Geoletti, being asked for his name and address, gave both glibly, without a hint of premeditation. He was Antonio Geoletti of Portland; a quarry master, he said. Not the shadow of a chuckle in himself answered to this _espièglerie_ as he received his ticket. He looked across steadily at the young gentleman. “Who own ze house? Who it belong to?” he asked. “There is no tenant there at present,” said the clerk. “A Mr Dalston is the landlord.” “Yes, yes,” said the Italian, a trifle too eagerly. “Can I see him--ze landlord--personally?” The clerk became a little cold. “We act for him, sir. You can approach him through us.” “Ah! Zen he live--som’wheres near?” “I am not at liberty to give his address. We are in a confidential position in these matters. If you like to write, we will forward your letter with pleasure.” Again baffled! Geoletti considered gloomily: then shook his head. “Wait, while I see ze house,” he said; and walked off with his order. It directed him, for the key, to a caretaker on the opposite side of the Square. The woman offered to come with him; but he insisted on being alone. It was with a queer fury of the blood that he mounted the unwashed steps, and prepared to enter the deserted house. The door, stuck to its lintel from disuse, snapped open with a dusty jar. Turning as he closed it, Geoletti saw an addressed letter lying among a litter of circulars and advertisements on the floor. He took it up, and read its superscription--M. Dalston, Esq., Eaton Square, London. Was there a possible way here to the knowledge he desired? Pondering a few moments, he suddenly woke to action, left the house, closing the door behind him, and, with the letter, found his way to the nearest post office. “I find zis behind ze door--zere,” said he, pointing to the address on the envelope. The clerk, who received the letter from him, glanced from it to him and back again suspiciously. “Don’t understand,” he said. “_Where_ did you find it?” “Zere,” said Antonio. “I go, wiz an order, to view an empty ’ouse, and zis have fall through the letter-box.” The clerk whispered with another, nodded understandingly, and threw the letter on a shelf. “All right” he said. “Should have been readdressed,” and prepared to go on with his work. That, one might say, was the post-office servant all over. Antonio, patient and unoffended, essayed a hopeless question. “Should be readdress?” he asked. “To where, zen?” The clerk sniggered aloud to his next companion, a young lady, one of the newly emancipated sisterhood with a nose already above her station. “That’s not your business,” said she. “We’ll see to it,” and the two ignored him ostentatiously. Baffled again, and yet again!