I smiled grimly as my eyes fell upon the little box of capsules. My first thought was that I should take two of them, but then I shook my head. "It would be utterly useless," I said; "they would do me no good."
In the course of the next morning I found myself alone. I put on my cap, lighted a pipe, and started down the flag walk to the gate. In a few moments I heard running steps behind me, and, turning, I saw Miss Edith. "Don't look cross," she said. "Were you going for a walk?"
I scouted the idea of crossness, and said that I had thought of taking a stroll.
"That seems funny," said she, "for nobody in this house ever goes out for a lonely walk. But you cannot go just yet. There's a man at the back of the house with a letter for you."
"A letter!" I exclaimed. "Who in the world could have sent a letter to me here?"
"The only way to find out," she answered, "is to go and see."
Under a tree at the back of the house I found a young negro man, very warm and dusty, who handed me a letter, which, to my surprise, bore no address. "How do you know this is for me?" said I.
He was a good-natured looking fellow. "Oh, I know it's for you, sir," said he. "They told me at the little tavern—the Holly something—that I'd find you here. You're the gentleman that had a bicycle tire eat up by a bear, ain't you?"
I admitted that I was, and still, without opening the letter, I asked him, where it came from.
"That was given to me in New York, sir," said he, "by a Dago, one of these I-talians. He gave me the money to go to Blackburn Station in the cars, and then I walked over to the tavern. He said he thought I'd find you there, sir. He told me just what sort of a lookin' man you was, sir, and that letter is for you, and no mistake. He didn't know your name, or he'd put it on."