The Woman in Black | Page 6

"Cut it out, Figgis. Off you go! Now, madam, I expect you know what I
want."
"Our Manderson biography happens to be well up-to-date," replied
Miss Morgan, drooping her dark eye-lashes as she considered the
position. "I was looking over it only a few months ago. It is practically
ready for to-morrow's paper. I should think the Sun had better use the
sketch of his life they had about two years ago, when he went to Berlin
and settled the potash difficulty. I remember it was a very good sketch,
and they won't be able to carry much more than that. As for our paper,
of course we have a great quantity of cuttings, mostly rubbish. The
sub-editors shall have them as soon as they come in. Then we have two
very good portraits that are our own property; the best is a drawing Mr.
Trent made when they were both on the same ship somewhere. It is
better than any of the photographs; but you say the public prefers a bad
photograph to a good drawing. I will send them down to you at once,
and you can choose. As far as I can see, the Record is well ahead of the
situation, except that you will not be able to get a special man down
there in time to be of any use for to-morrow's paper."
Sir James sighed deeply. "What are we good for, anyhow?" he inquired
dejectedly of Mr. Silver, who had returned to his desk. "She even
knows Bradshaw by heart."
Miss Morgan adjusted her cuffs with an air of patience. "Is there
anything else?" she asked, as the telephone bell rang.
"Yes, one thing," replied Sir James as he took up the receiver. "I want
you to make a bad mistake some time, Miss Morgan; an everlasting
bloomer--just to put us in countenance." She permitted herself the
fraction of what would have been a charming smile as she went out.
"Anthony?" asked Sir James; and was at once deep in consultation with

the editor on the other side of the road. He seldom entered the Sun
building in person: the atmosphere of an evening paper, he would say,
was all very well if you liked that kind of thing. Mr. Anthony, the
Murat of Fleet Street, who delighted in riding the whirlwind and
fighting a tumultuous battle against time, would say the same of a
morning paper.
It was some five minutes later that a uniformed boy came in to say that
Mr. Trent was on the wire. Sir James abruptly closed his talk with Mr.
Anthony. "They can put him through at once," he said to the boy.
"Hullo!" he cried into the telephone after a few moments. A voice in
the instrument replied: "Hullo be blowed! What do you want?"
"This is Molloy," said Sir James.
"I know it is," the voice said. "This is Trent. He is in the middle of
painting a picture, and he has been interrupted at a critical moment.
Well, I hope it's something important, that's all!"
"Trent," said Sir James impressively, "it is important. I want you to do
some work for us."
"Some play, you mean," replied the voice. "Believe me, I don't want a
holiday. The working fit is very strong. I am doing some really decent
things. Why can't you leave a man alone?"
"Something very serious has happened."
"What?"
"Sigsbee Manderson has been murdered--shot through the brain--and
they don't know who has done it. They found the body this morning. It
happened at his place near Bishopsbridge." Sir James proceeded to tell
his hearer, briefly and clearly, the facts that he had communicated to
Mr. Figgis. "What do you think of it?" he ended.
A considering grunt was the only answer.

"Come now!" urged Sir James.
"Tempter!"
"You will go down?"
There was a brief pause. "Are you there?" said Sir James.
"Look here, Molloy," the voice broke out querulously, "the thing may
be a case for me, or it may not. We can't possibly tell. It may be a
mystery: it may be as simple as bread and cheese. The body not being
robbed looks interesting, but he may have been outed by some
wretched tramp whom he found sleeping in the grounds and tried to
kick out. It's the sort of thing he would do. Such a murderer might
easily have sense enough to know that to leave the money and
valuables was the safest thing. I tell you frankly, I wouldn't have a hand
in hanging a poor devil who had let daylight into a man like Sig
Manderson as a measure of social protest."
Sir James smiled at the telephone: a smile of success. "Come, my boy,
you're getting feeble. Admit you want to go and have a look at