"It's a bad bit of navigation along there. The Proteus was nipped and crushed to kindling in about that same latitude ... h'm" ... Bennett tugged at his mustache. Then, suddenly, as if coming to himself: "Well—these temperatures now. Where were we? 'Eight hundred and seventy-four fathoms, minus forty-six hundredths degrees centigrade.'"
On the afternoon of the next day, just as they were finishing this table, there was a knock at the door. It was Adler, and as Bennett opened the door he saluted and handed him three calling-cards. Bennett uttered an exclamation of surprise, and Lloyd turned about from the desk, her pen poised in the air over the half-written sheet.
"They might have let me know they were coming," she heard Bennett mutter. "What do they want?"
"Guess they came on that noon train, sir," hazarded Adler. "They didn't say what they wanted, just inquired for you."
"Who is it?" asked Lloyd, coming forward.
Bennett read off the names on the cards.
"Well, it's Tremlidge—that's the Tremlidge of the Times; he's the editor and proprietor—and Hamilton Garlock—has something to do with that new geographical society—president, I believe—and this one"—he handed her the third card—"is a friend of yours, Craig V. Campbell, of the Hercules Wrought Steel Company."
Lloyd stared. "What can they want?" she murmured, looking up to him from the card in some perplexity. Bennett shook his head.
"Tell them to come up here," he said to Adler.
Lloyd hastily drew down her sleeve over her bare arm.