“What a galoot!  What a—­a professor!” exclaimed Adler with a vast disdain.  “Him loafing at Tasiusak waiting for open water, when the Alert wintered in eighty-two-twenty-four!  Well, he’s shelved for another year, anyhow.”

Later on, after breakfast, Lloyd and Bennett shut themselves in Bennett’s workroom, and for upward of three hours addressed themselves to the unfinished work of the previous day, compiling from Bennett’s notes a table of temperatures of the sea-water taken at different soundings.  Alternating with the scratching of Lloyd’s pen, Bennett’s voice continued monotonously: 

“August 15th—­2,000 meters or 1,093 fathoms—­minus .66 degrees centigrade or 30.81 Fahrenheit.”

“Fahrenheit,” repeated Lloyd as she wrote the last word.

“August 16th—­1,600 meters or 874 fathoms—­”

“Eight hundred and seventy-four fathoms,” repeated Lloyd as Bennett paused abstractedly.

“Or ... he’s in a bad way, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a bad bit of navigation along there.  The Proteus was nipped and crushed to kindling in about that same latitude ... h’m” ...  Bennett tugged at his mustache.  Then, suddenly, as if coming to himself:  “Well—­these temperatures now.  Where were we?  ’Eight hundred and seventy-four fathoms, minus forty-six hundredths degrees centigrade.’”

On the afternoon of the next day, just as they were finishing this table, there was a knock at the door.  It was Adler, and as Bennett opened the door he saluted and handed him three calling-cards.  Bennett uttered an exclamation of surprise, and Lloyd turned about from the desk, her pen poised in the air over the half-written sheet.

“They might have let me know they were coming,” she heard Bennett mutter.  “What do they want?”

“Guess they came on that noon train, sir,” hazarded Adler.  “They didn’t say what they wanted, just inquired for you.”

“Who is it?” asked Lloyd, coming forward.

Bennett read off the names on the cards.

“Well, it’s Tremlidge—­that’s the Tremlidge of the Times; he’s the editor and proprietor—­and Hamilton Garlock—­has something to do with that new geographical society—­president, I believe—­and this one”—­he handed her the third card—­“is a friend of yours, Craig V. Campbell, of the Hercules Wrought Steel Company.”

Lloyd stared.  “What can they want?” she murmured, looking up to him from the card in some perplexity.  Bennett shook his head.

“Tell them to come up here,” he said to Adler.

Lloyd hastily drew down her sleeve over her bare arm.

“Why up here, Ward?” she inquired abruptly.

“Should we have seen them downstairs?” he demanded with a frown.  “I suppose so; I didn’t think.  Don’t go,” he added, putting a hand on her arm as she started for the door.  “You might as well hear what they have to say.”