‘Here we have it!’ said Mr Doddard at last. ‘“Steamship Camel, from Demerara to London, with cargo and passengers, was signalled off Dover at one o’clock this morning.”—Then Mr Pudster will be at Gravesend in an hour or two, sir.’
‘Go, Gideon, go!’ exclaimed Mrs Maggleby. ‘Lose no time. Take a special train if necessary. Tell him all, and implore his forgiveness.’
‘Yes, I think I had better go, Maria,’ said Mr Maggleby. ‘I will send a clerk home with you, and will telegraph to you as soon as I see your—your late husband. In the meantime, try to be calm. Please tell them to call a cab, Doddard.’
Mr Doddard returned to the outer office, and despatched a messenger for two cabs. Mr Maggleby handed Mrs Maggleby into one of them, and a clerk followed her. Then the unfortunate man went back for a moment to his private room to study Bradshaw on the best and speediest route from London to Gravesend. There was a train at a quarter past eleven. It was then a quarter to eleven.
‘And when will he be at Gravesend?’ asked Mr Maggleby.
Mr Doddard turned again to the Times. But instead of at once lighting upon the shipping news, his eye fell upon a paragraph that occupied a not very conspicuous position at the foot of the page. Suddenly he uttered a cry.
‘What’s the matter, Doddard?’ demanded Mr Maggleby, who was rapidly growing impatient.
Mr Doddard replied by bursting into a paroxysm of laughter. ‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed, ‘this is too ridiculous! I never heard of such a thing in my life! It is like a play! Ha, ha, ha!’
‘Your merriment is rather ill-timed,’ cried Mr Maggleby reproachfully. ‘Tell me when Mr Pudster will arrive at Gravesend; and be quick, or I shall lose that train.’
‘A pump, too!’ continued the head-clerk hilariously.