He glanced at the message and then at us.
"No question of a mistake, I hope?" he said. "The message reads straight enough."
"No," I answered; "rather a question of preventing a mistake. I hope you won't refuse us."
He glanced us over again and seemed to understand.
"It's a little irregular," he said; "but I guess I can do it."
He opened a drawer, and ran through a sheaf of papers.
"Here it is," he said, and laid a sheet before us. "You see the message was correctly sent."
"Yes," I agreed; but it was not at the message I was looking; it was at the sheet upon which it was written—a sheet which had embossed at the top the words "S. S. Umbria."
"Who sent the message?" I asked.
"It was brought in by a messenger from the Cunard line pier."