"A thousand pounds--not even registered--in a plain envelope. And you
have no idea from whom it came?
"None whatever," Brooks answered.
The pressman folded it up silently, and passed it back. He looked at
the huge pile of correspondence and at Brooks--his dark thoughtful face
suddenly lit up with a rare gleam of excitement. In his own mind he was
making a thumb-nail sketch of these things. There was material for
one of those broad, suggestive articles which his editor loved. He
wished Brooks good-night.
"I'm much obliged for all you've told me," he said. "If you don't mind,
I'd like to drop in now and again down at Stepney. I believe that this
is going to be rather a big thing for you."
Brooks smiled.
"So do I," he answered. "Come whenever you like."
Brooks sank into an easy-chair, conscious at last of a more than
ordinary exhaustion. He looked at the pile of newspapers at his feet,
the sea of correspondence on the table--his thoughts travelled back to
the bare, dusty room in Stepney, with its patient, white-faced crowd of
men and women and children.
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