letter with the kiss. It was directed, Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post
Office, B-, to be left till called for. Down I went to B- (a
hundred and twenty miles or so) that night. Early next morning I
went to the Post Office; saw the gentleman in charge of that
department; told him who I was; and that my object was to see, and
track, the party that should come for the letter for Mr. Thomas
Pigeon. He was very polite, and said, “You shall have every
assistance we can give you; you can wait inside the office; and
we’ll take care to let you know when anybody comes for the letter.”
Well, I waited there three days, and began to think that nobody
ever WOULD come. At last the clerk whispered to me, “Here!
Detective! Somebody’s come for the letter!” “Keep him a minute,”
said I, and I ran round to the outside of the office. There I saw
a young chap with the appearance of an Ostler, holding a horse by
the bridle – stretching the bridle across the pavement, while he
waited at the Post Office Window for the letter. I began to pat
the horse, and that; and I said to the boy, “Why, this is Mr.
Jones’s Mare!” “No. It an’t.” “No?” said I. “She’s very like
Mr. Jones’s Mare!” “She an’t Mr. Jones’s Mare, anyhow,” says he.
“It’s Mr. So and So’s, of the Warwick Arms.” And up he jumped, and
off he went – letter and all. I got a cab, followed on the box,
and was so quick after him that I came into the stable-yard of the
Warwick Arms, by one gate, just as he came in by another. I went
into the bar, where there was a young woman serving, and called for
a glass of brandy-and-water. He came in directly, and handed her
the letter. She casually looked at it, without saying anything,
and stuck it up behind the glass over the chimney-piece. What was
to be done next?
‘I turned it over in my mind while I drank my brandy-and-water
(looking pretty sharp at the letter the while), but I couldn’t see
my way out of it at all. I tried to get lodgings in the house, but
there had been a horse-fair, or something of that sort, and it was
full. I was obliged to put up somewhere else, but I came backwards
and forwards to the bar for a couple of days, and there was the
letter always behind the glass. At last I thought I’d write a
letter to Mr. Pigeon myself, and see what that would do. So I
wrote one, and posted it, but I purposely addressed it, Mr. John
Pigeon, instead of Mr. Thomas Pigeon, to see what THAT would do.
In the morning (a very wet morning it was) I watched the postman
down the street, and cut into the bar, just before he reached the
Warwick Arms. In he came presently with my letter. “Is there a
Mr. John Pigeon staying here?” “No! – stop a bit though,” says the
barmaid; and she took down the letter behind the glass. “No,” says
she, “it’s Thomas, and HE is not staying here. Would you do me a
favour, and post this for me, as it is so wet?” The postman said
Yes; she folded it in another envelope, directed it, and gave it
him. He put it in his hat, and away he went.
‘I had no difficulty in finding out the direction of that letter.
It was addressed Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post Office, R-,
Northamptonshire, to be left till called for. Off I started
directly for R-; I said the same at the Post Office there, as I had
said at B-; and again I waited three days before anybody came. At
last another chap on horseback came. “Any letters for Mr. Thomas
Pigeon?” “Where do you come from?” “New Inn, near R-.” He got
the letter, and away HE went at a canter.
‘I made my inquiries about the New Inn, near R-, and hearing it was
a solitary sort of house, a little in the horse line, about a
couple of miles from the station, I thought I’d go and have a look