that, after all, my hopes rested on very shadowy
foundations. One day I asked the local postmaster if a man
of the name of Lane, who lived near that city, ever sent for
his mail.

"Never," said he. "The man is crazy, I guess, and it's
wasting postage to write him. He's a hermit, sir--a regular
hermit, and is about the same as dead, for nobody ever sees
him. The tradesmen tell me that his old servant comes out of
an evening, once in a while, to buy provisions, but he's
deaf as a post and dumb as an oyster." The interview had at
least shown me the futility of trying to reach him by
letter.

It was clear that only one course was open to me. I must
brave the unknown perils with which this strange man had
encompassed the path of the trespasser, and gain an entrance
to the house. I sought the seclusion of my room at once, and
thought over the result of my investigations. I had not
written to my good friend in London since my arrival in
Ogdensburg, and I concluded not to do so until I could give
him definite information.

Late in the afternoon a slow, drizzling rain began to pour
down, and when night fell every luminary in the heavens was
obscured by thick clouds. It was a favorable time for
carrying out my project, as the darkness was intensified by
a fog that had settled over the city. By the light of my
lamp I prepared for the undertaking, in such a state of
excitement that I was frequently startled by my own