The letter-box was scooped in an oak gate-post about a foot square. There was no slit for inserting the letters, by reason of the opportunity such a lonely spot would have afforded mischievous peasant-boys of doing damage had such been the case; but at the side was a small iron door, kept close by an iron reversible strap locked across it. One side of this strap was painted black, the other white, and white or black outwards implied respectively that there were letters inside, or none. The postman had taken the key from his pocket and was attempting to insert it in the keyhole of the box. He touched one side, the other, above, below, but never made a straight hit. ‘Let me unlock it,’ said Manston, taking the key from the postman. He opened the box and reached out with his other hand for Owen’s letter. ‘No, no. O no--no,’ the postman said. ‘As one of--Majesty’s servants--care--Majesty’s mails--duty--put letters--own hands.’ He slowly and solemnly placed the letter in the small cavity. ‘Now lock it,’ he said, closing the door. The steward placed the bar across, with the black side outwards, signifying ‘empty,’ and turned the key. ‘You’ve put the wrong side outwards!’ said the postman. ‘’Tisn’t empty.’ ‘And dropped the key in the mud, so that I can’t alter it,’ said the steward, letting something fall. ‘What an awkward thing!’ ‘It is an awkward thing.’ They both went searching in the mud, which their own trampling had reduced to the consistency of pap, the postman unstrapping his little lantern from his breast, and thrusting it about, close to the ground, the rain still drizzling down, and the dawn so tardy on account of the heavy clouds that daylight seemed delayed indefinitely. The rays of the lantern were rendered individually visible upon the thick mist, and seemed almost tangible as they passed off into it, after illuminating the faces and knees of the two stooping figures dripping with wet; the postman’s cape and private bags, and the steward’s valise, glistening as if they had been varnished. ‘It fell on the grass,’ said the postman. ‘No; it fell in the mud,’ said Manston. They searched again. ‘I’m afraid we shan’t find it by this light,’ said the steward at length, washing his muddy fingers in the wet grass of the bank. ‘I’m afraid we shan’t,’ said the other, standing up. ‘I’ll tell you what we had better do,’ said Manston. ‘I shall be back this way in an hour or so, and since it was all my fault, I’ll look again, and shall be sure to find it in the daylight. And I’ll hide the key here for you.’ He pointed to a spot behind the post. ‘It will be too late to turn the index then, as the people will have been here, so that the box had better stay as it is. The letter will only be delayed a day, and that will not be noticed; if it is, you can say you placed the iron the wrong way without knowing it, and all will be well.’