“Looks like a messenger,” Sanford answered. Mrs. Leroy bent over the railing, and watched the boy spring up the low steps of the street door, ring the bell violently, and beat an impatient tattoo with his foot. “Whom do you want?” Sanford called gently. The boy looked up, and, seeing the two figures on the balcony, answered, “Mr. Henry Sanford. Got a death message.” “A death message, did he say?” gasped Mrs. Leroy. Her voice was almost a whisper. “Yes; don’t move.” He laid a hand on her arm and pointed toward the group inside. A quick, sharp contraction rose in his throat. “Sam,” he called in a lowered tone. “Yaas ’r,—comin’ direc’ly.” “Sam, there’s a boy at the outside door with a telegram. He says it’s a death message. Get it, and tell the boy to wait. Go quietly, now, and let no one know. You will find me here.” Mrs. Leroy sank into a chair, her face in her hands. Sanford bent over her, his voice still calm. “Don’t give way, Kate; we shall know in a moment.” She grasped his hand and held on. “Oh, who do you suppose it is, Henry? Will Sam _never_ come?” While he was comforting her, urging her to be patient and not to let Helen hear, Sam reëntered the room,—his breath gone with the dash down and up three flights of stairs,—walked slowly toward the balcony, and handed Sanford a yellow envelope. Its contents were as follows:— Screamer’s boiler exploded 7.40 to-night. Mate killed; Lacey and three men injured. Joseph Bell. Sanford looked hurriedly at his watch, forgetting, in the shock, to hand Mrs. Leroy the telegram. Mrs. Leroy caught his arm. “Tell me quick! Who is it?” “Forgive me, dear Kate, but I was so knocked out. It is no one who belongs to you. It is the boiler of the Screamer that has burst. Three men are hurt,” reading the dispatch again mechanically. “I wonder who they are?” as if he expected to see their names added to its brief lines. For a moment he leaned back against the balcony, absorbed in deep thought. “Twenty-three minutes left,” he said to himself, consulting his watch again. “I must go at once; they will need me.” She took the telegram from his hand. “Oh, Henry, I am so sorry,—and the boat, too, you counted upon. Oh, how much trouble you have had over this work! I wish you had never touched it!” she exclaimed, with the momentary weakness of the woman. “But look! read it again.” Her voice rose with a new hope in it. “Do you see? Captain Joe signs it,—he’s not hurt!” Sanford patted her hand abstractedly, and said, “Dear Kate,” but without looking at her or replying further. He was calculating whether it would be possible for him to catch the midnight train and go to the relief of the men.