of him was himself sayin', 'Oh, God!' and a tumble that shook the very
house; and there, sure enough, he was lying on the lower stairs, under
the lobby, with his neck smashed double undher him, where he was flung
over the banisters."

Then the handmaiden added----

"I'll go down to the lane, and send up Joe Gavvey to pack up the rest of
the taythings, and bring all the things across to your new lodgings."

And so we all sallied out together, each of us breathing more freely, I
have no doubt, as we crossed that ill-omened threshold for the last
time.

Now, I may add thus much, in compliance with the immemorial usage of the
realm of fiction, which sees the hero not only through his adventures,
but fairly out of the world. You must have perceived that what the
flesh, blood, and bone hero of romance proper is to the regular
compounder of fiction, this old house of brick, wood, and mortar is to
the humble recorder of this true tale. I, therefore, relate, as in duty
bound, the catastrophe which ultimately befell it, which was simply
this--that about two years subsequently to my story it was taken by a
quack doctor, who called himself Baron Duhlstoerf, and filled the
parlour windows with bottles of indescribable horrors preserved in
brandy, and the newspapers with the usual grandiloquent and mendacious
advertisements. This gentleman among his virtues did not reckon
sobriety, and one night, being overcome with much wine, he set fire to
his bed curtains, partially burned himself, and totally consumed the
house. It was afterwards rebuilt, and for a time an undertaker
established himself in the premises.