There stood
a large, broad-bottomed elbow chair at a table, on which was an empty
tumbler, and a "Times" newspaper, and the room smelt powerfully of
Stilton cheese.
The mysterious stranger had evidently but just retired. I turned off,
sorely disappointed, to my room, which had been changed to the front
of the house. As I went along the corridor, I saw a large pair of
boots, with dirty, waxed tops, standing at the door of a bed-chamber.
They doubtless belonged to the unknown; but it would not do to disturb
so redoubtable a personage in his den; he might discharge a pistol, or
something worse, at my head. I went to bed, therefore, and lay awake
half the night in a terrible nervous state; and even when I fell
asleep, I was still haunted in my dreams by the idea of the stout
gentleman and his wax-topped boots.
I slept rather late the next morning, and was awakened by some stir
and bustle in the house, which I could not at first comprehend; until
getting more awake, I found there was a mail-coach starting from the
door. Suddenly there was a cry from below, "The gentleman has forgot
his umbrella! look for the gentleman's umbrella in No. 13!" I heard an
immediate scampering of a chamber-maid along the passage, and a shrill
reply as she ran, "Here it is! here's the gentleman's umbrella!"
The mysterious stranger then was on the point of setting off.
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