"Get the gentleman a match, Britton," I said, thereby giving my valet an opportunity to do his exploding in the pantry. "I can only affirm, sir, that it is common history that Pontius Pilate spent a portion of his exile here in the sixth century. It is reasonable to assume that he sat in this seat, being an old man unused to difficult stairways. He--" "Buy it, Orson," said his wife, with authority. "We'll take a chance on it. If it isn't the right thing, we can sell it to the second-hand dealers. What's the price?" "A thousand dollars to you, madam," said I. They were at once suspicious. While they were busily engaged in looking the seat over as the porters shifted it about at all angles, I stepped over and ordered my workmen to resume their operations. I was beginning to get sour and angry again, having missed my coffee. From the culinary regions there ascended a most horrific odour of fried onions. If there is one thing I really resent it is a fried onion. I do not know why I should have felt the way I did about it on this occasion, but I am mean enough now to confess that I hailed the triumphal entry of that pernicious odour with a meanness of spirit that leaves nothing to be explained. "Good gracious!" gasped the aristocratic Mrs. Riley-Werkheimer, holding her nose. "Do you smell _that_"? "Onions! My Gawd!" sniffed Maude. "How I hate 'em!" Mr. Rocksworth forgot his dignity. "Hate 'em?" he cried, his eyes rolling. "I just love 'em!" "Orson!" said his wife, transfixing him with a glare. "_What_ will people think of you?" "I like 'em too," admitted Mr. Riley-Werkheimer, perceiving at once whom she meant by "people." He puffed out his chest. At that instant the carpenters, plumbers and stone masons resumed their infernal racket, while scrubwomen, polishers and painters began to move intimately among us. "Here!" roared Mr. Rocksworth. "Stop this beastly noise! What the deuce do you mean, sir, permitting these scoundrels to raise the dead like this? Confound 'em, I stopped them once. Here! You! Let up on that, will you?" I moved forward apologetically. "I am afraid it is not onions you smell, ladies and gentlemen." I had taken my cue with surprising quickness. "They _are_ raising the dead. The place is fairly alive with dead rats and--" "Good Lord!" gasped Riley-Werkheimer. "We'll get the bubonic plague here." "Oh, I know _onions_," said Rocksworth calmly. "Can't fool me on onions. They _are_ onions, ain't they, Carrie?" "They _are_!" said she. "What a pity to have this wonderful old castle actually devastated by workmen! It is an outrage--a crime. I should think the owner would turn over in his grave." "Unhappily, I am the owner, madam," said I, slyly working my foot back into an elusive slipper. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," she said, eyeing me coldly with a hitherto unexposed lorgnon. "I am," said I. "You quite took me by surprise. I should have made myself more presentable if I had known--"