As he folded the letter slowly, Hammond told himself that there was something in the letter that drew him towards the writer.
“I will hunt him up, for it is evident that he is as enthusiastic over his people’s history as he is intelligent. I will see what to-morrow brings. Now to work.”
He put Cohen’s letter in his pocket, and turned to the hundred and one editorial claims upon his time.
CHAPTER VIII.
REVERIE.
In spite of the time of the year, the evening was almost as warm as one in June. Madge Finisterre was on one of the wide hotel balconies overlooking the Embankment. She had dined with her cousin, George Carlyon, but instead of going out of town that evening with him—he had pressed her strongly to go,—she had elected to spend a quiet evening alone.
London’s roar, subdued a little, it is true, at that hour, rose all around her where she sat. The cup of coffee she had brought to her, cooled where it stood upon the little table at her elbow. She had forgotten it.
Her mind was engrossed with the memory of the latter part—the interrupted part—of that interview with Tom Hammond that afternoon.
“What would have happened if George Carlyon had not turned up at that moment?” she mused,—“if we had been left alone and undisturbed another five minutes?”
Her cheeks burned as she whispered softly to herself: