He felt will-tired, soul-tired, more tired even than on the night of March 14th. He could fight no more.
He sank down into a chair, and presently he said dully: "Show me the prospectus."
Larssen unhurriedly produced from a drawer in his desk a private draft prospectus such as is offered to the underwriters. On it was a list of names—the firms to whom it was being shown confidentially before public issue.
He reached for the electric bell to summon Sylvester as a witness to Matheson's signature, but at that very moment the secretary knocked and entered quickly with an open cablegram, which he passed to his chief.
Larssen's face grew white as he read it, but he said nothing beyond: "Wait to witness a signature."
Matheson took the prospectus and read it through mechanically. The shipowner, with an appearance of casualness, turned to a map on the wall behind him and studied the position of his Atlantic liners as indicated by the flag-pins.
Olive remained seated, her eyes fixed remorselessly on her husband.
Presently Matheson reached for a pen. "What do you want on it?" he asked.
"Simply 'O.K., Clifford Matheson,'" answered the shipowner without turning round. "No date."
Matheson wrote across the printed document the formal letters "O.K.," and signed below.