And how could my uncle know that I would take the Boston route? And if
he _had_ known, how could he foresee that I would do anything so absurd
as to call at the Boston post-office and inquire for letters? "_I
will meet you at the G. W. R. station_." How was he to know by what
train I would reach Toronto, unless I notified him by telegraph? And
that he expressly stated to be unnecessary.

We did no more sight-seeing. I obeyed the hint contained in the letter,
and sent no telegram. My friend accompanied me down to the Boston and
Albany station, where I waited in feverish impatience for the departure
of the train. We talked over the matter until 11.30, in the vain hope
of finding some clue to the mystery. Then I started on my journey. Mr.
Gridley's curiosity was aroused, and I promised to send him an
explanation immediately upon my arrival at home.

No sooner had the train glided out of the station than I settled myself
in my seat, drew the tantalizing letter from my pocket, and proceeded
to read and re-read it again and again. A very few perusals sufficed to
fix its contents in my memory, so that I could repeat every word with
my eyes shut. Still I continued to scrutinize the paper, the
penmanship, and even the tint of the ink. For what purpose, do you ask?
For no purpose, except that I hoped, in some mysterious manner, to
obtain more light on the subject. No light came, however. The more I
scrutinized and pondered, the greater was my mystification. The paper
was a simple sheet of white letter-paper, of the kind ordinarily used
by my uncle in his correspondence. So far as I could see, there was
nothing peculiar about the ink. Anyone familiar with my uncle's writing
could have sworn that no hand but his had penned the lines. His
well-known signature, a masterpiece of involved hieroglyphics, was there
in all its indistinctness, written as no one but himself could ever have