nified Mr. Tyler, and then laid a quick finger on his lips, with a glance toward Jane. They stood for a few minutes talking of the voyage and of how many years it had been since Bart had last stood in his office; then Mr. Tyler brought a great book with pictures of ships that had sailed in the tea trade and suggested to Jane that it might interest her. He and Mr. Bolliver went quickly into the inner office and closed the door.
"As if I were a baby, rather," Jane thought, "to be amused with picture-books while they talk."
She looked down at the volume, open on her knee. The murmur of voices came from the inner room. Some one's fist crashed down on a table. ". . . Not possible!" Mr. Bolliver's voice cried quickly. Other bits of sentences followed. ". . . All my fault, Nick." . . . "We'll not give up hoping."
Jane could not bear it longer. The book slid off her lap with a crash as she sprang up, and Mr. Bolliver—perhaps warned by the sound—flung open the door.
"What is it?" she demanded, facing him in the doorway. "What is it you haven't been
