At the hotel a telegram awaited him:
"Have realized for fifty-two thousand. Returning Monday. Isaacstein."
Here was the final proof, if proof were wanting. Philip was a millionaire many times over.
CHAPTER XIII.
After Long Years.
A tall, strongly built man, aged about forty-five, but looking older, by reason of his grizzled hair and a face seamed with hardship—a man whose prominent eyes imparted an air of alert intelligence to an otherwise heavy and brutal countenance, disfigured by a broken nose, stood on the north side of the Mile End Road and looked fixedly across the street at a fine building which dwarfed the mean houses on either hand.
He had no need to ask what it was. Carved in stone over the handsome arch which led to an interior covered court was its title—"The Mary Anson Home for Destitute Boys." A date followed, a date ten years old.
The observer was puzzled. He gazed up and down the wide thoroughfare with the manner of one who asked himself:
"Now, why was that built there?"