He nodded.
"And I was so unlucky as to get a pistol ball in the panel of my chaise," I continued, "which makes it simply useless to me. Do you know any one likely to buy?"
"I can well understand that," said the landlord. "I was looking at it just now; it's as good as ruined, is that chaise. General rule, people don't like chaises with bullet holes."
"Too much Romance of the Forest?" I suggested, recalling my little friend of the morning, and what I was sure had been her favourite reading—Mrs. Radcliffe's novels.
"Just so," said he. "They may be right, they may be wrong; I'm not the judge. But I suppose it's natural, after all, for respectable people to like things respectable about them; not bullet holes, nor puddles of blood, nor men with aliases."
I took a glass of wine and held it up to the light to show that my hand was steady.
"Yes," said I, "I suppose so."
"You have papers, of course, showing you are the proper owner?" he inquired.
"There is the bill, stamped and receipted," said I, tossing it across to him.
He looked at it.
"This all you have?" he asked.
"It is enough, at least," said I. "It shows you where I bought and what I paid for it."
"Well, I don't know," he said. "You want some paper of identification."
"To identify the chaise?" I inquired.
"Not at all: to identify you," said he.
"My good sir, remember yourself!" said I. "The title-deeds of my estate are in that despatch-box; but you do not seriously suppose that I should allow you to examine them?"
