each other through the medium of the post. They preferred to save the
two cents stamp money, as a general thing. Bills sometimes came by mail,
but this was the tenth, not the first, of the month; and, besides, our
bills were paid.

I reached into my pocket for my keys, unlocked the box and took out the
letter. The envelope was square, of an expensive quality, and eminently
aristocratic. It was postmarked Denboro, dated that morning, and
addressed in a sharp, clear masculine hand unfamiliar to me, to "Roscoe
Paine, Esq." The "Esq." would have settled it, if the handwriting had
not. No fellow-townsman of my acquaintance would address me, or any
one else, as Esquire. Misters and Captains were common enough, but
Esquires--no.

It was a Denboro custom, when one received a mysterious letter, to get
the fullest enjoyment out of the mystery before solving it. I had known
Dorinda Rogers to guess, surmise and speculate for ten minutes before
opening a patent medicine circular. But, though mysteries were uncommon
enough in my life, I think I should have reached the solution of
this one in the next second--in fact, I had torn the end from the
envelope--when I was interrupted.

It was Captain Dean who interrupted me. He had evidently concluded his
conversation with the postmaster and now was bearing down majestically
upon me, like a ten thousand ton steamer on a porgie schooner.

"Hey, you--Ros!" he roared. He was at my elbow, but he roared just the
same. Skipper of a coaster in his early days, he had never outgrown the
habit of pitching his voice to carry above a fifty-mile gale. "Hey, Ros.
See here; I want to talk to you."