"They might have let me know they were coming," she heard Bennett mutter. "What do they want?" "Guess they came on that noon train, sir," hazarded Adler. "They didn't say what they wanted, just inquired for you." "Who is it?" asked Lloyd, coming forward. Bennett read off the names on the cards. "Well, it's Tremlidge--that's the Tremlidge of the Times; he's the editor and proprietor--and Hamilton Garlock--has something to do with that new geographical society--president, I believe--and this one"--he handed her the third card--"is a friend of yours, Craig V. Campbell, of the Hercules Wrought Steel Company." Lloyd stared. "What can they want?" she murmured, looking up to him from the card in some perplexity. Bennett shook his head. "Tell them to come up here," he said to Adler. Lloyd hastily drew down her sleeve over her bare arm. "Why up here, Ward?" she inquired abruptly. "Should we have seen them downstairs?" he demanded with a frown. "I suppose so; I didn't think. Don't go," he added, putting a hand on her arm as she started for the door. "You might as well hear what they have to say." The visitors entered, Adler holding open the door--Campbell, well groomed, clean-shaven, and gloved even in that warm weather; Tremlidge, the editor of one of the greater daily papers of the City (and of the country for the matter of that), who wore a monocle and carried a straw hat under his arm; and Garlock, the vice-president of an international geographical society, an old man, with beautiful white hair curling about his ears, a great bow of black silk knotted about his old-fashioned collar. The group presented, all unconsciously, three great and highly developed phases of nineteenth-century intelligence--science, manufactures, and journalism--each man of them a master in his calling. When the introductions and preliminaries were over, Bennett took up his position again in front of the fireplace, leaning against the mantle, his hands in his pockets. Lloyd sat opposite to him at the desk, resting her elbow on the edge. Hanging against the wall behind her was the vast chart of the arctic circle. Tremlidge, the editor, sat on the bamboo sofa near the end of the room, his elbows on his knees, gently tapping the floor with the ferrule of his slim walking-stick; Garlock, the scientist, had dropped into the depths of a huge leather chair and leaned back in it comfortably, his legs crossed, one boot swinging gently; Campbell stood behind this chair, drumming on the back occasionally with the fingers of one hand, speaking to Bennett over Garlock's shoulder, and from time to time turning to Tremlidge for corroboration and support of what he was saying. Abruptly the conference began. "Well, Mr. Bennett, you got our wire?" Campbell said by way of commencement. Bennett shook his head. "No," he returned in some surprise; "no, I got no wire."