"Because I suspect you of treachery," returned the highwayman, in a severe tone. "But, remember—I am well armed—and, at the least appearance of evil intent on your part, I fire!" "You are wrong, Tom—my dear fellow," said Old Death, coaxingly, as he still lingered at the top of the steps. "Well—I may be; and I shall be glad to find that I am," exclaimed Tom: "and now lead on." Old Death ascended the few remaining steps; and Rainford followed with his pistol in one hand and the candle in the other. They were now in a small room furnished as a bed-chamber; and when Old Death had let down the trap-door again, he unrolled and spread a small carpet over it. "This is your residence?" said Rainford inquiringly. The old man nodded a grim assent. "And your store-rooms are in this house?—for I can perfectly well understand that _we have come into another house_—and, by the direction of the subterranean, I should say it must be in Red Lion Street." "You know London well," said Old Death. "I do," replied Rainford. "Although you lived so long in the country," added Bones. "Right again, old fellow!" exclaimed Tom, "And now for a farther insight into the mysteries of your abode." With these words the highwayman approached a door on one side of the room; but Old Death, hastily advancing towards another door, said, "This way, Tom—this way: there is nothing in that quarter—worth seeing." But the ancient fence seemed agitated; and this was not lost upon his companion. "Well, as you choose," observed the latter, resuming his careless, off-hand manner. "Lead on." Bones had already opened the door; and he now conducted the highwayman into a spacious apartment, surrounded by shelves, whereon were ranged an assortment of articles of the most miscellaneous description. Clothes and china-ware—candlesticks, plated and silver, all carefully wrapped up in paper—piles of silk pocket-handkerchiefs, and heaps of linen garments—carpet-bags and portmanteaus—every species of haberdashery—silk dresses and cotton gowns—velvet pelisses and shawls of all gradations of value—muffs, tippets, and boas—ladies' shoes and gentlemen's boots—looking-glasses and candelabra—lamps and pictures—tea-urns and costly vases—meerschaum-pipes and dressing-cases—immense quantities of cutlery—piles of printing paper—saddles and bridles,—in short, an infinite variety of articles, to detail which would occupy whole pages. "Your magazine is crowded, old fellow," said Rainford, who, even while surveying the curious place in which he found himself, did not the less keep a strict watch upon his companion. "Are you satisfied now?" demanded Old Death. "Not quite," answered Rainford. "You must have another room where you keep your jewellery and all those kinds of things?" "What kind of things?" asked Bones sharply. "Oh! things that require to be packed away with caution, to be sure," replied Tom Rain.