_I suppose
there was no mistake in the report that that ship did go
down?_--and that none of the passengers were saved from it?
"Truly yours,
"RICHARD PRATT."
"What can he possibly mean?" muttered Philip Hamlyn.
But there was no one to answer the question, and he sat buried in
thought, trying to answer it himself. Starting up from the useless task,
he looked in his desk, found the infallible prescription, and then
snatched his watch from his pocket.
"Too late," he decided impatiently; "Pratt would be gone to bed. He goes
at all kinds of unearthly hours when out of sorts." So he went upstairs
to his wife again, the prescription displayed in his hand.
Morning came, bringing the daily routine of duties in its train. Mrs.
Hamlyn had made an engagement to go with some friends to Blackheath, to
take luncheon with a lady living there. It was damp and raw in the early
portion of the day, but promised to be clear later on.
"And then my little darling can go out to play again," she said, hugging
the child to her.
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