A May afternoon was drawing to a close; the last appointment had been
made for the morrow, and the last client for the day still lingered
with Athalie where she sat with her head propped thoughtfully on one
slim hand, her gaze concentrated on the depths of the crystal sphere.

After a long silence she said: "You need not be anxious. Her wireless
apparatus is out of order. They are repairing it.... It was a bad
storm."

"Is there any ice near her?"

After a pause: "I can see none."

"Any ships?"

"One of her own line, hull down. They have been exchanging signals....
There seems to be no necessity for her to stand by. The worst is
over.... Yes, the Empress of Borneo proceeds. The Empress of
Formosa will be reported this evening. You need not be anxious:
she'll dock on Monday."

"Are you sure?" said the man as Athalie lifted her eyes from the
crystal and smiled reassuringly at him. He was a stocky, red-faced,
trim, middle-aged man; but his sanguine visage bore the haggard
imprint of sleepless nights, and the edges of his teeth had bitten his
under lip raw.

Athalie glanced carelessly at the crystal, then nodded.

"Yes," she said patiently. "I am sure of it, Mr. Clements. The
Empress of Formosa will dock on Monday--about--nine in the morning.
She will be reported by wireless from the Empress of Borneo this
evening.... They have been relaying it from the Delaware Capes....
There will be an extra edition of the evening papers. You may dismiss
all anxiety."