“But—I must have done. It’s gone.”
His face was a study. I hardly knew whether to laugh or not.
“It strikes me,” he remarked, “that someone is playing a trick on us; and, as I’m not over fond of tricks which I don’t understand, I’ll put an end to this little joke once and for all.”
There was a fire burning in the grate. Laying the box down on a chair, taking the little painted thing between his finger and thumb, off he marched towards the fireplace. As he was going, all of a sudden he gave a little jump, as I suppose, loosened his hold, and down the thing dropped on to the floor. He stood staring at his hand, and at the place where it had fallen, as if startled.
“Where’s it gone?” he asked.
“It must have rolled under the table.” This was Emily.
But it had not. We searched in every nook and cranny. It had vanished, as completely as if it had never been.
“This is a pretty state of affairs. If it goes on much longer we shall begin to take to seeing things. If the rest of the contents of the box are of the same pattern, you might have kept it, Mr. Paine, for all I care.”
But they were not. The next thing I took out was a key. It was a little one, and the queerest shape I ever saw. It was fastened to a steel chain; at one end of the chain was a padlock. Attached to the handle of the key was a kind of flying label; on it this was written:
