Household words, No. 18, July 27, 1850 : $b A weekly journal — John Shaqi
Household words, No. 18, July 27, 1850 : $b A weekly journal
General
Household words, No. 18, July 27, 1850 : $b A weekly journal
English literature -- Periodicals
drop of wax by the side of the seal—and again, you understand, that was
enough for me. I saw her post the letter, waited till she was gone, then
went into the shop, and asked to see the Master. When he came out, I
told him, ‘Now, I’m an Officer in the Detective Force; there’s a letter
with a kiss been posted here just now, for a man that I’m in search of;
and what I have to ask of you, is, that you will let me look at the
direction of that letter.’ He was very civil—took a lot of letters from
the box in the window—shook ’em out on the counter with the faces
downwards—and there among ’em was the identical letter with the kiss. It
was directed, Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post-Office, B——, to be left ’till
called for. Down I went to B—— (a hundred and twenty miles or so) that
night. Early next morning I went to the Post-Office; saw the gentleman
in charge of that department; told him who I was; and that my object was
to see, and track, the party that should come for the letter for Mr.
Thomas Pigeon. He was very polite, and said, ‘You shall have every
assistance we can give you; you can wait inside the office; and we’ll
take care to let you know when anybody comes for the letter.’ Well, I
waited there, three days, and began to think that nobody ever _would_
come. At last the clerk whispered to me, ‘Here! Detective! Somebody’s
come for the letter!’ ‘Keep him a minute,’ said I, and I ran round to
the outside of the office. There I saw a young chap with the appearance
of an Ostler, holding a horse by the bridle—stretching the bridle across
the pavement, while he waited at the Post-Office Window for the letter.
I began to pat the horse, and that; and I said to the boy, ‘Why, this is
Mr. Jones’s Mare!’ ‘No. It an’t.’ ‘No?’ said I. ‘She’s very like Mr.
Jones’s Mare!’ ‘She an’t Mr. Jones’s Mare, anyhow,’ says he. ‘It’s Mr.
So-and-So’s, of the Warwick Arms.’ And up he jumped, and off he
went—letter and all. I got a cab, followed on the box, and was so quick
after him that I came into the stable-yard of the Warwick Arms, by one
gate, just as he came in by another. I went into the bar, where there
was a young woman serving, and called for a glass of brandy-and-water.
He came in directly, and handed her the letter. She casually looked at
it, without saying anything, and stuck it up behind the glass over the
chimney-piece. What was to be done next?
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