"The Gerrard Street mystery (1888) by John Charles Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dent John Charles)

arrival there, so as not to take them altogether by surprise.
The morning of the 11th of October found me on board the Southern Cross, where
I shook hands with Mr. Redpath and several other friends who accompanied me on
board for a last farewell. The particulars of the voyage to England are not
pertinent to the story, and may be given very briefly. I took the Red Sea route,
and arrived at Marseilles about two o'clock in the afternoon of the 29th of
November. From Marseilles I travelled by rail to Calais, and so impatient was I
to reach my journey's end without loss of time, that I did not even stay over to
behold the glories of Paris. I had a commission to execute in London, which,
however, delayed me there only a few hours, and I hurried down to Liverpool, in
the hope of catching the Cunard Steamer for New York. I missed it by about two
hours, but the Persia was detailed to start on a special trip to Boston the
following day. I secured a berth, and at eight o'clock the next morning steamed
out of the Mersey on my way homeward.
The voyage from Liverpool to Boston consumed fourteen days. All I need say
about it is, that before arriving at the latter port I formed an intimate
acquaintance with one of the passengers--Mr. Junius H. Gridley, a Boston
merchant, who was returning from a hurried business trip to Europe. He was--and
is--a most agreeable companion. We were thrown together a good deal during the
voyage, and we then laid the foundation of a friendship which has ever since
subsisted between us. Before the dome of the State House loomed in sight he had
extracted a promise from me to spend a night with him before pursuing my
journey. We landed at the wharf in East Boston on the evening of the 17th of
December, and I accompanied him to his house on West Newton Street, where I
remained until the following morning. Upon consulting the time-table, we found
that the Albany express would leave at 11:30 A.M. This left several hours at my
disposal, and we sallied forth immediately after breakfast to visit some of the
lions of the American Athens.
In the course of our peregrinations through the streets, we dropped into the
post office, which had recently been established in the Merchants' Exchange
Building, on State Street. Seeing the countless piles of mail-matter, I
jestingly remarked to my friend that there seemed to be letters enough there to
go around the whole human family. He replied in the same mood, whereupon I
banteringly suggested the probability that among so many letters, surely there
ought to be one for me.
"Nothing more reasonable," he replied. "We Bostonians are always bountiful to
strangers. Here is the General Delivery, and here is the department where
letters addressed to the Furlong family are kept in stock. Pray inquire for
yourself."
The joke I confess was not a very brilliant one; but with a grave countenance
I stepped up to the wicket and asked the young lady in attendance:
"Anything for W. F. Furlong?"
She took from a pigeon-hole a handful of correspondence, and proceeded to run
her eye over the addresses. When about half the pile had been exhausted she
stopped, and propounded the usual inquiry in the case of strangers:
"Where do you expect letters from?"
"From Toronto," I replied.
To my no small astonishment she immediately handed me a letter, bearing the
Toronto post-mark. The address was in the peculiar and well-known handwriting of
my uncle Richard.