The River of Death | Page 3

On the floor lay a torn sheet from a notebook with shorthand
cypher; thereon Darbyshire flew to the bell and rang it violently.
"Verity," he exclaimed, "has that infernal - I mean, has Mr Chase been

here again?"
"Well, he have, sir," Verity said slowly, "he come just after Mr
Longdale. So I asked him to wait, which he did, then he come out again
after a bit, saying as you seemed to be busily engaged he would call
again."
"Um! Did he seem to be excited, Verity?"
"Well, he did, sir; white and very shiny about the eyes, and-- "
"That will do. Go and call me a hansom, at once," Darbyshire cried, as
he dashed back into the inner room. "Here's a pretty thing; that
confounded American journalist, Chase - you know him - has heard all
we said and has helped himself to my notes; the whole thing will be
blazing in the Telephone to-morrow, and perhaps half-a-dozen papers
besides. Those fellows would wreck the empire for what they call a
'scoop.'"
"Awful!" Longdale groaned. "What are you going to do?"
Derbyshire responded that he was going to convince the editor of the
Telephone that no alarmist article was to appear on the morrow.
He would be back again in an hour and Longdale was to wait. The
situation was not quite so hopeless as it seemed on the face of it. There
was a rattle of wheels outside and Darbyshire plunged hatless into the
night.
"Offices of the Telephone," he cried. "A sovereign if I'm there in
twenty minutes."
The cab plunged on headlong. The driver was going to earn that
sovereign or know the reason why. He drove furiously into Trafalgar
Square, a motor car crossed him recklessly, and a moment later
Darbyshire was shot out on to his head from the cab. He lay there with
no interest in mundane things. A languid crowd gathered, a doctor in
evening dress appeared.

"Concussion of the brain," he said in a cool matter of fact tone. "By
Jove, it's Dr. Derbyshire. Here, police; hurry up with the ambulance; he
must be removed to Charing Cross at once."

II.
WITH no spiritual indigestion troubling him, Mr. James Chase, late of
the New York Chanticleer, now of the Morning Telephone, lighted a
cigarette at the corner of Harley Street. The night was young and there
was plenty of time for him to mature his plans. He had got what he
called an "almighty scoop" in his pocket, indeed in the whole history of
yellow journalism he could remember no greater. London dried up like
a withered sponge and absolutely devoid of water! London with the
liquid plague bursting from every subterranean pipe and fountain! The
whirling headlines were revolving in Chase's close-cropped head.
He reached the offices of the Telephone at length and crawled up a
dingy flight of stairs. Without knocking he passed the barrier of a door
marked "strictly private." The controlling genius of the Telephone sat
limp and bereft of coat and vest. His greeting of Chase was not
burdened with flattering politeness. He merely asked what the blazes he
wanted. Chase nodded sweetly and drew a large sheet of paper before
him. After a little thought he dashed in half-a-dozen vigorous lines with
a blue pencil.
"Things pretty slack lately," he remarked amicably. "So hot that even
the East end can't rise to its weekly brutal murder. Still you get on to a
pearl sometimes. Grady, my boy, what do you think of that for a
contents bill?"
He held the white sheet aloft so that the flare of the gas should fall
upon it. The tired look faded from Grady's eyes; he sat up alert and
vigorous. Here was the tonic that his fretted soul craved for.
"Chapter and Verse?" he said, speaking fast as if he had run far.
"Got it all from Derbyshire," Chase replied. "I overheard a conversation

between him and Doctor Longdale in his own house, Also I managed to
get hold of some notes to copy."
"It wants pluck," Grady remarked, "A scare like that might ruin the
Empire; if--"
"None of that," Chase cut in. "Take it or leave it. If you haven't got the
grit, Sutton of the Flashlight will jump at the chance."
He held the contents bill up to the light again and Grady nodded. He
was going to do this thing deliberately, once he was sure of his ground.
He remarked cynically that it sounded like a fairy story.
"Not a bit of it," Chase, said briskly. "The plague breaks out on this
barque and the crew know it. There's no ceremony with sailors of that
class. They just lose their vessel and strike for the nearest land.
Knowing something of our quarantine laws they