The Woman in Black | Page 4

life had changed. The corn had not
ceased to ripen in the sun. The rivers bore their barges and gave power
to a myriad engines. The flocks fattened on the pastures, the herds were

unnumbered. Men labored everywhere in the various servitudes to
which they were born, and chafed not more than usual in their bonds.
Bellona tossed and murmured as ever, yet still slept her uneasy sleep.
To all mankind save a million or two of half-crazed gamblers, blind to
all reality, the death of Manderson meant nothing; the life and work of
the world went on. Weeks before he died strong hands had been in
control of every wire in the huge network of commerce and industry
that he had supervised. Before his corpse was buried his countrymen
had made a strange discovery: that the existence of the potent engine of
monopoly that went by the name of Sigsbee Manderson had not been a
condition of even material prosperity. The panic blew itself out in two
days, the pieces were picked up, the bankrupts withdrew out of sight;
the market "recovered a normal tone."
While the brief delirium was yet subsiding there broke out a domestic
scandal in England that suddenly fixed the attention of two continents.
Next morning the Chicago Limited was wrecked, and the same day a
notable politician was shot down in cold blood by his wife's brother in
the streets of New Orleans. Within a week of its arising "the
Manderson story," to the trained sense of editors throughout the Union,
was "cold." The tide of American visitors pouring through Europe
made eddies round the memorial or statue of many a man who had died
in poverty; and never thought of their most famous plutocrat. Like the
poet who died in Rome, so young and poor, a hundred years ago, he
was buried far away from his own land; but for all the men and women
of Manderson's people who flock round the tomb of Keats in the
cemetery under the Monte Testaccio, there is not one, nor ever will be,
to stand in reverence by the rich man's grave beside the little church of
Marlstone.
CHAPTER I
KNOCKING THE TOWN ENDWAYS
In the only comfortably furnished room in the offices of the Record, the
telephone on Sir James Molloy's table buzzed. Sir James made a
motion with his pen, and Mr. Silver, his secretary, left his work and

came over to the instrument.
"Who is that?" he said. "Who?... I can't hear you ... Oh, it's Mr. Bunner,
is it? Yes, but ... I know, but he's fearfully busy this afternoon. Can't
you ... Oh, really? Well, in that case--just hold on, will you?"
He placed the receiver before Sir James. "It's Calvin Bunner, Sigsbee
Manderson's right hand man," he said concisely. "He insists on
speaking to you personally. Says it is the gravest piece of news. He is
talking from the house down by Bishopsbridge, so it will be necessary
to speak clearly."
Sir James looked at the telephone, not affectionately, and took up the
receiver. "Well?" he said in his strong voice; and listened. "Yes," he
said. The next moment Mr. Silver, eagerly watching him, saw a look of
amazement and horror. "Good God," murmured Sir James. Clutching
the instrument, he slowly rose to his feet, still bending ear intently. At
intervals he repeated, "Yes." Presently, as he listened, he glanced at the
clock, and spoke quickly to Mr. Silver over the top of the transmitter.
"Go and hunt up Figgis and young Williams. Hurry!" Mr. Silver darted
from the room.
The great journalist was a tall, strong, clever Irishman of fifty, swart
and black-mustached, a man of untiring business energy, well known in
the world, which he understood very thoroughly, and played upon with
the half-cynical competence of his race. Yet was he without a touch of
the charlatan: he made no mysteries, and no pretenses of knowledge,
and he saw instantly through these in others. In his handsome,
well-bred, well-dressed appearance there was something a little sinister
when anger or intense occupation put its imprint about his eyes and
brow; but when his generous nature was under no restraint he was the
most cordial of men. He was managing director of the company which
owned that most powerful morning paper, the Record, and also that
most indispensable evening paper, the Sun, which had its offices on the
other side of the street. He was moreover editor-in-chief of the Record,
to which he had in the course of years attached the most variously
capable personnel in the country. It was a maxim of his that where you
could not get gifts, you must do the best you could with solid merit;

and he employed a great deal of both. He was respected by