A waiter entered, bearing a letter for me. I sprang up and seized it eagerly. It was addressed to Mr. Nelson Bunyan, Esq., and marked “Immediate and confidential.” These words were written in English and execrably misspelled.
It could come from but one source, for who else knew my nom de plume, who else would write “Immediate and confidential,” and, I grieve to say it, who else would take their precautions in such a way as instantly to raise suspicions? Had the secretary of the “Une, Deux, Trois” no English dictionary, that he need make the very waiter stare at this very extraordinary address? I did my best to pass it off lightly.
“From a lady,” I said to the man. “One not very well educated, perhaps; but is education all we seek in women?”
“No, sir,” said he, replying to my glance with insufferable familiarity, “not all by no means.”
Alas that the fugitive cannot afford to take offence!
I opened the letter, and, as I expected, it was headed by the letters U. D. T:
“Go at once to the house of Mr. Frederick Hankey, No. 114 or 115 George Road, Streatham. Knock thrice on the third window, and when he comes say distinctly 'For the King.' He will give directions for your safety.”
This missive was only signed F. II, but, of course, I knew the writer—our most indefatigable, our most enthusiastic, the secretary himself.
Well, here was something to be done; a friend, perhaps, to be made; a spice of interest suddenly thrown into this city of strangers. After my fashion, my spirits rose as quickly as they had fallen. I whistled an air, and began to think this somewhat dreary hotel not a bad place, after all. I should only wait till darkness fell and then set out to interview Mr. Frederick Hankey.