I had already decided that my next destination must be Stanby, where it would be necessary to pay a visit to Professor Lawrance’s hair-cutting establishment. But first I had to read the letters I had secured, so I turned into a small quiet-looking hotel and, having ordered dinner, asked that I might have the use of a bedroom. Then I rang for a jug of boiling water, and on its arrival I dived into the folds of my umbrella, and having brought up the two epistles which were there secreted I proceeded to hold them over the steam until the gum was so moist that it was possible to open them. The letter for Green was, as I have said, directed to himself in his own writing. It contained nothing more important than a sheet of blank notepaper, which, as the reader will already have surmised, had evidently been sent as a “blind,” its purpose being to afford the inquiry agent an excuse for calling at the shop where it had been delivered. The letter addressed to Mr. Henry Jeanes--that which had attracted my attention from the fact of its bearing the postmark of the very town in Norway where I had reason to believe Mullen’s sister was staying--promised to be more interesting, and it was with no little eagerness that I opened it and read as follows:-- “JAMES,--Your letter to hand. I cannot reply at present, as Stanley has gone to Bergen; but I will write you again on his return. “F.” Though short, and unimportant as regards contents, this letter was of the highest importance in other respects. Firstly, because it was evidently from Mrs. Stanley Burgoyne, and intended for the eye of James Mullen, and so in every way confirmed the genuineness of the letter I had found in Green’s cigar-case; and secondly, because it disclosed some information that I might otherwise have had much difficulty in discovering--the name under which Mullen’s correspondence was being addressed to him. It was of the highest importance--if Mullen was to fall into the trap which I was preparing for him--that he should have no cause to suspect his correspondence was again being tampered with; so, as it was possible that Mrs. Burgoyne might refer to this epistle in a later letter, I carefully resealed the note and handed it to the postman, whom I saw delivering letters in the street where the shop whence I had obtained it was situated. “What’s this?” he said when he had looked at it. “You dropped it when making your last call,” I answered. He looked surprised at first, and afterwards suspicious. “I don’t remember seeing that letter when I sorted my delivery,” he said; “and I ain’t in the habit of dropping letters in the street--been at it too long for that. How do I know this ain’t a put-up job?”