On our way home Benjamin produced his note-book.
“What’s to be done, my dear, with the gibberish that I have written here?” he said.
“Have you written it all down?” I asked, in surprise.
“When I undertake a duty, I do it,” he answered. “You never gave me the signal to leave off—you never moved your chair. I have written every word of it. What shall I do? Throw it out of the cab window?”
“Give it to me.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I don’t know yet. I will ask Mr. Playmore.”
CHAPTER XLI. MR. PLAYMORE IN A NEW CHARACTER.
BY that night’s post—although I was far from being fit to make the exertion—I wrote to Mr. Playmore, to tell him what had taken place, and to beg for his earliest assistance and advice.