Having done this, Gilbert crossed the road to the post-office, where he
found the proprietor, a deaf old man, weighing half-pounds of sugar in
the background, while a brisk sharp-looking girl stood behind the counter
sorting a little packet of letters.

It was to the damsel, as the more intelligent of these two, that Gilbert
addressed himself, beginning of course with the usual question. Did she
know any one, a stranger, sojourning in that neighbourhood called
Holbrook?

The girl shook her head without a moment's hesitation. No, she knew no
one of that name.

"And I suppose all the letters for people in this neighbourhood pass
through your hands?"

"Yes, sir, all of them; I couldn't have failed to notice if there had
been any one of that name."

Gilbert gave a little weary sigh. The information given him by the
landlord of the White Swan had seemed to bring him so very near the
object of his search, and here he was thrown back all at once upon the
wide field of conjecture, not a whit nearer any certain knowledge. It was
true that Crosber was only one among several places within ten miles of
the market-town, and the strangers who had been driven from the White
Swan in March last might have gone to any one of those other localities.
His inquiries were not finished yet, however.

"There is an old house about a mile from here," he said to the girl; "a