“What was the character of the handwriting on the envelope?” I inquired.
“An English hand—thick and heavy. Signore was spelt wrongly, I noticed.”
Blair’s hand was thick, for he generally wrote with a quill. I longed to examine it for myself.
“Then this old serving-woman has no idea of the individual’s address?”
“None whatever. He told her that if any one ever called for him to say that his movements are uncertain, and that any message must be left in writing.”
“What is the place like?”
“Poorly furnished, and very dirty and neglected. The old woman is nearly blind and very feeble.”
“Does she describe him as a gentleman?”
“I could not ask her for his description, but from inquiries in other quarters I learned that he was in all probability a person who was in trouble with the police, or something of that sort. A man who kept a wine-shop at the end of the street told me in confidence that about six months before, two men, evidently agents of police, had been very active in their inquiries concerning him. They had set a watch upon the house for a month, but he had not returned. He described him as, a middle-aged man with a beard, who was very reticent, who wore glasses, spoke with just a slight foreign accent, and who seldom entered any wine-shop and who scarcely ever passed the time of day with his neighbours. Yet he was evidently well off, for on several occasions, on hearing of distress among the families living in that street, he had surreptitiously visited them and dispensed charity to a no mean degree. Apparently it is this which has inspired respect, while, in addition, he seems to have purposely surrounded his identity by mystery.”
“With some object, no doubt,” I remarked.