which Mrs. Lecount herself could not have
surpassed. The one active proceeding in which
he seemed to think it necessary to engage, was
performed by deputy. He sent the servant to
the inn to hire a chaise and a fast horse, and to
say that he would call himself, before noon that
day, and tell the ostler when the vehicle would
be wanted. Not a sign of impatience escaped
him, until the time drew near for the departure
of the early coach. Then the captain's curly
lips began to twitch with anxiety, and the
captain's restless fingers beat the devil's tattoo
unintermittingly on the window-pane.

The rumbling wheels were heard at last; the
coach drew up at Sea View; and Captain
Wragge's own observation informed him that one
among the passengers who left Aldborough that
morning, was—Mrs. Lecount.

The main uncertainty disposed of, a serious
question—suggested by the events of the morning—
still remained to be solved. Which was the
destined end of Mrs. Lecount's journey—Zurich
or St. Crux? That she would certainly inform
her master of Mrs. Wragge's ghost story, and
of every other disclosure in relation to names and
places which might have escaped Mrs. Wragge's
lips, was beyond all doubt. But of the two ways
at her disposal of doing the mischief—either personally,
or by letter—it was vitally important to
the captain to know which she had chosen. If
she had gone to the admiral's, no choice would be
left him but to follow the coach, to catch the
train by which she travelled, and outstrip her
afterwards on the drive from the station in Essex
to St. Crux. If, on the contrary, she had been
contented with writing to her master, it would
only be necessary to devise measures for intercepting
the letter. The captain decided on going
to the post-office, in the first place. Assuming
that the housekeeper had written, she would not
have left the letter at the mercy of the servant—
she would have seen it safely in the letter-box
before leaving Aldborough.

"Good morning," said the captain, cheerfully
addressing the postmaster. "I am Mr. Bygrave,
of North Shingles. I think you have a letter in
the box, addressed to Mr.—?"

The postmaster was a short man, and consequently
a man with a proper idea of his own importance.
He solemnly checked Captain Wragge
in full career.

"When a letter is once posted, sir," he said,
"nobody out of the office has any business with
it, until it reaches its address."

The captain was not a man to be daunted, even
by a postmaster. A bright idea struck him. He
took out his pocket-book, in which Admiral Bartram's
address was written, and returned to the
charge.

"Suppose a letter has been wrongly directed
by mistake?" he began. "And suppose the
writer wants to correct the error, after the letter
is put in the box?"

"When a letter is once posted, sir, "reiterated
the impenetrable local authority, "nobody out
of the office touches it on any pretence whatever."

"Granted, with all my heart," persisted the
captain. "I don't want to touch it—I only want
to explain myself. A lady has posted a letter
here, addressed to 'Noel Vanstone, Esq., Admiral
Bartram's, St. Crux-in-the-Marsh, Essex.' She
wrote in a great hurry, and she is not quite certain
whether she added the name of the post-town,
'Ossory.' It is of the last importance
that the delivery of the letter should not be delayed.
What is to hinder your facilitating the
post-office work, and obliging a lady, by adding
the name of the post-town (if it happens to be
left out), with your own hand? I put it to you
as a zealous officer—what possible objection can
there be to granting my request?"

The postmaster was compelled to acknowledge
that there could be no objection—provided
nothing but a necessary line was added to the
address; provided nobody touched the letter but
himself; and provided the precious time of the
post-office was not suffered to run to waste. As
there happened to be nothing particular to do at
that moment, he would readily oblige the lady, at
Mr. Bygrave's request.

Captain Wragge watched the postmaster's
hands, as they sorted the letters in the box, with
breathless eagerness. Was the letter there?
Would the hands of the zealous public servant
suddenly stop? Yes! They stopped, and picked
a letter out from the rest.

"'Noel Vanstone, Esquire,' did you say?"
asked the postmaster, keeping the letter in his
own hand.

"'Noel Vanstone, Esquire,' " replied the
captain, " ' Admiral Bartram's, St. Crux-in-the-Marsh.'"

"Ossory, Essex," chimed in the postmaster,
throwing the letter back into the box. "The lady
has made no mistake, sir. The address is quite
right."

Nothing but a timely consideration of the
heavy debt he owed to appearances, prevented
Captain Wragge from throwing his tall white hat
up into the air, as soon as he found himself in the
street once more. All further doubt was now at
an end. Mrs. Lecount had written to her master
—therefore Mrs. Lecount was on her way to
Zurich!

With his head higher than ever, with the
tails of his respectable frock-coat floating behind
him in the breeze, with his bosom's native impudence
sitting lightly on its throne—the captain
strutted to the inn and called for the railway
time-table. After making certain calculations
(in black and white, as a matter of course), he
ordered his chaise to be ready in an hour—so as
to reach the railway in time for the second train
running to London—with which there happened
to be no communication from Aldborough by
coach.

His next proceeding was of a far more serious
kind; his next proceeding implied a terrible certainty
of success. The day of the week was