"The admiral's compliments, sir," snapped the orderly, "and will the captain please speak with him?"
Still Swanson did not move.
He felt that the breaking-point of his self-control had come. This impertinent interruption, this thrusting into the last few seconds of his life of a reminder of all that he had lost, this futile postponement of his end, was cruel, unhuman, unthinkable. The pistol was still in his hand. He had but to draw it and press it close, and before the marine could leap upon him he would have escaped.
From behind, approaching hurriedly, came the sound of impatient footsteps.
The orderly stiffened to attention. "The admiral!" he warned.
Twelve years of discipline, twelve years of recognition of authority, twelve years of deference to superior officers, dragged Swanson's hand from his pistol and lifted him to his feet. As he turned, Admiral Preble, the aide, and the bareheaded bluejacket were close upon him. The admiral's face beamed, his eyes were young with pleasurable excitement; with the eagerness of a boy he waved aside formal greetings.
"My dear Swanson," he cried, "I assure you it's a most astonishing, most curious coincidence! See this man?" He flung out his arm at the bluejacket. "He's my wireless chief. He was wireless operator on the transport that took you to Manila. When you came in here this afternoon he recognized you. Half an hour later he picks up a message—picks it up two thousand miles from here—from San Francisco—Associated Press news—it concerns you; that is, not really concerns you, but I thought, we thought"—as though signalling for help, the admiral glanced unhappily at his aide—"we thought you'd like to know. Of course, to us," he added hastily, "it's quite superfluous—quite superfluous, but—"
The aide coughed apologetically. "You might read, sir," he suggested.
"What? Exactly! Quite so!" cried the admiral.
In the fading light he held close to his eyes a piece of paper.