Trents Last Case | Page 6

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 rising, '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 II
: 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-moustached, 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 pretences 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
his staff as few are respected in a profession not favourable to the
growth of the sentiment of reverence.
'You're sure that's all?' asked Sir James, after a few minutes of earnest
listening and questioning. 'And how long has this