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“Now, my good sir,” Mr. Pinto said, who really began to be affected by the wine, “you understand the interest I have taken in you. I loved Eliza —-” (of course I don’t mention family names). “I knew you had that box which belonged to her–I will give you what you like for that box. Name your price at once, and I pay you on the spot.”

“Why, when you came out, you said you had not six-pence in your pocket.”

“Bah! give you anything you like–fifty–a hundred–a tausend pound.”

“Come, come,” said I, “the gold of the box may be worth nine guineas, and the facon we will put at six more.”

“One tausend guineas!” he screeched. “One tausend and fifty pound dere!” and he sank back in his chair–no, by the way, on his bench, for he was sitting with his back to one of the partitions of the boxes, as I dare say James remembers.

“DON’T go on in this way,” I continued rather weakly, for I did not know whether I was in a dream. “If you offer me a thousand guineas for this box I MUST take it. Mustn’t I, dear gr-nny?”

The table most distinctly said “Yes”; and putting out his claws to seize the box, Mr. Pinto plunged his hooked nose into it, and eagerly inhaled some of my 47 with a dash of Hardman.

“But stay, you old harpy!” I exclaimed, being now in a sort of rage, and quite familiar with him. “Where is the money? Where is the check?”

“James, a piece of note paper and a receipt stamp!”

“This is all mighty well, sir,” I said, “but I don’t know you; I never saw you before. I will trouble you to hand me that box back again, or give me a check with some known signature.”

“Whose? Ha, Ha, HA!”

The room happened to be very dark. Indeed all the waiters were gone to supper, and there were only two gentlemen snoring in their respective boxes. I saw a hand come quivering down from the ceiling–a very pretty hand, on which was a ring with a coronet, with a lion rampant gules for a crest. I saw that hand take a dip of ink and write across the paper. Mr. Pinto, then, taking a gray receipt stamp out of his blue leather pocketbook, fastened it on to the paper by the usual process; and the hand then wrote across the receipt stamp, went across the table and shook hands with Pinto, and then, as if waving him an adieu, vanished in the direction of the ceiling.

There was the paper before me, wet with the ink. There was the pen which THE HAND had used. Does anybody doubt me? I have that pen now,–a cedar stick of a not uncommon sort, and holding one of Gillott’s pens. It is in my inkstand now, I tell you. Anybody may see it. The handwriting on the check, for such the document was, was the writing of a female. It ran thus:–“London, midnight, March 31, 1862. Pay the bearer one thousand and fifty pounds. Rachel Sidonia. To Messrs. Sidonia, Pozzosanto and Co., London.”

“Noblest and best of women!” said Pinto, kissing the sheet of paper with much reverence. “My good Mr. Roundabout, I suppose you do not question THAT signature?”

Indeed the house of Sidonia, Pozzosanto and Co., is known to be one of the richest in Europe, and as for the Countess Rachel, she was known to be the chief manager of that enormously wealthy establishment. There was only one little difficulty, the Countess Rachel died last October.

I pointed out this circumstance, and tossed over the paper to Pinto with a sneer.

“C’est a brandre ou a laisser,” he said with some heat. “You literary men are all imbrudent; but I did not tink you such a fool wie dis. Your box is not worth twenty pound, and I offer you a tausend because I know you want money to pay dat rascal Tom’s college bills.” (This strange man actually knew that my scapegrace Tom had been a source of great expense and annoyance to me.) “You see money costs me nothing, and you refuse to take it! Once, twice; will you take this check in exchange for your trumpery snuff-box?”