portmanteau, which still remained in its old place, tore away my own
carpet rug which covered the support beneath it, and there saw--a
white canvas-covered box, with a hole in the canvas on the side next
to me!

"It is my box," said Mrs. Greene, pushing me away, as she hurried up
and put her finger within the rent.

"It certainly does look like it," said Mr. Greene, peering over his
wife's shoulder.

"There's no doubt about the box," said Sophonisba.

"Not the least in life," said I, trying to assume an indifferent look.

"Mon Dieu!" said the Boots.

"Corpo di Baccho!" exclaimed the landlord, who had now joined the
party.

"Oh--h--h--h--!" screamed Mrs. Greene, and then she threw herself hack
on to my bed, and shrieked hysterically.

There was no doubt whatsoever about the fact. There was the lost box,
and there it had been during all those tedious hours of unavailing
search. While I was suffering all that fatigue in Milan, spending my
precious zwanzigers in driving about from one hotel to another, the
box had been safe, standing in my own room at Bellaggio, hidden by my
own rug. And now that it was found everybody looked at me as though
it were all my fault.