“I see as ’ow hit is a mourning henvelope, young sir,” she said. “I ’opes as ’ow none hof your friends or relatives hare dead.”
A mourning envelope! The sight of it gave the boy a start, but what astounded him most was his name written on the envelope. It was in a peculiar black hand, and the boy immediately decided that the writer had made an effort to disguise his chirography.
But what startled him the most was that on this black-edged envelope his name was written in blood-red ink!
The landlady stood around, waiting for Frank to open the envelope, casting a crooked eye at him in an inquisitive and suspicious manner.
“Very good, Mrs. Bumley,” said the boy, regaining his composure. “Thank you.”
She did not take the hint, but lingered about, saying:
“I ’opes it ain’t nothink serious, young sir. It was a strange-looking gent wot ’anded the letter to me. He were all muffled and bundled, and his ’at were lopped hover his eye in a manner wot said as ’ow he didn’t care for to have his fetoores hobserved. I wondered were he an hintimate friend hof yours, young sir.”
“Then you did not obtain a fair look at his face, so you would know him again if you saw him?”
“Hit’s not my fault that I didn’t, but hit were dark, and I didn’t ’ave a fair show. I must hadmit that I would not know him if I were to meet him face to face to-morrow.”
“Thank you again, Mrs. Bumley. That is all.”