“You don’t ask me such a question,” said he, with an air of surprise; “I knew it by your own signature.”
“My own signature! I know not what you mean by my signature.”
“Eh—eh—the signature, you know—that is, the compact you made with Wolstang.”
“I know of no compact,” cried I, in a passion; “nor did I ever make one with any man living. I defy either you or Wolstang to produce any such instrument.”
“I believe it is in my pocket at this very moment. Look here, my dear sir.” And he brought out a small manuscript book, and, turning up the leaves, pointed to view the following words:—
“I hereby, in consideration of the sum of fifty gilders, give to Albert Wolstang the use of my body, at any time he is disposed, provided that, for the time being, he gives me the use of his.—Frederick Stadt.”
“It is a damnable forgery,” said I, starting up with fury; “a deceptio visûs, at least—something like your scales.”
“What about the scales, my dear friend?” said he, with a whining voice.
“Go,” replied I, “into that room, and you shall see.” He accordingly went, but returned immediately, saying that he observed nothing remarkable. “No!” said I, rising up; “then I shall take the trouble to point it out to you.” My astonishment may be better conceived than described, when, instead of the small apothecary’s scales, I beheld the immense ones in which I had been weighed two days before. I felt confounded and mortified, and returned with him to the study, muttering something about deceptio visûs, necromancy, and demonology.