‘What a fantastic old creature to be employed by those well-to-do looking girls! He must, I thought, be some old retainer kept on out of charity.
‘ “Anything I can show you, sir?” repeated the old man. His voice had little more body than the tearing of a cobweb; but there was a curious, almost pleading insistence in it, and his eyes were fixed on me in a wan yet devouring stare. I wanted to leave, yes at once. The mere proximity of the poor old man distressed me – made me feel wretchedly dispirited; none the less, involuntarily murmuring, “Thank you, I’ll look round,” I found myself following his frail form, and absent-mindedly inspecting various objects temporarily illuminated by his trembling taper.
‘The chill silence broken only by the tired shuffle of his carpet slippers got on my nerves.
‘ “Very cold night,” I hazarded.
‘ “Cold, is it? Cold? Yes, I dare say it is cold.” In his grey voice was the apathy of utter indifference.
‘For how many years, I wondered, had this poor old fellow been “incapable of his own distress”?
‘ “Been at this job long?” I asked, dully contemplating a four-poster bed.
‘ “A long, long, long time.” The answer came softly as a sigh, and as he spoke, time seemed no longer a matter of days, weeks, months, years, but a weariness that stretched immeasurably. Suddenly I began to resent the old man’s exhaustion and melancholy, the contagion of which so unaccountably weighed down my own spirits.
‘ “How long, O Lord, how long?” I said as jauntily as I could manage, adding with odious jocularity, “Old age pension about due, what?”
‘No response.
‘In silence he drifted across the other side of the room.
‘ “Quaint piece, this,” said my guide, picking up a grotesque little frog that lay on a shelf amongst various other odds and ends. It seemed to be made of some substance similar to jade – soapstone I guessed. Struck by its oddity, I took the frog from the old man’s hand. It was strangely cold.
‘ “Rather fun,” I said. “How much?”
‘ “Half a crown, sir,” whispered the old man, glancing up at my face. Again his voice was scarcely more audible than the slithering of dust, but there was a queer gleam in his eyes. Was it eagerness? Could it be?
‘ “Only half a crown? Is that all? I’ll have it,” said I. “Don’t bother to pack up old Anthony Rowley. I’ll put him in my pocket.”
‘As I gave the old man the coin, I inadvertently touched his hand. I could scarcely suppress a start. I have said the frog struck cold, but, compared to that desiccated skin, its substance was tepid! I can’t describe the chill of that second’s contact. Poor old fellow! thought I, he isn’t fit to be about – not in this lonely place. I wonder those kind-looking girls allow such an old wreck to struggle on.
‘ “Good night,” I said.
‘ “Good night, sir. Thank you, sir,” quavered the feeble old voice. He shut the door behind me.
‘Turning my head as I breasted the driving snow, I saw his form, scarcely more solid than a shadow, dimly outlined against the candlelight. His face was pressed against the big glass pane, and as I walked away I pictured his exhausted patient eyes peering after me.
‘Somehow I was unable to dismiss the thought of that old, old man. Long, long after I was in bed and courting sleep I saw that ravaged face with its maze of wrinkles, those great eyes like lifeless planets, staring, staring at me, and in their steady gaze there seemed something that beseeched. Yes, I was strangely perturbed by that old man.
‘Even after I achieved sleep, my dreams were full of him. Haunted, I suppose by a sense of his infinite tiredness, I was trying to force him to rest – to compel him to lie down. But no sooner did I succeed in laying out his frail form on the four-poster bed I had seen in the shop – only now it seemed more like a grave than a bed, and the brocade coverlet had turned into sods of turf – than he would slip from my grasp, and totteringly resume his rambles round and round the shop. On and on I chased him, down endless avenues of weird furniture, but still he eluded me.
‘Now the dim shop seemed to stretch on and on unendingly – to merge into an infinity of sunless, airless space until at length, exhausted, breathless, I myself collapsed and sank into the four-poster grave.
‘The very next morning an urgent summons took me out of London, and in the anxiety of the ensuing week the episode of the Corner Shop was banished from my mind. As soon as my father was pronounced out of danger, I returned to my dreary lodgings. Dejectedly engaged in adding up my wretched bills and wondering where on earth to find the money to pay my next quarter’s rent, I was agreeably surprised by a visit from an old school-fellow, at that time practically the only friend I had in London. He was employed by one of the best known firms of Fine Art Dealers and Auctioneers.
‘After some minutes’ conversation, he rose in search of a light. My back was turned to him. I heard the sharp scratch of a match, followed by propitiatory noises to his pipe. Suddenly they were broken off by an exclamation.
‘ “Good God, man!’ he shouted. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Turning my head, I saw he had snatched up my purchase of the other night, the funny little frog, whose presence on my mantelpiece I had all but forgotten.
‘Closely scrutinizing it through a magnifying glass, he held it under the gas-jet, his hands shaking
