The writing looked an English hand, and the language was English. There was no date, nor any signature. Could it have been, then, that I had folded and sealed and sent on my letter—that letter I believed I had never written—without knowing it, and that the lawyer had sent me this reply, which, though long delayed, might have been postponed till he had obtained the tidings it conveyed? At all events, I had got my dear mother's address,—at least I hoped so. This point I resolved to ascertain at once, and sat down to write to her. It was a very flurried note I composed, though I did my very best to be collected. I told her how and where I was, and by what accident of fortune I had come here; that I had reasonable hopes of advancement, and even now had a salary which was larger than I needed. I was afraid to say much of what I wished to tell her, till I was sure my letter would reach her; and I entreated her to write to me by return of post, were it but a line. I need not say how many loves I sent her, nor what longings to be again beside her, to hold her hand, and hear her voice, and call her by that dearest of all the names affection cherishes. “I am going from this in a few days into Hungary,” added I; “but address me here, and it shall be sent after me.
When I had finished my letter, I again turned my thoughts to this strange communication, so abrupt and so short. How came it to Fiume, too? Was it enclosed in some other letter, and to whom? If posted in Fiume, why not written there? Ay; but by whom? Who could know that I had wished for my mother's address? It was a secret buried in my own heart.
I suddenly determined I would ask the Fraulein Sara to aid me in unravelling this mystery, which, of course, I could do without disclosing the contents of the note. I hurried off to the house, and asked if she would permit me to speak to her.
“Yes. The Fräulein was going out; but if my business was brief, she would see me.”
She was in bonnet and shawl as I entered, and stood with one hand on a table, looking very calm but somewhat haughty.
“I beg your pardon, M. Owen,” said she, “if I say that I can only give you a few minutes, and will not ask you even to sit down. If it be a matter of the office—”
“No, Mademoiselle; it is not a matter of the office—-”
“Then, if it relate to your change of occupation—”
“No, Mademoiselle, not even to that. It is a purely personal question. I have got a letter, with a Fiume postmark on it, but without the writer's name; and I am curious to know if you could aid me to discover him. Would you look at the hand and see if it be known to you?”
“Pray excuse me, M. Owen. I am the stupidest of all people in reading riddles or solving difficulties. All the help I can give you is to say how I treat anonymous letters myself. If they be simply insults, I burn them. If they relate what appear to be matters of fact, I wait and watch for them.”