"Yes—he's just sailed, and—all's well."
"When do you think he'll be here?" questioned the young hostess, looking anxiously up into his face.
The president shook his head.
"That is hard to tell," he answered evasively.
Mr. Steell had gone to the window, where he stood looking out, idly drumming his fingers on the pane. How was it possible to break such fearful tidings as that? What a horrible calamity! He wished himself a hundred miles away, yet some one must tell her. At that moment shrill cries arose in the street outside—the familiar, distressing, almost exultant cries of news-venders, glad of any calamity that puts a few nickels into their pockets.
"Ex-tra! Ex-tra! Special ex-tra!"
"What's that?" exclaimed Helen apprehensively. The sound of special editions always filled her with anxiety, especially since Kenneth's departure.
"Ex-tra! Ex-tra! Special edition! Ex-tra! Big steamer gone down. Great loss of life. Extra!"
Her face was pale, as she turned and looked at the others, who also stood in silence, listening to the hoarse accents of distress.
"A steamer gone down!" she faltered. "Isn't that terrible? I wonder what steamer it was."