"There it is," he said; "if you want to write to the author she
will forward any letters to him."

Harrington stared at the pencilled direction for a moment in
silence. He remembered it--of course he remembered it!--it was the
very address given to the driver of the taxi-cab in which the girl
with whom he had travelled to London more than a year ago had
gone, as it seemed, out of his sight. Every little incident
connected with her came freshly back to his mind--how she had
spoken of the books she loved in "old French" and "Elizabethan
English"--and how she had said she knew the way to earn her own
living. If this was the way--if she was indeed the author of the
book which had stirred and wakened the drowsing soul of the age,
then she had not ventured in vain!

Aloud he said:

"It seems to be another case of the 'Author of Waverley' and the
'Great Unknown'! I suppose you'll take anything else you can get
by the same hand?"

"Rather!" And the publisher nodded emphatically--"We have already
secured a second work."

"Through Miss Armitage?"

"Yes. Through Miss Armitage."

Harrington laughed.