But no word had come. An hour before, a messenger boy had arrived with a telegram. It was one of many received by Mr. Howland every day, and he tossed it, unopened, upon a pile of similar envelopes upon his desk.
Now, as he turned his eyes yearningly out of a window which gave upon the harbor, the name of a reporter was announced. Mr. Howland had talked and talked and talked to reporters until he was sick of them as of every one and everything else. He turned to his secretary.
"See that fellow, will you?" he said.
In less than a minute the secretary hurried into the office with an excited manner, the reporter at his heels, bearing a long sheet of tissue paper filled with typewriting.
"I have come to see you about the rescue of your daughter, Mr. Howland."
The merchant wheeled quickly in his chair.
"What!" he cried. Then he sprang to his feet and seized the manuscript which the reporter held out to him. Quickly he read it. Then he read it again, more slowly. He read it a third time. His hand flew to his forehead, and he staggered back to his chair. The secretary stepped to his side, but Mr. Howland waved him away.
"When did this come?" he asked.
"A few moments ago," replied the reporter.
"Well," and Mr. Howland gazed at his informant with suffused eyes, "I thank you for your kindness. You must know how grateful I am. Of course there is nothing I can tell you—nothing you want to know."