es.

"And Mrs. Manderson? Was she there?"

"Yes. What about her?"

"Prostrated by the shock," hinted the reporter, "and sees nobody. Human
interest."

"I wouldn't put that in, Mr. Figgis," said a quiet voice. It belonged to
Miss Morgan, a pale, graceful woman, who had silently made her
appearance while the dictation was going on. "I have seen Mrs.
Manderson," she proceeded, turning to Sir James. "She looks quite
healthy and intelligent. Has her husband been murdered? I don't think
the shock would prostrate her. She is more likely to be doing all she
can to help the police."

"Something in your own style, then, Miss Morgan," he said with a
momentary smile. Her imperturbable efficiency was an office proverb.
"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 we