," he puffed. "Mr. Gerry had it, as you said, sir."
George raised the lid. Silk stockings, plush and velvet coats, satin waistcoats, and frilled shirts!—the wardrobe of a dandy—was exposed before his eyes. But instead of showing his astonishment, he merely closed the top and said:
"Is there naught else?"
"I think not, sir," said the servant, pocketing his tip.
When he had gone, "Mr. Richard Blount" took out the articles one by one.
"This may be part of the scheme," he said. "I suppose that I shall have to wear them. What's next to do?" He tried on the clothes. They fitted him as if made for him. He looked at himself in the greenish-yellow glass. "Whoever I look like," he said, "I do not resemble George Frothingham of the Twelfth New Jersey Infantry, that's one thing certain." Looking for a closet or a place to hang up his finery, he espied a small door at the farther side of the room. It opened upon a narrow stairway, and the odor of cooking showed that it led probably to the kitchen.