It was a temptation.
Andrew bounded forward as if to open the cab door, pounced upon the paper and disappeared with it up an alley. After five minutes' dread lest he might be pursued, he struck a match and read:
"Great Titchfield Street—Branscombe 15, Churchill 11, Langtry 8, Gladstone 4.
"Mortimer Street—Langtry 11, Branscombe 9, Gladstone 6, Mary Anderson 6, Churchill 3.
"Margaret Street—Churchill 7, Anderson 6, Branscombe 5, Gladstone 4, Chamberlain 4.
"Smaller streets—Churchill 14, Branscombe 13, Gladstone 9, Langtry 9. Totals for to-day: Churchill 35, Langtry 28, Gladstone 23, Branscombe 42, Anderson 12, Chamberlain nowhere." Then followed, as if in a burst of passion, "Branscombe still leading—confound her."
Andrew saw that Lord Randolph had been calculating fame from vesta boxes.
For a moment this discovery sent Andrew's mind wandering. Miss Branscombe's photographs obstructed the traffic. Should not this be put a stop to? Ah, but she was a woman!
This recalled him to himself. Lord Randolph had departed, probably for St. Stephen's.
Andrew jumped into a hansom. He felt like an exotic in a glass frame.