Thanks to my ignorance of the pugilistic glories of my native country, I was totally at a loss what to make of him.
"Have I the honor of speaking to Mr.Roylake ?" he asked.

His quiet steady manner prepossessed me in his favour; it showed no servile reverence for the accident of birth, on the one hand, and no insolent assertion of independence, on the other.

When I had told him that my name was Roylake, he searched one of the large pockets of his shooting jacket, produced a letter, and silently offered it to me.
Before I took the letter--seeing that he was a stranger, and that he mentioned no name known to me--I thought it desirable to make some inquiry.
"Is it a letter of your own writing ?" I asked.
"No, sir." "Who sends you with it ?" He was apparently a man of few words.

"My master," was the guarded answer that this odd servant returned.
I became as inquisitive as old Toller himself.
"Who is your master ?" I went on.
The reply staggered me.

Speaking as quietly and respectfully as ever, he said: "I can't tell you, sir." "Do you mean that you are forbidden to tell me ?" "No, sir." "Then what do you mean ?" "I mean that I don't know my master's name." I instantly took the letter from him, and looked at the address.