The visitors entered, Adler holding open the door—­Campbell, well groomed, clean-shaven, and gloved even in that warm weather; Tremlidge, the editor of one of the greater daily papers of the City (and of the country for the matter of that), who wore a monocle and carried a straw hat under his arm; and Garlock, the vice-president of an international geographical society, an old man, with beautiful white hair curling about his ears, a great bow of black silk knotted about his old-fashioned collar.  The group presented, all unconsciously, three great and highly developed phases of nineteenth-century intelligence—­science, manufactures, and journalism—­each man of them a master in his calling.

When the introductions and preliminaries were over, Bennett took up his position again in front of the fireplace, leaning against the mantle, his hands in his pockets.  Lloyd sat opposite to him at the desk, resting her elbow on the edge.  Hanging against the wall behind her was the vast chart of the arctic circle.  Tremlidge, the editor, sat on the bamboo sofa near the end of the room, his elbows on his knees, gently tapping the floor with the ferrule of his slim walking-stick; Garlock, the scientist, had dropped into the depths of a huge leather chair and leaned back in it comfortably, his legs crossed, one boot swinging gently; Campbell stood behind this chair, drumming on the back occasionally with the fingers of one hand, speaking to Bennett over Garlock’s shoulder, and from time to time turning to Tremlidge for corroboration and support of what he was saying.

Abruptly the conference began.

“Well, Mr. Bennett, you got our wire?” Campbell said by way of commencement.

Bennett shook his head.

“No,” he returned in some surprise; “no, I got no wire.”

“That’s strange,” said Tremlidge.  “I wired three days ago asking for this interview.  The address was right, I think.  I wired:  ’Care of Dr. Pitts.’  Isn’t that right?”

“That probably accounts for it,” answered Bennett.  “This is Pitts’s house, but he does not live here now.  Your despatch, no doubt, went to his office in the City, and was forwarded to him.  He’s away just now, travelling, I believe.  But—­you’re here.  That’s the essential.”

“Yes,” murmured Garlock, looking to Campbell.  “We’re here, and we want to have a talk with you.”

Campbell, who had evidently been chosen spokesman, cleared his throat.

“Well, Mr. Bennett, I don’t know just how to begin, so suppose I begin at the beginning.  Tremlidge and I belong to the same club in the City, and in some way or other we have managed to see a good deal of each other during the last half-dozen years.  We find that we have a good deal in common.  I don’t think his editorial columns are for sale, and he doesn’t believe there are blow-holes in my steel plates.  I really do believe we have certain convictions.  Tremlidge seems to have an idea that journalism can be clean and yet enterprising,