She shuddered slightly, and turned away.
"Thank you. Good morning."
"Good morning, Miss Thurwell."
She was gone, and as the sound of her departing cab became lost in the din of the traffic outside, a remarkable change took place in the demeanor of Mr. Benjamin Levy. His constrained, almost polished manner disappeared. His small, deep-set eyes sparkled with exultation, and all his natural vulgarity reasserted itself.
"What do you think of that, guv'nor, eh?" he cried, patting him gently on the shoulder. "Good biz, eh?"
"Benjamin, my son," returned the old man, with emotion, "our fortune is made. You are a jewel of a son."
CHAPTER XIII
A STRANGE MEETING
Grayness reigned everywhere—in the sky, on the hillside, and on the bare moor, no longer made resplendent by the gleaming beauty of the purple heather and fainter flashes of yellow gorse. The dry, springy turf had become a swamp, and phantom-like wreaths of mist blurred and saddened the landscape. The sweet stirring of the summer wind amongst the pine trees had given place to the melancholy drip of raindrops falling from their heavy, drooping branches on to the soddened ground. Every vestige of coloring had died out of the landscape—from the sea, the clouds, and the heath. It was the earth's mourning season, when the air has neither the keen freshness of winter, the buoyancy of spring, the sweet drowsy languor of summer, or the bracing exhilaration of autumn. It was November.