When I returned to the office few questions were asked, though my
assistant looked many of them reproachfully. I told him that Hillars
had died abroad, and that he had been buried on the continent at his
request; all of which was the truth, but only half of it. I did my
best to keep the duel a secret, but it finally came out. It was the
topic in the clubs, for Hillars had been well known in political and
literary circles. But in a month or so the affair, subsided. The
world never stops very long, even when it loses one of its best friends.
One late October morning I received a note which read:
"JOHN WINTHROP:
"Dear Sir--I am in London for a few days, homeward bound from a trip to
Egypt, and as we are cousins and 'orphans too,' I should like the
pleasure of making your acquaintance. Trusting that I shall find you
at leisure, I am,
"Your humble servant,
"PHILIP PEMBROKE."
"Ah," said I; "that Louisianian cousin of mine, who may or may not live
the year out," recalling the old lawyer's words. "He seems to hang on
pretty well. I hope he'll be interesting; few rich men are.
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