“Then where on earth did all this dining-room and library furniture come from?” the old gentleman demanded.

Burton looked around him and back again at his questioner.  There was no evading the matter, however.

“The great majority of it,” Burton admitted, “has been sent in to us for sale from dealers and manufacturers.”

The little old gentleman was annoyed.  Instead of being grateful, as he ought to have been, he visited his annoyance upon Burton, which was unreasonable.

“Deliberate swindling, sir—­that’s what I call it,” he proclaimed, rolling up the catalogue and striking the palm of his hand with it.  “All the way from Camberwell I’ve come, entirely on the strength of what turns out to be a misrepresentation.  There’s the bus fare there and back—­six-pence, mind you—­and a wasted morning.  Who’s going to recompense me, I should like to know?  I’m not made of sixpences.”

Burton’s hand slipped into his pocket.  The little old gentleman sniffed.

“You needn’t insult me, young fellow,” he declared.  “I’ve a friend or two here and I’ll set about letting them know the truth.”

He was as good as his word.  The woman who had departed had also found her sympathizers.  Mr. Waddington watched the departure of a little stream of people with a puzzled frown.

“What’s the matter with them all?” he muttered.  “Come here, Burton.”

Burton, who had been standing a little in the background, endeavoring to escape further observation until the commencement of the sale, obeyed his master’s summons promptly.

“Can’t reckon things up at all,” Mr. Waddington confided.  “Why aren’t you round and amongst ’em, Burton, eh?  You’re generally such a good ’un at rubbing it into them.  Why, the only two people I’ve seen you talk to this morning have left the place!  What’s wrong with you, man?”

“I only wish I knew,” Burton replied, fervently.

Mr. Waddingon scratched his chin.

“What’s the meaning of those clothes, eh?” he demanded.  “You’ve lost your appearance, Burton—­that’s what you’ve done.  Not even a silk hat on a sale day!”

“I’m sorry,” Burton answered.  “To tell you the truth, I had forgotten that it was a sale day.”

Mr. Waddington looked curiously at his assistant, and the longer he looked, the more convinced he became that Burton was not himself.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose you can’t always be gassing if you’re not feeling on the spot.  Let’s start the sale before any more people leave.  Come on.”

Mr. Waddington led the way to the rostrum.  Burton, with a sinking heart, and a premonition of evil, took the place by his side.  The first few lots were put up and sold without event, but trouble came with lot number 13.

“Lot number 13—­a magnificent oak bedroom—­” the auctioneer began.  “Eh?  What?  What is it, Burton?”

“Stained deal,” Burton interrupted, in a pained but audible whisper.  “Stained deal bedroom suite, sir—­not oak.”