Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that the time was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk of four miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a small grey hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to be the inn and the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the rest. The postmaster, who was also the village grocer, had a clear recollection of the telegram.
“Certainly, sir,” said he, “I had the telegram delivered to Mr. Barrymore exactly as directed.”
“Who delivered it?”
“My boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore at the Hall last week, did you not?”
“Yes, father, I delivered it.”
“Into his own hands?” I asked.
“Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not put it into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore’s hands, and she promised to deliver it at once.”
“Did you see Mr. Barrymore?”
“No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft.”
“If you didn’t see him, how do you know he was in the loft?”
“Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is,” said the postmaster testily. “Didn’t he get the telegram? If there is any mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain.”