"It\'s about time we had a letter from Peter from Cape Town, isn\'t it?" inquired Mrs. Mostyn.

Captain Mostyn deliberately lighted a cigarette while he worked out a mental sum.

"Hardly," he replied. "Give the Royal Mail a chance, old lady. We heard from the boy from Las Palmas. That ought to keep you satisfied for another week or so. By that time we ought to see the announcement of the West Barbican\'s arrival at Pangawani. Let me see: it was ten days ago when we saw the news of her departure from Durban. By Jove, old lady, we\'ll have a jollification when we know that the steelwork is handed over to the Kilba Protectorate Government."

There was no doubt about it. Captain Mostyn was worrying over the contract. The actual manufacturing of the bridge material had caused him very little anxiety. The keenness with which he had followed the work, the personal attention he gave to all the details, and the professional supervision of the whole process of manufacture had kept him busy both mentally and physically. But from the time the consignment was shipped on board the West Barbican at Brocklington he was metaphorically on pins and needles.

The contract was to include delivery at Pangawani. There were certain risks in the long sea passage that were to be taken into account. Unavoidable accidents might occur, that the most skilful master in the Merchant Service could not avert. Pangawani Harbour, with its shifting bar, had a sinister reputation in insurance company circles. That fact had resulted in the refusal of every underwriter whom Captain Mostyn approached to insure the steelwork to anything like its full value. The best terms he could obtain were 75 per cent, while the West Barbican was between the United Kingdom and Table Bay, and 66-2/3 per cent between Table Bay and Pangawani. That meant the bankruptcy of the Brocklington Ironworks Company should the steelwork fail to reach its destination, since every pound of available capital had been sunk in Captain Mostyn\'s "great push".

Curiously enough, his anxiety was solely for the safety of the steelwork. The knowledge that his son was on the very boat that was taking out the consignment hardly entered into his calculations. An indescribable faith in Peter caused him to regard the lad as being well able to take care of himself, happen what might. The ship might be lost, but Peter would be sure to come out all right.

Captain Mostyn and his wife were still discussing the movements of the West Barbican, and speculating upon the date of her arrival at Pangawani, when one of the maids brought in the evening paper, which was regularly left at the house by a newsboy from the village.

The Captain\'s first consideration was given to the Shipping List. The West Barbican did not appear.

"I told you so, my dear," he remarked. "We\'ll have to wait a little longer. Let me see; you want the serial page. Here you are."

Peter\'s father, always methodical, took a paper-knife from the writing-bureau and carefully cut the newspaper in half. Handing the back page to his wife, he settled down to read the news, notwithstanding the fact that most of it was reproduced from the London dailies, which he had already digested early that morning.

Mrs. Mostyn settled down for a comfortable evening. The fire was burning brightly in the open well-grate, the arm-chair was most comfortable. With the serial page and a half-finished jumper to work at while she read, Mrs. Mostyn meant to have a quiet and restful evening\'s amusement.

Presently she finished the instalment of the serial. She hardly knew what to think of it. Its abrupt ending made her angry with the author, or whoever was responsible for the conclusion, while the thrilling curtain left her on thorns as to what was going to happen in the next instalment. The rest of the page usually contained very little of feminine interest, consisting mainly of sporting topics and lurid testimonials to so-and-so\'s patent medicines.

Quite casually her eye caught sight of a badly printed paragraph in the Stop Press column. She read it through without the full significance of it coming home to her. Then she re-read it slowly and haltingly, as if every word was burning into her brain.

"John!" she exclaimed.

"Half a moment, my dear," protested Captain Mostyn, deep in an article dealing with the coal industry.

"John!" she said again.

Captain Mostyn glanced over the top of his half of the paper. He did not like being disturbed. It usually meant that his wife had discovered a stupendous bargain in the sales column, with the inevitable result.

"Good Heavens, old lady!" he ejaculated, greatly alarmed at the grey, drawn expression on his wife\'s face. "What is it?"

Mrs. Mostyn did not reply. With trembling hands she gave the paper to her husband, and pointed to the grim announcement in the Stop Press column:

"Lloyd\'s agent at East London telegraphs, \'S.S. Maréchal Foch arrived here to-day with eighteen lascars, survivors of the S.S. West Barbican, which foundered in the Mozambique Channel on the night of the 22nd. No trace has been found of the ship\'s officers and the remainder of the crew. Survivors cannot give any explanat............