And Hamilton required nothing more, for on this occasion he was disposed to be easily satisfied. Besides, he was not going to force himself upon any person or persons unknown; he was merely going to Seon instead of Kissingen. Seon was also a place of public resort, quite as desirable for him as any other; nor could he see anything wrong in making some inquiries about this A. Z. when he arrived there. Mr. Havard entered his room just as he was resolved what course he should pursue. “Pray, Mr. Havard, can you tell me how far Seon is from here?” “A day’s journey, if you travel with a _voiturier_; half a day with post-horses.” “If I engage a _voiturier_—are the carriages good?” “Generally, especially if you don’t require much place for luggage. I think I can procure a light carriage and tolerable horses for you.” “Thank you. To-morrow morning, at six o’clock, I should like to be off, if possible.” An unpleasant idea just then occurred to him, and it required an effort on his part to add, with affected indifference: “By-the-by, Mr. Havard, perhaps you can tell me if there have been any persons here lately whose names were the same as mine?” Mr. Havard looked puzzled. “My name is Hamilton.” “Hameeltone—Hameeltone!” he repeated, thoughtfully. “We have a great many Hameeltone in our book. You shall see directly. I will send it to you.” “So,” muttered Hamilton, as he walked up and down the room, “so, after all, the letter was not intended for me or my father! This is in consequence of having such a common name! And yet the name in itself is good, but the Hamiltons have multiplied so unconscionably of late, that I have no doubt we shall in time be quite as numerous as the Smiths! Should, however, no Hamilton have been here for the last week or ten days, I conceive that I have a right to appropriate this letter; for A. Z. says distinctly that he or she had that moment seen my name among the arrivals in Munich, and with every allowance for irregularity of post in an out-of-the-way place, chance, or unexpected delays, reference at least is made to some paper of a tolerably recent date. Oh! thank you,” he exclaimed, hurrying towards the waiter, who at that moment entered the room with the strangers’ book. “Before you go, show me the name of the gentleman into whose room my letter was taken by mistake.” He pointed to the name of “Alexander Hambledon, from London.” Hamilton turned back the leaves, six, eight, ten days, and no Hamilton; before that time, as Mr. Havard had said, “A great many Hamiltons.” He wished them, their families, and suites very agreeable journeys, closed the book, put A. Z.’s letter carefully into his writing-case, and, after having desired the waiter to call him very early the next day, hurried to bed.