Mrs. Wragge would do," he
said, "and Mrs. Wragge has done it." He sat unflinchingly at the window
with a patience which Mrs. Lecount herself could not have surpassed. The
one active proceeding in which he seemed to think it necessary to engage
was performed by deputy. He sent the servant to the inn to hire a chaise
and a fast horse, and to say that he would call himself before noon that
day and tell the hostler when the vehicle would be wanted. Not a sign of
impatience escaped him until the time drew near for the departure of the
early coach. Then the captain's curly lips began to twitch with anxiety,
and the captain's restless fingers beat the devil's tattoo unremittingly
on the window-pane.

The coach appeared at last, and drew up at Sea View. In a minute
more, Captain Wragge's own observation informed him that one among the
passengers who left Aldborough that morning was--Mrs. Lecount.

The main uncertainty disposed of, a serious question--suggested by
the events of the morning--still remained to be solved. Which was the
destined end of Mrs. Lecount's journey--Zurich or St. Crux? That she
would certainly inform her master of Mrs. Wragge's ghost story, and of
every other disclosure in relation to names and places which might have
escaped Mrs. Wragge's lips, was beyond all doubt. But of the two ways at
her disposal of doing the mischief--either personally or by letter--it
was vitally important to the captain to know which she had chosen. If
she had gone to the admiral's, no choice would be left him but to follow
the coach, to catch the train by which she traveled, and to outstrip her
afterward on the drive from the station in Essex to St. Crux. If, on the
contrary, she had been contented with writing to her master, it would
only be necessary to devise measures for intercepting the letter.
The captain decided on going to the post-office, in the first place.
Assuming that the housekeeper had written, she would not have left the
letter at the mercy of the servant--she would have seen it safely in the
letter-box before leaving Aldborough.

"Good-morning," said the captain, cheerfully addressing the postmaster.
"I am Mr. Bygrave of North Shingles. I think you have a letter in the
box, addressed to Mr.--?"

The postmaster was a short man, and consequently a man with a proper
idea of his own importance. He solemnly checked Captain Wragge in full
career.

"When a letter is once posted, sir," he said, "nobody out of the of