"'How can I prove it?' said Tom, starting half out of bed.
"The old gentleman untucked his arm from his side, and having pointed to one of the oaken presses, immediately replaced it in its old position.
"'He little thinks,' said the old gentleman, 'that in the right hand pocket of a pair of trousers in that press, he has left a letter, entreating him to return to his disconsolate wife, with six—mark me, Tom—six babes, and all of them small ones.'
"As the old gentleman solemnly uttered these words, his features grew less and less distinct, and his figure more shadowy. A film came over Tom Smart's eyes. The old man seemed gradually blending into the chair, the damask waistcoat to resolve into a cushion, the red slippers to shrink into little red cloth bags. The light faded gently away, and Tom Smart fell back on his pillow, and dropped asleep.
"Morning aroused Tom from the lethargic slumber, into which he had fallen on the disappearance of the old man. He sat up in bed, and for some minutes vainly endeavoured to recall the events of the preceding night. Suddenly they rushed upon him. He looked at the chair; it was a fantastic and grim-looking piece of furniture, certainly, but it must have been a remarkably ingenious and lively imagination, that could have discovered any resemblance between it and an old man.
"'How are you, old boy?" said Tom. He was bolder in the daylight—most men are.
"The chair remained motionless, and spoke not a word.
"'Miserable morning,' said Tom. No. The chair would not be drawn into conversation.
"'Which press did you point to?—you can tell me that," said Tom. Devil a word, gentlemen, the chair would say.
"'It's not much trouble to open it, anyhow,' said Tom, getting out of bed very deliberately. He walked up to one of the presses. The key was in the lock; he turned it, and
