He nodded.

"And I was so unlucky as to get a pistol ball in the panel of my
chaise," I continued, "which makes it simply useless to me. Do you know
any one likely to buy?"

"I can well understand that," said the landlord. "I was looking at it
just now; it's as good as ruined, is that chaise. General rule, people
don't like chaises with bullet-holes."

"Too much 'Romance of the Forest'?" I suggested, recalling my little
friend of the morning, and what I was sure had been her favourite
reading--Mrs. Radcliffe's novels.

"Just so," said he. "They may be right, they may be wrong; I'm not the
judge. But I suppose it's natural, after all, for respectable people to
like things respectable about them; not bullet-holes, nor puddles of
blood, nor men with aliases."

I took a glass of wine and held it up to the light to show that my hand
was steady.

"Yes," said I, "I suppose so."

"You have papers, of course, showing you are the proper owner?" he
inquired.

"There is the bill, stamped and receipted," said I, tossing it across to
him.

He looked at it.

"This all you have?" he asked.

"It is enough, at least," said I. "It shows you where I bought and what
I paid for it."

"Well, I don't know," he said. "You want some paper of identification."

"To identify the chaise?" I inquired.

"Not at all: to identify _you_," said he.

"My good sir, remember yourself!" said I. "The title-deeds of my estate
are in that despatch-box; but you do not seriously suppose that I should
allow you to examine them?"

"Well, you see, this paper proves that some Mr. Ramornie paid seventy
guineas for a chaise," said the fellow. "That's all well and good; but
who's to prove to me that you are Mr. Ramornie?"

"Fellow!" cried I.

"O, fellow as much as you please!" said he. "Fellow, with all my heart!
That changes nothing. I am fellow, of course--obtrusive fellow, impudent
fellow, if you like--but who are you? I hear of you with two names; I
hear of you running away with young ladies, and getting cheered for a
Frenchman, which seems odd; and one thing I will go bail for, that you
were in a blue fright when the post-boy began to tell tales at my door.
In short, sir, you may be a very good gentleman; but I don't know enough
about you, and I'll trouble you for your papers, or to go before a
magistrate. Take your choice; if I'm not fine enough, I hope the
magistrates are."

"My good man," I stammered, for though I had found my voice, I