a
notebook and drew a chair up to the big writing-table. "Silver," Sir
James went on, "go and tell Jones to wire our local correspondent very
urgently, to drop everything and get down to Marlstone at once. He is
not to say why in the telegram. There must not be an unnecessary word
about this news until the _Sun_ is on the streets with it--you all
understand. Williams, cut across the way and tell Mr. Anthony to hold
himself ready for a two-column opening that will knock the town endways.
Just tell him that he must take all measures and precautions for a
scoop. Say that Figgis will be over in five minutes with the facts, and
that he had better let him write up the story in his private room. As
you go, ask Miss Morgan to see me here at once and tell the telephone
people to see if they can get Mr. Trent on the wire for me. After seeing
Mr. Anthony, return here and stand by." The alert-eyed young man
vanished like a spirit.

Sir James turned instantly to Mr. Figgis, whose pencil was poised over
the paper. "Sigsbee Manderson has been murdered," he began quickly and
clearly, pacing the floor with his hands behind him. Mr. Figgis
scratched down a line of shorthand with as much emotion as if he had
been told that the day was fine--the pose of his craft. "He and his wife
and two secretaries have been for the past fortnight at the house called
White Gables, at Marlstone, near Bishopsbridge. He bought it four years
ago. He and Mrs. Manderson have since spent a part of each summer there.
Last night he went to bed about half-past eleven, just as usual. No one
knows when he got up and left the house. He was not missed until this
morning. About ten o'clock his body was found by a gardener. It was
lying by a shed in the grounds. He was shot in the head, through the
left eye. Death must have been instantaneous. The body was not robbed,
but there were marks on the wrists which pointed to a struggle having
taken place. Dr. Stock, of Marlstone, was at once sent for, and will
conduct the post-mortem examination. The police from Bishopsbridge, who
were soon on the spot, are reticent, but it is believed that they are
quite without a clue to the identity of the murderer. There you are,
Figgis. Mr. Anthony is expecting you. Now I must telephone him and
arrange things."

Mr. Figgis looked up. "One of the ablest detectives at Scotland Yard,"
he suggested, "has been put in charge of the case. It's a safe
statement."

"If you like," said Sir Jam