Then he started violently, for the boots which he wore, comfortable though they were, were not his boots.
Struggling into a half-sitting posture, he looked hastily over his clothes. They were not his clothes.
He endeavoured to rise and Madame helped him to his feet. On one side he supported himself by the table, and on the other by Madame's arm.
Then he took a step forward and deliberately surveyed himself in the glass. And his look of inspection filled him with intense surprise, though he did not allow himself to so much as utter an exclamation.
Mechanically he began to employ those little tricks of gesture which a man indulges in when he is anxious to ascertain if his clothes sit well on him.
To his amazement not one article of attire was his own; yet the blue serge suit in which he was clad was of such a perfect fit that he might have been moulded into it. He moved his toes inside his boot and found that of all the boots he had ever worn these were the most comfortable.
He put his hand to his tie and found that his collar was the exact size. Quickly and methodically he searched through his pockets; his handkerchief was where he always carried it; his keys were in his left trouser pocket; his money and knife in his right. Each in its own correct waistcoat pocket he found his nail clippers, his sovereign purse and tiny card-case. His cards were intact.
Plunging his hand into the inner pocket of his coat he discovered that his notebook was in its place. Almost instinctively he opened it and turned over the contents; nothing whatsoever had been disturbed.
So utterly dumfounded was he that he sat down heavily again upon the couch and stared at Mme. Estelle.
Madame laughed, showing her fine teeth.