“I say I’m a literary man,” persisted Tracey CLEWS, sharply.  “I’m going to write a great American Novel, called ‘The Amateur Detective,’ founded upon the story of this very Edwin Drood, and have come to Bumsteadville to get all the particulars.  I’ve picked up considerable from Gospeler Simpson, John MCLAUGHLIN, and even the woman from the Mulberry street place who came after you the other morning.  But now I want to know something from you.—­What has become of your nephew?”

He put the question suddenly, and with a kind of suppressed leap at him whom he addressed.  Immeasurable was his surprise at the perfectly calm answer—­

“I can’t r’member hicsactly, sir.”

“Can’t remember!—­Can’t remember what?”

“Where-I-put’t.”

“It?”

“Yes.  Th’ umbrella.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” exclaimed Mr. CLEWS, in a rage. “—­Come!  Wake up!—­What have umbrellas to do with this?”

Rousing himself to something like temporary consciousness, Mr. Bumstead slowly climbed to his feet, and, with a wild kind of swoop, came heavily down with both hands upon the shoulders of his questioner.

“What now?” asked that startled personage.

“You want t’ know ‘bout th’ umbrella?” said Bumstead, with straw hat amazingly awry, and linen coat a perfect map of creases.

“Yes!—­You’re crushing me!” panted Mr. CLEWS.

“Th’ umbrella!” cried Mr. Bumstead, suddenly withdrawing his hands and swaying before his visitor like a linen person on springs—­“This’s what there’s ’bout ‘t:  Where th’ umbrella is, there is Edwin also!”

Astounded by, this bewildering confession, and fearful that the uncle of Mr. Drood would be back in his chair and asleep again if he gave him a chance, the excited inquisitor sprang from his chair, and slowly and carefully backed the wildly glaring object of his solicitation until his shoulders and elbows were safely braced against the mantel-piece.  Then, like one inspired, he grasped a bottle of soda water from the table, and forced the reviving liquid down his staring patient’s throat; as quickly tore off his straw hat, newly moistened the damp sponge in it at a neighboring washstand, and replaced both on the aching head; and, finally, placed in one of his tremulous hands a few cloves from a saucer on the mantel-shelf.

“You are better now?  You can tell me more?” he said, resting a moment from his violent exertions.

With the unsettled air of one coming out of a complicated dream, Mr. Bumstead chewed the cloves musingly; then, after nodding excessively, with a hideous smile upon his countenance, suddenly threw an arm about the neck of his restorer and wept loudly upon his bosom.

“My fr’en’,” he wailed, in a damp voice, “lemme confess to you.  I’m a mis’able man, my fr’en’; perfectly mis’able.  These cloves—­these insidious tropical spices—­have been thebaneofmyexistence.  On Chrishm’s night—­that Chrishm’s night—­I toogtoomany.  Wha’scons’q’nce?  I put m’ nephew an’ m’ umbrella away somewhere, an ’ve neverb’n able terremembersince!”