Trents Last Case | Page 8

she considered the position. 'I
was looking over it only a few months ago. It is practically ready for
tomorrow'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 tomorrow's paper.'
Sir James sighed deeply. 'What are we good for, anyhow?' he enquired
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 the case.
You know you do. If it's anything you don't want to handle, you're free

to drop it. By the by, where are you?'
'I am blown along a wandering wind,' replied the voice