"I mean that I don't know my master's name."

I instantly took the letter from him, and looked at the address. For once
in a way, I had jumped at a conclusion and I had proved to be right. The
handwriting on the letter, and the handwriting of the confession which I
had read overnight, were one and the same.

"Are you to wait for an answer?" I asked, as I opened the envelope.

"I am to wait, sir, if you tell me to do so."

The letter was a long one. After running my eye over the first sentences,
I surprised myself by acting discreetly. "You needn't wait," I said; "I
will send a reply." The man of few words raised his shabby hat, turned
about in silence, and left me.

CHAPTER VIII

THE DEAF LODGER

The letter was superscribed: "Private and Confidential." It was written
in these words:



"Sir,--You will do me grievous wrong if you suppose that I am trying to
force myself on your acquaintance. My object in writing is to prevent you
(if I can) from misinterpreting my language and my conduct, on the only
two occasions when we happen to have met.