Vivian, and judge if we had gained the right clew, when we were startled
by what was a rare sound at our door,--the postman's knock. My father
was at the Museum; my mother in high conference, or close preparation
for our approaching departure, with Mrs. Primmins; Roland, I, and Blanche
had the room to ourselves.

"The letter is not for me," said Pisistratus.

"Nor for me, I am sure," said the Captain, when the servant entered and
confuted him,--for the letter was for him. He took it up wonderingly
and suspiciously, as Glumdalclitch took up Gulliver, or as (if
naturalists) we take up an unknown creature that we are not quite sure
will not bite and sting us. Ah! it has stung or bit you, Captain
Roland; for you start and change color,--you suppress a cry as you break
the seal; you breathe hard as you read; and the letter seems short--but
it takes time in the reading, for you go over it again and again. Then
you fold it up, crumple it, thrust it into your breast-pocket, and look
round like a man waking from a dream. Is it a dream of pain, or of
pleasure? Verily, I cannot guess, for nothing is on that eagle face
either of pain or pleasure, but rather of fear, agitation, bewilderment.
Yet the eyes are bright, too, and there is a smile on that iron lip.

My uncle looked round, I say, and called hastily for his cane and his
hat, and then began buttoning his coat across his broad breast, though
the day was hot enough to have unbuttoned every breast in the
metropolis.

"You are not going out, uncle?"

"Yes, Yes."