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 irresolutely,
'and hollow, hollow, hollow all delight.'

'Can you get here within an hour?' persisted Sir James.

'I suppose I can,' the voice grumbled. 'How much time have I?'

'Good man! Well, there's time enough--that's just the worst of it. I've
got to depend on our local correspondent for tonight. The only good
train of the day went half an hour ago. The next is a slow one, leaving
Paddington at midnight. You could have the Buster, if you like'--Sir
James referred to a very fast motor car of his--'but you wouldn't get
down in time to do anything tonight.'

'And I'd miss my sleep. No, thanks. The train for me. I am quite fond of
railway travelling, you know; I have a gift for it. I am the stoker and
the stoked. I am the song the porter sings.'

'What's that you say?'

'It doesn't matter,' said the voice sadly. 'I say,' it continued, 'will
your people look out a hotel near the scene of action, and telegraph for
a room?'

'At once,' said Sir James. 'Come here as soon as you can.'

He replaced the receiver. As he turned to his papers again a shrill
outcry burst forth in the street below. He walked to the open window. A
band of excited boys was rushing down the steps of the Sun building and
up the narrow thoroughfare toward Fleet Street. Each carried a bundle of
newspapers and a large broadsheet with the simple legend:

MURDER OF SIGSBEE MANDERSON

Sir James smiled and rattled the money in his pockets cheerfully. 'It
makes a good bill,' he observed to Mr. Silver, who stood at his elbow.

Such was Manderson's epita