“What in hell——” he began; then looked up. “Good God! Marga—Miss Warren!” It was sufficiently surprising that his right-hand woman should erupt into his room at this hour in the night when he had supposed her many miles away in a holiday bed; but that she should be thus, gasping, white-faced, dust-covered, hair escaping in a shining cascade from beneath a wrecked hat, was incredible. Never before had he seen her other than calm, scrupulously dressed, exquisitely tidy and faintly severe in her beauty. He rose to his feet slowly. The girl, her breath coming in great sobs, sank limply into a chair. Hastings rushed for the editorial bottle, glass, and siphon. He tugged at the door of the cupboard, remembered that he had locked it, and began to fumble for his keys. They eluded him. He swore beneath his breath, and then started as a hand was laid on his shoulder. He had not heard her approach. “Please don’t worry about that.” Her words came short, jerkily, as she strove for breath. “Please, please, listen to me! I’ve got a Story—the biggest yet! Must have a special done now, to-night, this morning!” Hastings forgot the whisky. The editor came to the top. “What’s happened?” snapped the editor. “Cabinet Minister dead. John Hoode’s been killed—murdered! To-night. At his country house.” “You _know_?” The efficient Miss Margaret Warren was becoming herself again. “Of course. I heard all the fuss just after eleven. I was staying in Marling, you know. My landlady’s husband is the police-sergeant. So I hired a car and came straight here. I thought you’d like to know.” Miss Warren was unemotional. “Hoode killed! Phew!” said Hastings, the man, wondering what would happen to the Party. “_What_ a story!” said Hastings, the editor. “Any other papers on to it yet?” “I don’t think they can be—yet.” “Right. Now nip down to Bealby, Miss Warren. Tell him he’s got to get ready for a two-page special _now_. He must threaten, bribe, shoot, do anything to keep the printers at the job. Then see Miss Halford and tell her she can’t go till she’s arranged for issue. Then please come back here; I shall want to dictate.” “Certainly, Mr. Hastings,” said the girl, and walked quietly from the room. Hastings looked after her, his forehead wrinkled. Sometimes he wished she were not so sufficient, so calmly adequate. Just now, for an instant, she had been trembling, white-faced, weak. Somehow the sight, even while he feared, had pleased him. He shrugged his shoulders and turned to his desk. “Lord!” he murmured. “Hoode murdered. _Hoode!_” 2 “That’s all the detail, then,” said Hastings half an hour later. Margaret Warren, neat, fresh, her golden hair smooth and shining, sat by his desk. “Yes, Mr. Hastings.” “Er—hm. Right. Take this down. ‘Cabinet Minister Assassinated. Murder at Abbotshall——’” “‘Awful Atrocity at Abbotshall,’” suggested the girl softly.