"The mouse-trap," I pleaded, "is unused. That is to say, no mouse has used it yet. My mouse-trap has never been blooded." "I don't want it myself," said Henry, "but I know a man who does." "Henry, you know everybody. For Heaven's sake introduce me to your friend. Why does he particularly want a mouse-trap?" "He doesn't. He wants anything that's old. Old clothes, old carpets, anything that's old he'll buy." He seemed to be exactly the man I wanted. "Introduce me to your fellow clubman," I said firmly. That evening I wrote to Henry's friend, Mr. Bennett. "Dear Sir," I wrote, "if you would call upon me to-morrow I should like to show you some really old things, all genuine antiques. In particular I would call your attention to an old opera hat of exquisite workmanship and a mouse-trap of chaste and handsome design. I have also a few yards of Queen Anne linoleum of a circular pattern which I think will please you. My James the First spring-grip dumb-bells and Louis Quatorze curtain-rods are well known to connoisseurs. A genuine old cork bedroom suite, comprising one bath-mat, will also be included in the sale. Yours faithfully." On second thoughts I tore the letter up and sent Mr. Bennett a postcard asking him to favour the undersigned with a call at 10.30 prompt. And at 10.30 prompt he came. I had expected to see a bearded patriarch with a hooked nose and three hats on his head, but Mr. Bennett turned out to be a very spruce gentleman, wearing (I was sorry to see) much better clothes than the opera hat I proposed to sell him. He became businesslike at once. "Just tell me what you want to sell," he said, whipping out a pocket-book, "and I'll make a note of it. I take anything." I looked round my spacious apartment and wondered what to begin with. "The revolving book-case," I announced. "I'm afraid there's very little sale for revolving book-cases now," he said, as he made a note of it. "As a matter of fact," I pointed out, "this one doesn't revolve. It got stuck some years ago." He didn't seem to think that this would increase the rush, but he made a note of it. "Then the writing-desk." "The what?" "The Georgian bureau. A copy of an old twentieth-century escritoire." "Walnut?" he said, tapping it. "Possibly. The value of this Georgian writing-desk, however, lies not in the wood but in the literary associations." "Ah! My customers don't bother much about that, but still--whose was it?" "Mine," I said with dignity, placing my hand in the breast pocket of my coat. "I have written many charming things at that desk. My 'Ode to a Bell-push,' my 'Thoughts on Asia,' my----" "Anything else in this room?" said Mr. Bennett. "Carpet, curtains----" "Nothing else," I said coldly. We went into the bedroom and, gazing on the linoleum, my enthusiasm returned to me. "The linoleum," I said, with a wave of the hand. "Very much worn," said Mr. Bennett. I called his attention to the piece under the bed.