'What have I done?' asked Raphael.

'Done? You've got me into a nice mess. The guvnor--the new guvnor; the old guvnor, it seems--called the other day to fix things with me and Pinchas. He asked me if I was satisfied to go on at the same screw. I said he might make it two pound ten. "What, more than double?" says he. "No, only nine shillings extra," says I, "and for that I'll throw in some foreign telegrams the late editor never cared for." And then it came out that he only knew of a sovereign, and fancied I was trying it on.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry,' said Raphael, in deep scarlet distress.

'You must have been paying a guinea out of your own pocket!' said Little Sampson sharply.

Raphael's confusion increased. 'I--I--didn't want it myself,' he faltered. 'You see it was paid me just for form, and you really did the work. Which reminds me I have a cheque of yours now,' he ended boldly. 'That'll make it right for the coming month, anyhow.'

He hunted out Goldsmith's final cheque, and tendered it sheepishly.

'Oh no, I can't take it now,' said Little Sampson. He folded his arms, and drew his cloak around him like a toga. No August sun ever divested Little Sampson of his cloak.

'Has Goldsmith agreed to your terms, then?' inquired Raphael timidly.

'Oh no, not he. But----'

'Then I must go on paying the difference,' said Raphael decisively. 'I am responsible to you that you get the salary you're used to; it's my fault that things are changed, and I must pay the penalty.' He crammed the cheque forcibly into the pocket of the toga.

'Well, if you put it in that way,' said Little Sampson, 'I won't say I couldn't do with it. But only as a loan, mind.'

'All right,' murmured Raphael.

'And you'll take it back when my comic opera goes on tour. You won't back out?'

'No.'

'Give us your hand on it,' said Little Sampson huskily. Raphael gave him his hand, and Little Sampson swung it up and down like a baton.

'Hang it all! and that man calls himself a Jew!' he thought. Aloud he said: 'When my comic opera goes on tour.'

They returned to the editorial den, where they found Pinchas raging, a telegram in his hand.

'Ah, the Man-of-the-Earth!' he cried. 'All my beautiful peroration he spoils.' He crumpled up the telegram and threw it pettishly at Little Sampson, then greeted Raphael with effusive joy and hilarity. Little Sampson read the wire. It ran as follows:

'Last sentence of Gideon Leader. It is too early yet in this moment of grief to speculate as to his successor in the const.i.tuency. But, difficult as it will be to replace him, we may find some solace in the thought that it will not be impossible. The spirit of the ill.u.s.trious dead would itself rejoice to acknowledge the special qualifications of one whose name will at once rise to every lip as that of a brother Jew whose sincere piety and genuine public spirit mark him out as the one worthy subst.i.tute in the representation of a district embracing so many of our poor Jewish brethren. Is it too much to hope that he will be induced to stand?--Goldsmith.'

'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 sn.i.g.g.e.red, 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 _litterateur_?

He rushed out of the office and into a hansom. He put his pipe out in antic.i.p.ation. 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, pa.s.sionate 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.'

He felt miserable; from the crude standpoint of facts there was no answer to give. He gave none.

'I suppose it is all about now?' she went on, seeing him silent.

'Pretty well,' he answered, understanding the question. Then, with an indignant accent, he said, 'Mrs. Goldsmith tells everybody she found it out, and sent you away.'

'I am glad she says that,' she remarked enigmatically. 'And, naturally, everybody detests me?'

'Not everybody,' he began threateningly.

'Don't let us stand on the steps,' she interrupted. 'People will be looking at us.' They moved slowly downwards, and into the hot, bustling streets. 'Why are you not at the _Flag_? I thought this was your busy day.' She did not add, 'And so I ventured to the Museum, knowing there was no chance of your turning up'; but such was the fact.

'I am not the editor any longer,' he replied.

'Not?' She almost came to a stop. 'So much for my critical faculty; I could have sworn to your hand in every number.'

'Your critical faculty equals your creative,' he began.

'Journalism has taught you sarcasm.'

'No, no! please do not be so unkind. I spoke in earnestness. I have only just been dismissed.'

'Dismissed!' she echoed incredulously. 'I thought the _Flag_ was your own?'