I was often on the verge of sending in my resignation, but I would
remember in time that work meant bread and butter--and forgetfulness.
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. He writes
like a polite creditor. What did the old fellow say was the matter
with him? heart trouble, or consumption? I can't remember." I threw
the note aside and touched up some of my dispatches.