Somehow or other he couldn't sleep--always restless and uncomfortable.

"Odd," says he.

"I'll make the other room my bedchamber, and this my sitting-room." He made the change, and slept very well at night, but suddenly found that, somehow, he couldn't read in the evening: he got nervous and uncomfortable, and used to be always snuffing his candles and staring about him.

"I can't make this out," said he, when he came home from the play one night, and was drinking a glass of cold grog, with his back to the wall, in order that he mightn't be able to fancy there was any one behind him--"I can't make it out," said he; and just then his eyes rested on the little closet that had been always locked up, and a shudder ran through his whole frame from top to toe.

"I have felt this strange feeling before," said he, "I cannot help thinking there's something wrong about that closet." He made a strong effort, plucked up his courage, shivered the lock with a blow or two of the poker, opened the door, and there, sure enough, standing bolt upright in the corner, was the last tenant, with a little bottle clasped firmly in his hand, and his face--well!' As the little old man concluded, he looked round on the attentive faces of his wondering auditory with a smile of grim delight.
'What strange things these are you tell us of, Sir,' said Mr.Pickwick, minutely scanning the old man's countenance, by the aid of his glasses.
'Strange!' said the little old man.