"Yes," she said patiently. "I am sure of it, Mr. Clements. The Empress of Formosa will dock on Monday—about—nine in the morning. She will be reported by wireless from the Empress of Borneo this evening.... They have been relaying it from the Delaware Capes.... There will be an extra edition of the evening papers. You may dismiss all anxiety."
The man rose, stood a moment, his features working with emotion.
"I'm not a praying man," he said. "But if this is so—I'll pray for you.... It can't hurt you anyway—" he checked himself, stammering, and the deep colour stained him from his brow to his thick, powerful neck as he stood fumbling with his portfolio.
But Athalie smilingly put aside the recompense he offered: "It is too much, Mr. Clements."
"It is worth it to the Company—if the news is true—"
"Then wait until your steamer docks."
"But you say you are certain—"
"Yes, I am: but you are not. My refusal of payment will encourage you to confidence in me. You have been ill with anxiety, Mr. Clements. I know what that means. And now your bruised mind cannot realise that the trouble is ended—that there is no reason now for the deadly fear that has racked you. But everything will help you now—what I have told you—and my refusal of payment until your own eyes corroborate everything I have said."
"I believe you now," he said, staring at her. "I wish to offer you in behalf of the Company—"