'Well, I mean just this: We shall probably reach Queenstown on Saturday afternoon. This report, making allowance for the difference in the time, will appear in the Argus on Sunday morning. Your telegram will reach your house or your firm on Saturday night, when nothing can be done with it. Sunday nothing can be done. Monday morning, before your report will reach the directors, the substance of what has appeared in the Argus will be in the financial papers, cabled over to London on Sunday night. The first thing your directors will see of it will be in the London financial papers on Monday morning. That's what I mean, Mr. Wentworth, by calculating the voyage.'
Wentworth said no more. He staggered to his feet and made his way as best he could to the state-room, groping like a blind man. There he sat down with his head in his hands, and there his friend Kenyon found him.
CHAPTER IX.
'Tell me what has happened,' demanded John Kenyon.
Wentworth looked up at him.
'Everything has happened,' he answered.
'What do you mean, George? Are you ill? What is the matter with you?'
'I am worse than ill, John—a great deal worse than ill. I wish I were ill.'
'That wouldn't help things, whatever is wrong. Come, wake up. Tell me what the trouble is.'