“Great pity,” said Sam, omitting to point out that it was for that very reason that he had allowed the Mauretania to depart without him. “However, it’s all right. I have found my niche.”
“You have done what?”
“I have selected my life work.” He pulled out of his pocket a crumpled paper. “I would like to attach myself to Pyke’s Home Companion. I bought a copy on my way here, and it is the goods. You aren’t reading the serial by any chance, are you—Hearts Aflame, by Cordelia Blair? A winner. I only had time to glance at the current instalment, but it was enough to make me decide to dig up the back numbers at the earliest possible moment. In case you haven’t read it, it is Leslie Mordyke’s wedding day, and a veiled woman with a foreign accent has just risen in the body of the church and forbidden the banns. And,” said Sam warmly, “I don’t blame her. It appears that years ago——”
Lord Tilbury was making motions of distress, and Mrs. Hammond bent solicitously, like one at a sick bed, to catch his fevered whisper.
“My brother,” she announced, “wishes——”
“——was hoping,” corrected Lord Tilbury.
“——was hoping,” said Mrs. Hammond, accepting the emendation, “that you would join the staff of the Daily Record so that you might be under his personal eye.”
Sam caught Lord Tilbury’s personal eye, decided that he had no wish to be under it and shook his head.
“The Home Companion,” said Lord Tilbury, coming to life, “is a very minor unit of my group of papers.”
“Though it has a large circulation,” said Mrs. Hammond loyally.