'Morning aroused Tom from the lethargic slumber, into
which he had fallen on the disappearance of the old man. He sat
up in bed, and for some minutes vainly endeavoured to recall the
events of the preceding night. Suddenly they rushed upon him.
He looked at the chair; it was a fantastic and grim-looking piece
of furniture, certainly, but it must have been a remarkably
ingenious and lively imagination, that could have discovered any
resemblance between it and an old man.
'"How are you, old boy?" said Tom. He was bolder in the
daylight--most men are.
'The chair remained motionless, and spoke not a word.
'"Miserable morning," said Tom. No. The chair would not be
drawn into conversation.
'"Which press did you point to?--you can tell me that," said
Tom. Devil a word, gentlemen, the chair would say.
'"It's not much trouble to open it, anyhow," said Tom,
getting out of bed very deliberately. He walked up to one of the
presses. The key was in the lock; he turned it, and opened the
door. There was a pair of trousers there. He put his hand into the
pocket, and drew forth the identical letter the old gentleman
had described!
'"Queer sort of thing, this," said Tom Smart, looking first at
the chair and then at the press, and then at the letter, and then at
the chair again.
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