"It--it's very important news," went on Etta Griggs tremulously, almost overwhelmed by the realization that she was in conversation with the great editor of her morning paper. "There has been a murder--a very prominent family, and I thought you might be interested----" "I should say I am!" exclaimed Scoggins, picking up a pencil and poising it over a sheet of paper. "What did you say the name was?" "Miss Griggs. I am----" "Not your name--the murdered person's name." "Oh, of course! Why, Mrs. Gilmore--the wife of Kirklan Gilmore, the famous novelist, you know." Now, as a matter of fact, Scoggins didn't know; he didn't read the book reviews, and Gilmore, while he had written a selling book, wasn't quite so famous as Etta imagined. "You say she has been murdered, Miss Griggs?" he purred. "Where did this happen?" And, waiting for the reply, he put his hand over the transmitter as he said out of the corner of his mouth to Milne, his assistant: "Who the devil is Kirklan Gilmore, the novelist? Get the clippings on him outta the reference room. Picture of his wife, if there are any. Hurry! We gotta stop the presses and make a lift, if this pans out." "Ardmore--Ardmore-on-the-Hudson," went on Etta. "The Gilmore estate is Greenacres. She was shot--killed. Poor thing, they'd only been married three weeks, too." Scoggins' eyebrows went up. In a flash he visualized the headline, "Bride of Three Weeks Slain." There followed a few rapid-fire questions in which the city editor had all available information. The constable had been summoned--Etta neglected to state that this constable person was her father--and the village physician, a Doctor Bushnell, was at the house. "Fine!" exclaimed Scoggins with that inhuman delight with which some city editors receive the news of a crime. "If you will give your name, I will have the business office send you a check, and then----" "Oh, no!" cried Etta. "But I expect that my play will be coming out soon, and----" "Certainly--certainly," Scoggins murmured mechanically and snapped the receiver to its hook. "She's a nut," he grunted. "Gotta verify this story before we can use it, but I guess it's safe enough at that. You, Kinsella, call up the Gilmore place, Ardmore, and ask for Doctor Bushnell. You, Roddy, bat out a coupla sticks for a lift on page one, and----" His eyes roved over the now empty city and then back to Wiggly Price, who had withdrawn a few feet from the desk. In the pressure of the moment he forgot that he had been about to fire the reporter with the animated ears; he only remembered that he needed a good reporter for a good story, and that Jimmy Price was a good reporter. He slid open a drawer of the desk and tossed over a roll of bills.