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: