nt 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 me