Excited, tremulous, filled with wonder at this unlooked-for event, I paused for a moment to collect my scattered senses, when the sound of a low, monotonous voice breaking upon my ear from the direction of the library, I approached and found Mr. Harwell reading aloud from his late employer’s manuscript. It would be difficult for me to describe the effect which this simple discovery made upon me at this time. There, in that room of late death, withdrawn from the turmoil of the world, a hermit in his skeleton-lined cell, this man employed himself in reading and rereading, with passive interest, the words of the dead, while above and below, human beings agonized in doubt and shame. Listening, I heard these words:
“By these means their native rulers will not only lose their jealous terror of our institutions, but acquire an actual curiosity in regard to them.”
Opening the door I went in.
“Ah! you are late, sir,” was the greeting with which he rose and brought forward a chair.
My reply was probably inaudible, for he added, as he passed to his own seat:
“I am afraid you are not well.”
I roused myself.
“I am not ill.” And, pulling the papers towards me, I began looking them over. But the words danced before my eyes, and I was obliged to give up all attempt at work for that night.
“I fear I am unable to assist you this evening, Mr. Harwell. The fact is, I find it difficult to give proper attention to this business while the man who by a dastardly assassination has made it necessary goes unpunished.”
The secretary in his turn pushed the papers aside, as if moved by a sudden distaste of them, but gave me no answer.