A timber fire at Rotherhithe; the sudden rise in Consols; the Sultan of Turkey grants an amnesty to political offenders; a man kills his wife at Wolverhampton; a woman cyclist run down by a motor-car; the Bishop of Elford denounces Non-conformists---- News for to-morrow's breakfast table! intellectual stimulant for the weary people who are even now kicking off their shoes with a sleepy yawn and wondering whether there will be anything in the paper to-morrow. A boy came flying through the swing door of the tape-room, carrying in his hand a slip of paper. He laid it before the chief sub. That restless man looked at it, then looked at the clock. "Take it to Mr. Greene," he said shortly, and reached for the speaking-tube that connected him with the printer. "There will be a three-column splash on page five," he said in a matter-of-fact voice. "What's up?" His startled assistant was on his feet. "A man found murdered in T. B. Smith's chambers," he said. * * * * * * * The inquest was over, the stuffy little court discharged its morbid public, jurymen gathered in little knots on the pavement permitted themselves to theorise, feeling, perhaps, that the official verdict of "murder against some person or persons unknown" needed amplification. "My own opinion is," said the stout foreman, "that nobody could have done it, except somebody who could have got into his chambers unknown." "That's my opinion, too," said another jury-man. "I should have liked to add a rider," the foreman went on, "something like this: 'We call the coroner's attention to the number of undiscovered murders nowadays, and severely censure the police,' but he wouldn't have it." "They 'ang together," said a gloomy little man; "p'lice and coroners and doctors, they 'ang together, there's corruption somewhere. I've always said it." "Here's a feller murdered," the foreman went on, "in a detective's room, the same detective that's in charge of the Moss murder. We're told his name's Hyatt, we're told he was sent to that room by the detective whilst he's engaged in some fanciful business in the north--is that sense?" "Then there's the _Journal_," interrupted the man of gloom, "it comes out this mornin' with a cock-an'-bull story about these two murders being connected with the slump--why, there ain't any slump! The market went up the very day this chap Hyatt was discovered." "Sensation," said the foreman, waving deprecating hands, "newspaper sensation. Any lie to sell the newspapers, that's their motto." The conversation ended abruptly, as T. B. Smith appeared at the entrance of the court. His face was impassive, his attire, as usual, immaculate, but those who knew him best detected signs of worry. "For Heaven's sake," he said to a young man who approached him, "don't talk to me now--you beggar, your wretched rag has upset all my plans." "But, Mr. Smith," pleaded the reporter. "What we said was true, wasn't it?"