“When a letter is once posted, sir,” reiterated the impenetrable local authority, “nobody out of the office touches it on any pretense whatever.”

“Granted, with all my heart,” persisted the captain.  “I don’t want to touch it—­I only want to explain myself.  A lady has posted a letter here, addressed to ’Noel Vanstone, Esq., Admiral Bartram’s, St. Crux-in-the-Marsh, Essex.’  She wrote in a great hurry, and she is not quite certain whether she added the name of the post-town, ‘Ossory.’  It is of the last importance that the delivery of the letter should not be delayed.  What is to hinder your facilitating the post-office work, and obliging a lady, by adding the name of the post-town (if it happens to be left out), with your own hand?  I put it to you as a zealous officer, what possible objection can there be to granting my request?”

The postmaster was compelled to acknowledge that there could be no objection, provided nothing but a necessary line was added to the address, provided nobody touched the letter but himself, and provided the precious time of the post-office was not suffered to run to waste.  As there happened to be nothing particular to do at that moment, he would readily oblige the lady at Mr. Bygrave’s request.

Captain Wragge watched the postmaster’s hands, as they sorted the letters in the box, with breathless eagerness.  Was the letter there?  Would the hands of the zealous public servant suddenly stop?  Yes!  They stopped, and picked out a letter from the rest.

“‘Noel Vanstone, Esquire,’ did you say?” asked the postmaster, keeping the letter in his own hand.

“‘Noel Vanstone, Esquire,’” replied the captain, “’Admiral Bartram’s, St. Crux-in-the-Marsh.’”

“Ossory, Essex,” chimed in the postmaster, throwing the letter back into the box.  “The lady has made no mistake, sir.  The address is quite right.”

Nothing but a timely consideration of the heavy debt he owed to appearances prevented Captain Wragge from throwing his tall white hat up in the air as soon as he found the street once more.  All further doubt was now at an end.  Mrs. Lecount had written to her master—­therefore Mrs. Lecount was on her way to Zurich!

With his head higher than ever, with the tails of his respectable frock-coat floating behind him in the breeze, with his bosom’s native impudence sitting lightly on its throne, the captain strutted to the inn and called for the railway time-table.  After making certain calculations (in black and white, as a matter of course), he ordered his chaise to be ready in an hour—­so as to reach the railway in time for the second train running to London—­with which there happened to be no communication from Aldborough by coach.

His next proceeding was of a far more serious kind; his next proceeding implied a terrible certainty of success.  The day of the week was Thursday.  From the inn he went to the church, saw the clerk, and gave the necessary notice for a marriage by license on the following Monday.