“I forgot,” he said, with a faint blush stealing over his wan features, “she was not my first love.  In Germ—­in my own country—­ there was a young woman—­”

Tap, tap, tap.  There was here quite a lively little treble knock; and when the old man said, “But I loved thee better than all the world, Eliza,” the affirmative signal was briskly repeated.

And this I declare upon my honor.  There was, I have said, a bottle of port wine before us—­I should say a decanter.  That decanter was lifted up, and out of it into our respective glasses two bumpers of wine were poured.  I appeal to Mr. Hart, the landlord—­I appeal to James, the respectful and intelligent waiter, if this statement is not true?  And when we had finished that magnum, and I said—­for I did not now in the least doubt her presence—­“Dear gr-nny, may we have another magnum?” the table distinctly rapped “No.”.

“Now, my good sir,” Mr. Pinto said, who really began to be affected by the wine, “you understand the interest I have taken in you.  I loved Eliza ——­” (of course I don’t mention family names).  “I knew you had that box which belonged to her—­I will give you what you like for that box.  Name your price at once, and I pay you on the spot.”

“Why, when you came out, you said you had not six-pence in your pocket.”

“Bah! give you anything you like—­fifty—­a hundred—­a tausend pound.”

“Come, come,” said I, “the gold of the box may be worth nine guineas, and the facon we will put at six more.”

“One tausend guineas!” he screeched.  “One tausend and fifty pound dere!” and he sank back in his chair—­no, by the way, on his bench, for he was sitting with his back to one of the partitions of the boxes, as I dare say James remembers.

“Don’t go on in this way,” I continued rather weakly, for I did not know whether I was in a dream.  “If you offer me a thousand guineas for this box I must take it.  Mustn’t I, dear gr-nny?”

The table most distinctly said “Yes”; and putting out his claws to seize the box, Mr. Pinto plunged his hooked nose into it, and eagerly inhaled some of my 47 with a dash of Hardman.

“But stay, you old harpy!” I exclaimed, being now in a sort of rage, and quite familiar with him.  “Where is the money?  Where is the check?”

“James, a piece of note paper and a receipt stamp!”

“This is all mighty well, sir,” I said, “but I don’t know you; I never saw you before.  I will trouble you to hand me that box back again, or give me a check with some known signature.”

“Whose?  Ha, Ha, ha!”

The room happened to be very dark.  Indeed all the waiters were gone to supper, and there were only two gentlemen snoring in their respective boxes.  I saw a hand come quivering down from the ceiling—­a very pretty hand, on which was a ring with a coronet, with a lion rampant gules for a crest.  I saw that hand take a dip of ink and write across the paper.  Mr. Pinto, then, taking a gray receipt stamp out of his blue leather pocketbook, fastened it on to the paper by the usual process; and the hand then wrote across the receipt stamp, went across the table and shook hands with Pinto, and then, as if waving him an adieu, vanished in the direction of the ceiling.