He was somewhat disappointed to find that the postmaster was a man only about thirty-five years of age, and, upon inquiry, learned that he had served in that capacity not more than five or six years. Of course he knew at once that he could tell him nothing that he wished to know, and he began to fear that his journey hither had been all for naught. “Who was postmaster here before you received your appointment?” he inquired, after making some general talk about the city. “Old Abe Brown, sir, and I only hope I may be as lucky as he was; he held it for more’n fifteen years.” Geoffrey felt his courage rise at this information. If he could only find old Abe Brown, doubtless he could tell him something interesting about Lock Box 43. “Is he living?” he asked. “Yes, sir, and hale and hearty, too,” and going to the door, the obliging postmaster pointed out the rude dwelling which his predecessor occupied. Geoffrey at once bent his steps thither, and was soon knocking at Mr. Brown’s door. “Come in,” was the somewhat gruff, but hearty invitation, and pushing open the door, which was already ajar, Geoffrey saw an old man of perhaps sixty seated on a rude bench, weaving hats from a bundle of tough grass that lay beside him, while his wife, a woman somewhat younger, sat near him, sewing bands around and putting coarse linings into a pile of finished hats. “Come in, stranger, come in!” repeated the man, as Geoffrey paused upon the threshold; “don’t stand on ceremony, ’cause we can’t, for we’ve got to get this case of hats off before dinner, and we’ll have to work right smart to do it, too. Have a chair, sir; guess, though, you don’t belong in these parts,” and the old man gave the younger one a searching glance from a pair of keen eyes that gleamed beneath his shaggy, overhanging brows. “No, sir, I do not belong here; I am a stranger,” Geoffrey answered, as he entered the room and took the chair indicated. “I was directed hither to make inquiries regarding some circumstances connected with your services as postmaster several years ago.” “Eh!” ejaculated Mr. Brown, in an astonished tone, and suspending his employment to eye his visitor with an indignant glance, while his wife turned a pale, startled face to him. Geoffrey smiled, as he realized that they imagined he had come in an official capacity. “My inquiries are of a strictly private nature, and relate to a gentleman for whom I am searching,” he explained to relieve their anxiety. “All right; fire away then, lad,” returned Mr. Brown, coolly resuming his work. “I thought if them chaps at Washington had sent any one down here at this late day to rake over old coals it was mighty queer, for there wasn’t a single dis-crip-ancy from the time I went into the office till I came out. Old Abe Brown is honest if he ain’t handsome,” he concluded, with a merry twinkle in his eye.