“Yes, for weeks past, I may say.”
“But why?”
“Well, you know, if you remember, I am postmaster.”
“I know that.”
“Well, then, piles and piles of letters have come here for you, and here they are. I advertised them, all to no purpose, and on the first of next month I meant to send them to the dead-letter office.”
“Where are they? Give them to me,” eagerly demanded Harcourt.
The landlord took them from a pigeonhole marked H and handed them over.
“Are these all?” inquired the young man.
“Them’s all,” replied the landlord.
The “piles and piles” had resolved themselves into five letters.