He was wrapped in a long threadbare black coat,
fastened up the front with more pins than buttons, and under his arm he
squeezed an umbrella without a handle, as if he were playing bagpipes.
He said, "I beg your pardon, but can you tell me--" and stopped; his
eyes resting on some object within the chambers.
"Can I tell you what?" asked Mr. Testator, noting his stoppage with
quick alarm.
"I ask your pardon," said the stranger, "but--this is not the inquiry I
was going to make--_do_ I see in there, any small article of property
belonging to _me_?"
Mr. Testator was beginning to stammer that he was not aware--when the
visitor slipped past him into the chambers. There, in a goblin way which
froze Mr. Testator to the marrow, he examined, first, the writing-table,
and said, "Mine"; then, the easy-chair, and said, "Mine"; then, the
bookcase, and said, "Mine"; then, turned up a corner of the carpet, and
said "Mine!"--in a word, inspected every item of furniture from the
cellar, in succession, and said, "Mine!" Towards the end of this
investigation Mr. Testator perceived that he was sodden with liquor, and
that the liquor was gin. He was not unsteady with gin, either in his
speech or carriage; but he was stiff with gin in both particulars.
Mr. Testator was in a dreadful state, for (according to his making out
of the story) the possible consequences of what he had done in
recklessness and hardihood, flashed upon him in their fulness for the
first time.
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