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