"Coal, with a return freight of ore." "Wish it was dynamite, with fuses laid on." The clerk grinned knowingly. Men grow callous when money tilts the scale against human lives. "There's no news of the _Andromeda_, and _her_ rate is all right," he said. David scowled at him. "D--n the rate!" he cried. "I want to 'ear of the ship. Wot the----" But his subordinate vanished. David read a few more letters. Some were from the families of such of the _Andromeda's_ crew as lived in South Shields, the Hartlepools, Whitby. They asked as a great favor that a telegram might be sent when---- "Oh, curse my luck!" groaned the man, quivering under the conviction that the _Andromeda_ was lost "by the act of God" as the charter-party puts it. The belief unnerved him. Those words have an ominous ring in the ears of evil-doers. He could show a bold front to his fellowmen, but he squirmed under the dread conception of a supernatural vengeance. So, like every other malefactor, David railed against his "luck." Little did he guess the extraordinary turn that his "luck" was about to take. The office boy announced a visitor, evidently not the terrible Bulmer, since he said: "Gennelman to see yer, sir." "Oo is it?" growled the shipowner. "Gennelman from the noospaper, sir." "Can't be bothered." "'E sez hit's most himportant, sir." "Wot is?" "I dunno, sir." "Well, show 'im in. I'll soon settle 'im." A quiet-mannered young man appeared. He ignored David's sharp, "Now, wot can I do for you?" and drew up a chair, on which he seated himself, uninvited. "May I ask if you have received any private news of the _Andromeda_?" he began. "No." "In that case, you must prepare yourself for a statement that may give you a shock," said the journalist. David creaked round in his chair. His face, not so red as of yore, paled distinctly. "Is she lost?" said he in a strangely subdued tone. "I--I fear she is. But there is much more than an ordinary shipwreck at issue. Several telegrams of the gravest import have reached us this morning. Perhaps, before I ask you any questions, you ought to read them. They are in type already, and I have brought you proofs. Here is the first." David took from the interviewer's outstretched hand a long strip of white paper. For an appreciable time his seething brain refused to comprehend the curiously black letters that grouped themselves into words on the limp sheet. And, indeed, he was not to be blamed if he was dull of understanding, for this is what he read: "REVOLUTION IN BRAZIL. "SERIOUS POSITION. "STARTLING ESCAPADE OF A BRITISH SHIP.