Even this slight encouragement was gratifying, but as time passed without bringing any reply to my letter I began to think that, after all, my hopes rested on very shadowy foundations.

One day I asked the local postmaster if a man of the name of Lane, who lived near that city, ever sent for his mail.
"Never," said he.

"The man is crazy, I guess, and it's wasting postage to write him.

He's a hermit, sir--a regular hermit, and is about the same as dead, for nobody ever sees him.

The tradesmen tell me that his old servant comes out of an evening, once in a while, to buy provisions, but he's deaf as a post and dumb as an oyster." The interview had at least shown me the futility of trying to reach him by letter.
It was clear that only one course was open to me.