one corner was a smaller room, in which a gentleman was busy at writing.
I advanced to the door of the room, but was there met by a young person,
who received my paper and delivered it to him within. I stood still at
the door; but was near enough to overhear what would pass between them.

The letter was laid upon the desk, and presently he that sat at it
lifted his eyes and glanced at the superscription. He scarcely spoke
above a whisper; but his words, nevertheless, were clearly
distinguishable. I did not call to mind the sound of his voice, but his
words called up a train of recollections.

"Lo!" said he, carelessly, "this from the _Nabob_!"

An incident so slight as this was sufficient to open a spacious scene
of meditation. This little word, half whispered in a thoughtless mood,
was a key to unlock an extensive cabinet of secrets. Thetford was
probably indifferent whether his exclamation were overheard. Little did
he think on the inferences which would be built upon it.

"The Nabob!" By this appellation had some one been denoted in the
chamber dialogue of which I had been an unsuspected auditor. The man who
pretended poverty, and yet gave proofs of inordinate wealth; whom it was
pardonable to defraud of thirty thousand dollars; first, because the
loss of that sum would be trivial to one opulent as he; and, secondly,
because he was imagined to have acquired this opulence by other than
honest methods. Instead of forthwith returning home, I wandered into the
fields, to indulge myself in the new thoughts which were produced by
this occurrence.

I entertained no doubt that the person alluded to was my patron. No new