“It is unquestionably very extraordinary,” answered I, “and if it were not that you speak so seriously, and if you had not declared that you had searched the whole apartment so carefully, I should be almost inclined to think it was a trick.”—“As I have told you,” interrupted Barmann, “deception was impossible; I saw and heard in my waking senses, and surely the lock of hair must remove all doubt upon the subject.”—“Nevertheless, I must confess to you,” replied I, “that it is this very lock of hair that is the stumbling-block to my faith; if your apparition was not a deception, it must have arisen from a spiritual cause, or whatever else you choose to call it, but this is rendered suspicious by the intervention of a corporeal lock of hair; a spectre which leaves corporeal articles behind becomes very suspicious, and makes the same disagreeable impression upon me that an actor would, who departs from the dignity of his character, and falls into the vulgar and ungraceful.”
“Glory be to self-conceit!” exclaimed Barmann, impatiently. “First of all, you have no belief whatever in the existence of ghosts; and, secondly, you have at your fingers’ ends a theory of their characters; and, according to that, you criticise all apparitions.”
At this instant Mr. Wermuth entered, wiping his brows. “From the theatre, doubtless,” we both exclaimed at once, and held the money-box for fines towards him.
“It is very easy talking,” answered he; “only put yourselves in my place, and take the examinations of rogues, vagabonds, and such vermin, the whole day from morning till night. Yesterday they brought me in a precious pair of vagrants, who have cost no small exertion of my lungs to-day.”
“For God’s sake!” exclaimed Barmann, “let us have none of your rogue and vagabond stories to-night; we have been disputing for the last hour, and there lie the Advertiser and The Liberal still unread.”
“I will only give you the counterpart to the Grey Chamber,” interrupted Wermuth, “and you may send it to The Liberal, if you choose, under the imposing title of the Black Chamber.”“The Black Chamber!” exclaimed both Barmann and myself, though each in a very different tone of voice. “Just so,” replied Wermuth; “pray listen, ’tis a most instructive history of ghosts and vagabonds. You are both acquainted with the Lawyer Schroeder, the little buffoon, who is always capering after the women. Well, he had some business lately at Rabenau, in the jurisdiction of Silverstein, which detained him so long that evening approached before he could get away. By nature, you know, he is none of the
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