Near the end of my fourteenth year I was apprenticed to @Valentine, @King & @Co., cotton importers, @Liverpool, as a "pair of legs." My father had died suddenly, leaving me and his property in the possession of my stepmother and my guardian. It was in regard to their urgent advice that I left my home in @London (with little hesitation, since my life there had never been happy) to study the art of making money. When I arrived at the scene of my expected triumphs, I was assigned to the somewhat humble position of errand boy. In common with other boys who performed a similar service for the firm, I was known as "a pair of legs." Housing of a rather basic nature had been set aside for me in the western outskirts of the city near the banks of the @Mersey. I was slow to make friends, and my evenings were spent reading a number of story books that I had brought with me from London.
One night, not long after the beginning of my new life in Liverpool, I was lying in bed listening to the wind and rain beating over the housetops and driving against the windows, when suddenly there came a loud rap at my door.
"Who's there?" I demanded, jumping out of bed.
I heard no answer, so I repeated my question, standing there and listening for a moment. I still heard nothing, however, except for the wind and the rain. Lighting a candle and dressing myself quickly, I opened the door. I could just make out the figure of a bent old man standing in the hallway, when a gust of wind suddenly blew out the candle. The door leading to the street was open, and the old man was probably a straggler come to beg me for shelter or for something to eat. As I relit the candle, he entered my room and stood facing me, but he did not speak. His clothes were dripping and he was blinking at me with strange, gleaming eyes. His hair was snow-white, and as I looked into his face the deathly white color of it frightened me. His general appearance was more than startling; it was downright spooky.
"What can I do for you?" I asked.
Much to my surprise, he made no reply, but with a look of pain and great anxiety sank into a chair. Then he reached into his pocket and drew a letter which he held out to me. The envelope was wet and dirty. It was addressed to @Kendric Lane, North Old Broad street, London, England. That address was crossed out and "22 @Kirkland Street, Liverpool," was scribbled under it in the familiar hand of my guardian. That was strange, I thought. Was the letter intended for my father, who was long dead, and who had not lived at that address for more than ten years? The old man began to grin and nod as I examined the second address. I broke the seal on the envelope and found the following letter, undated, and with no indication of the place from which it was sent:
"Dear Brother -- I need your help. Come to me at once if you can. Events of vast importance to both me and to mankind depend upon your prompt acceptance of this task. I cannot tell you where I am. The bearer of this letter will bring you to me. Follow him and ask no questions. In addition, be silent, like him, regarding the subject of this letter. If you can come, obtain passage in the first steamer ship leaving for New York. My messenger has money for you. Your loving brother, "Revis Lane."
I had often heard my father speak of my uncle @Revis, who went to @America almost twenty years before I was born. Now he was my nearest living relative. No news of him had reached us for many years before my father died. I was familiar with his handwriting and the specimen before me was either genuine, or a very clever forgery. If it were genuine, Revis had obviously not heard of my father's death.
Extraordinary as the message was, the messenger was more so. He sat looking at me with a strange, half-crazed expression on his face.
"When did you leave my uncle?" I asked.
He sat perfectly still, as if unaware that I had spoken.
I drew my chair to his side and repeated the words in a loud voice, but he still did not seem to hear me. Evidently the old man could neither hear nor speak. In a moment he began groping in his pockets, then he pulled out and handed me a card that contained the following words:
"If you can come, tear this card in half and return the right half to him."
I examined the card carefully. The words were undoubtedly in my uncle's handwriting. The back of the card was covered with strange characters in red ink. I tore the card as directed and handed the man the right half.
He held it up to the light and examined it carefully, then put it away in a pocket of his overcoat. The look of pain returned to his face, and he coughed feebly, as if suffering from a severe cold. As it was getting late, I indicated, by pantomime, that I was offering to help him get to my bed. He understood me well enough and began feebly to remove his clothing, while I prepared a sofa for myself. He was soon sound asleep, but I lay awake long after I turned out the light. He was obviously quite ill, and I determined to go for a physician as soon as it got light. Once we were through there, I would go with him to my uncle. There were no ties here to prevent me from leaving, and it was clearly my duty to go with him. Perhaps my uncle was in some great danger. If so, I might be of service to him.
When I arose in the morning, my strange lodger seemed to be sleeping quietly. His face looked pale and ghastly in the light of day. I stepped close to his bed and, laying my hand upon his forehead, I was horrified to discover that he was dead. What was I to do? I sat down to think, trembling with fright. I must call the police and tell them all I knew about this unusual man. No, not all; I must not tell them about the letter, I thought. My uncle might not want the whole world to know. I ran out into the street and told the first officer I met how the old man had knocked at my door during the storm; how I had given him my bed out of pity, and how I had discovered in the morning that he was dead.
That day the body was taken to the morgue. The sum of 100 pounds were found in his pockets, a part of which gave him a decent burial. But while he had gone to his long rest, he had sown in my mind the seed of unrest. I went about my work clinging to the thread of a mystery half told. Where would it lead me?
Strange as that messenger had seemed, he was certainly a good man to carry secrets.
