“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 pocket-book, 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.

There was the paper before me, wet with the ink.  There was the pen which the hand had used.  Does anybody doubt me?  I have that pen now.  A cedar-stick of a not uncommon sort, and holding one of Gillott’s pens.  It is in my inkstand now, I tell you.  Anybody may see it.  The handwriting on the check, for such the document was, was the writing of a female.  It ran thus:—­“London, midnight, March 31, 1862.  Pay the bearer one thousand and fitty pounds.  Rachel Sidonia.  To Messrs. Sidonia, Pozzosanto and Co., London.”

“Noblest and best of women!” said Pinto, kissing the sheet of paper with much reverence.  “My good Mr. Roundabout, I suppose you do not question that signature?”

Indeed, the house of Sidonia, Pozzosanto and Co., is known to be one of the richest in Europe, and as for the Countess Rachel, she was known to be the chief manager of that enormously wealthy establishment.  There was only one little difficulty, the countess Rachel died last October.

I pointed out this circumstance, and tossed over the paper to Pinto with a sneer.

“C’est a brendre ou a laisser,” he said with some heat.  “You literary men are all imbrudent; but I did not tink you such a fool wie dis.  Your box is not worth twenty pound, and I offer you a tausend because I know you want money to pay dat rascal Tom’s college bills.” (This strange man actually knew that my scapegrace Tom has been a source of great expense and annoyance to me.) “You see money costs me nothing, and you refuse to take it!  Once, twice; will you take this check in exchange for your trumpery snuff-box?”

What could I do?  My poor granny’s legacy was valuable and dear to me, but after all a thousand guineas are not to be had every day.  “Be it a bargain,” said I.  “Shall we have a glass of wine on it?” says Pinto; and to this proposal I also unwillingly acceded, reminding him, by the way, that he had not yet told me the story of the headless man.