astonished at his remark; no more astonished than if I was in a dream.
Perhaps I WAS in a dream. Is life a dream? Are dreams facts? Is sleeping
being really awake? I don't know. I tell you I am puzzled. I have read
"The Woman in White," "The Strange Story"--not to mention that story
"Stranger than Fiction" in the Cornhill Magazine--that story for which
THREE credible witnesses are ready to vouch. I have had messages from
the dead; and not only from the dead, but from people who never existed
at all. I own I am in a state of much bewilderment: but, if you please,
will proceed with my simple, my artless story.

Well, then. We passed from Shepherd's Inn into Holborn, and looked for
a while at Woodgate's bric-a-brac shop, which I never can pass without
delaying at the windows--indeed, if I were going to be hung, I would
beg the cart to stop, and let me have one look more at that delightful
omnium gatherum. And passing Woodgate's, we come to Gale's little shop,
"No. 47," which is also a favorite haunt of mine.

Mr. Gale happened to be at his door, and as we exchanged salutations,
"Mr. Pinto," I said, "will you like to see a real curiosity in this
curiosity shop? Step into Mr. Gale's little back room."

In that little back parlor there are Chinese gongs; there are old
Saxe and Sevres plates; there is Furstenberg, Carl Theodor, Worcester,
Amstel, Nankin and other jimcrockery. And in the corner what do you
think there is? There is an actual GUILLOTINE. If you doubt me, go and
see--Gale, High Holborn, No. 47. It is a slim instrument, much slighter
than those which they make now;--some nine feet high, narrow, a pretty
piece of upholstery enough. There is the hook over which the rope used
to play which unloosened the dreadful axe above; and look! dropped into
the orifice where the head used to go--there is THE AXE itself, all
rusty, with A GREAT NOTCH IN THE BLADE.

As Pinto looked at it--Mr. Gale was not in the room, I recollect;
happening to have been just called out by a customer who offered
him three pound fourteen and sixpence for a blue Shepherd in pate
tendre,--Mr. Pinto gave a little start, and seemed crispe for a moment.
Then he looked steadily towards one of those great porcelain stools
which you see in gardens--and--it seemed to me--I tell you I won't take
my affidavit--I may have been maddened by the six glasses I took of that
pink elixir--I may have been sleep-walking: perhaps am as I write now--I
may have been und