The magistrate did not promise definitely that night to accept the position offered to him. He would think over the matter. He could retire on a pension at any time. This he would now do without delay, and Philip could certainly count on his friendship and advice, while his house would always be open to him. Meanwhile, he would give one word of advice--intrust no human being with the power to sign any binding document without his--Philip's--consent. Then it would be difficult for anyone to deal unscrupulously with him. The boy went away at a late hour. He left behind him an exceedingly perplexed couple, but he felt that when Mr. Abingdon had time to assimilate the facts, and realize the great scope of the work before him, there was little doubt he would gladly associate himself with it. 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?" A policeman strolled leisurely along the pavement, but to him the man addressed no question. Apparently unconscious of the constable's observant glance, he still continued to scrutinize the great pile of brick and stone which thrust its splendid campanile into the warm sunshine of an April day. Beneath the name was an inscription: "These are they which passed through great tribulation." A queer smile did not improve the man's expression as he read the text. "Tribulation! That's it," he continued. "I've had ten years of it. And it started somewhere about the end of that fine entrance, too. I wonder where Sailor is, and that boy. He's a man now, mebbe twenty-six or so, if he's alive. Oh, I hope he's alive! I hope he's rich and healthy and engaged or married to a nice, young woman. If I've managed to live in hell for ten long years, a youngster like him should be able to pull through with youth and strength and a bag full of diamonds." Without turning his head, he became aware that the policeman had halted at some little distance.