“Show him in,” said I, and he presently returned, ushering in a tall man, attired in sailor’s clothes. He came towards me, holding his tarpaulin-hat in his hand, and apparently confused at my presence.
“Is this the lady?” asked he, bashfully.
“I am Madame de Serval, do you wish to see me?”
“Yes, lady, I have a letter for you from Pondicherry.”
“From Pondicherry,—who can it be from?—I know no one there. Give it me.”
I extended my hand, and the sailor placed in it a letter, coarsely folded and sealed. I hastily tore it open, and read the following:
“A gentleman giving his name as Monsieur de Serval, committed suicide in my house six days ago, by blowing his brains out with a pocket pistol. Having by accident seen a Neapolitan paper, containing a description of a Madame de Serval, a great singer, I address this letter to the lady in question, thinking, from the names, that there may be some relationship between the dead gentleman and the lady. If there is, I beg she will answer this, and tell me what is to be done with his effects, which consist of several large chests, heavily locked with padlocks, and four trunks, together with a toilette case of rare value, the interior being set with gold, and the utensils of the same metal, adorned with precious stones.
“The gentleman was buried in the English burying ground, and a small sum of money in his purse paid for the interment.
“Jerome Tobia.
“Pondicherry, January 10th.”