t alive."

"Yes, but," said Pinchas, getting up thoughtfully, "Sampson is going off
soon on tour vith his comic opera. He vill not need the _Flag_."

"Oh, well, edit it till then."

"Be it so," said the poet resignedly. "Till Sampson's comic-opera tour."

"Till Sampson's comic-opera tour," repeated Raphael contentedly.

CHAPTER XVI.

LOVE'S TEMPTATION.

Raphael walked out of the office, a free man. Mountains of
responsibility seemed to roll off his shoulders. His Messianic emotions
were conscious of no laceration at the failure of this episode of his
life; they were merged in greater. What a fool he had been to waste so
much time, to make no effort to find the lonely girl! Surely, Esther
must have expected him, if only as a friend, to give some sign that he
did not share in the popular execration. Perchance she had already left
London or the country, only to be found again by protracted knightly
quest! He felt grateful to Providence for setting him free for her
salvation. He made at once for the publishers' and asked for her
address. The junior partner knew of no such person. In vain Raphael
reminded him that they had published _Mordecai Josephs_. That was by Mr.
Edward Armitage. Raphael accepted the convention, and demanded this
gentleman's address instead. That, too, was refused, but all letters
would be forwarded. Was Mr. Armitage in England? All letters would be
forwarded. Upon that the junior partner stood, inexpugnable.

Raphael went out, not uncomforted. He would write to her at once. He got
letter-paper at the nearest restaurant and wrote, "Dear Miss Ansell."
The rest was a blank. He had not the least idea how to renew the
relationship after what seemed an eternity of silence. He stared
helplessly round the mirrored walls, seeing mainly his own helpless
stare. The placard "Smoking not permitted till 8 P.M.," gave him a
sudden shock. He felt for his pipe, and ultimately found it stuck, half
full of charred bird's eye, in his breast-pocket. He had apparently not
been smoking for some hours. That completed his perturbation. He felt he
had undergone too much that day to be in a fit state to write a
judicious letter. He would go home and rest a bit, and write the
letter--very diplomatically--in the evening. When he got home, he found
to his astonishment it was Friday evening, when letter-writing is of the
devil. Habit carried him to synagogue, where he sang the Sabbath hymn,
"Come, my beloved, to mee