There were plenty of things in the chest, such as some odds and ends of tapestry and old clothes of a Queen Anne character, put here, no doubt, for preservation, as moth does not like this cypress wood.  Also there were some books and a mysterious bundle tied up in a curious shawl with stripes of colour running through it.  That bundle excited me, and I drew the fringes of the shawl apart and looked in.  So far as I could see it contained another dress of rich colours, also a thick packet of what looked like parchment, badly prepared and much rotted upon one side as though by damp, which parchment appeared to be covered with faint black-letter writing, done by some careless scribe with poor ink that had faded very much.  There were other things, too, within the shawl, such as a box made of some red foreign wood, but I had not time to investigate further for just then I heard old Potts’s foot upon the stair, and thought it best to replace the bundle.  He arrived with the lantern and by its light we examined the chest and the poker work.

“Very nice,” I said, “very nice, though a good deal knocked about.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied with sarcasm, “I suppose you’d like to see it neat and new after four hundred years of wear, and if so, I think I can tell you where you can get one to your liking.  I made the designs for it myself five years ago for a fellow who wanted to learn how to manufacture antiques.  He’s in quod now and his antiques are for sale cheap.  I helped to put him there to get him out of the way as a danger to Society.”

“What’s the price?” I asked with airy detachment.

“Haven’t I told you it ain’t for sale.  Wait till I’m dead and come and buy it at my auction.  No, you won’t, though, for it’s going somewhere else.”

I made no answer but continued my examination while Potts took his seat on the prayer-stool and seemed to go off into one of his fits of abstraction.

“Well,” I said at length when decency told me that I could remain no longer, “if you won’t sell it’s no use my looking.  No doubt you want to keep it for a richer man, and of course you are quite right.  Will you arrange with the carrier about sending the clock, Mr. Potts, and I will let you have a cheque.  Now I must be off, as I’ve ten miles to ride and it will be dark in an hour.”

“Stop where you are,” said Potts in a hollow voice.  “What’s a ride in the dark compared with a matter like this, even if you haven’t a lamp and get hauled before your own bench?  Stop where you are, I’m listening to something.”

So I stopped and began to fill my pipe.

“Put that pipe away,” said Potts, coming out of his reverie, “pipes mean matches; no matches here.”

I obeyed, and he went on thinking till at last what between the chest and the worm-eaten Jacobean bed and old Potts on the prayer-stool, I began to feel as if I were being mesmerized.  At length he rose and said in the same hollow voice: