Stephen Foster sat in his office at No. 320 Wardour street, with half a dozen of the morning and afternoon papers scattered about his desk. It was two o'clock, but he had not gone out to lunch, and it had not occurred to him that the usual hour for it was past. Footsteps came down the length of the shop, and Victor Nevill opened the door. He closed it quickly behind him as he entered the room; his face expressed extreme agitation, and he looked like a man who has spent a sleepless night.
"You have seen them?" he exclaimed, pointing to the papers. "You have read the different accounts?"
"Yes, I have read them—that is all. They tell me nothing. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I bought a Telegraph at Gunnersbury station this morning, and saw the headlines."
"And I first heard of it at breakfast—I got up rather late. I opened the Globe and there it was, staring me in the eyes. It knocked my appetite, I can assure you. What do you make of it?"
"It's a mystery," replied Stephen Foster, "and I am all in the dark about it. Devilish unfortunate, I call it."
"Right you are! And it's more than that. You have seen the Globe?"
"Yes; here it is."
"Did you know that the picture was insured?"
"I judged that it was, but the fact was quite unimportant."
"The Mutual people won't regard it in that light."