'That's a cut above Henry,' murmured Little Sampson, who knew nearly everything, save the facts he had to supply to the public. 'He wired to the wife, and it's hers. Well, it saves him from writing his own puffs, anyhow. I suppose Goldsmith's only the signature, not intended to be the last word on the subject. Wants touching up, though; can't have "spirit" twice within four lines. How lucky for him Leon is just off the box-seat! That queer beggar would never have submitted to any dictation any more than the boss would have dared show his hand so openly.' While the sub-editor mused thus, a remark dropped from the editor's lips, which turned Raphael whiter than the news of the death of Gideon had done. 'Yes, and in the middle of writing I look up and see the maiden--oh, vairy beaudiful! How she gives it to English Judaism sharp in that book--the stupid-heads, the Men-of-the-Earth! I could kiss her for it, only I have never been introduced. Gideon, he is there! Ho! ho!' he sniggered, with purely intellectual appreciation of the pungency. 'What maiden? What are you talking about?' asked Raphael, his breath coming painfully. 'Your maiden,' said Pinchas, surveying him with affectionate roguishness. 'The maiden that came to see you here. She vas reading; I valk by and see it is about America.' 'At the British Museum?' gasped Raphael. A thousand hammers beat 'Fool!' upon his brain. Why had he not thought of so likely a place for a _littérateur_? He rushed out of the office and into a hansom. He put his pipe out in anticipation. In seven minutes he was at the gates, just in time--Heaven be thanked!--to meet her abstractedly descending the steps. His heart gave a great leap of joy. He studied the pensive little countenance for an instant before it became aware of him; its sadness shot a pang of reproach through him. Then a great light, as of wonder and joy, came into the dark eyes, and glorified the pale, passionate face. But it was only a flash that faded, leaving the cheeks more pallid than before, the lips quivering. 'Mr. Leon!' she muttered. He raised his hat, then held out a trembling hand, that closed upon hers with a grip that hurt her. 'I'm so glad to see you again!' he said, with unconcealed enthusiasm. 'I have been meaning to write to you for days--care of your publishers. I wonder if you will ever forgive me!' 'You had nothing to write to me,' she said, striving to speak coldly. 'Oh yes, I had!' he protested. She shook her head. 'Our journalistic relations are over--there were no others.' 'Oh!' he exclaimed reproachfully, feeling his heart grow chill. 'Surely we were friends?' She did not answer. 'I wanted to write and tell you how much,' he began desperately, then stammered, and ended--'how much I like _Mordecai Josephs_.' This time the reproachful 'Oh!' came from her lips. 'I thought better of you,' she said. 'You didn't say that in the _Flag of Judah_; writing it privately to me wouldn't do me any good in any case.'