[Illustration] Trent’s Last Case THE WOMAN IN BLACK By E.C. Bentley To GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON. My dear Gilbert, I dedicate this story to you. First: because the only really noble motive I had in writing it was the hope that you would enjoy it. Second: because I owe you a book in return for “The Man Who Was Thursday.” Third: because I said I would when I unfolded the plan of it to you, surrounded by Frenchmen, two years ago. Fourth: because I remember the past. I have been thinking again to-day of those astonishing times when neither of us ever looked at a newspaper; when we were purely happy in the boundless consumption of paper, pencils, tea, and our elders’ patience; when we embraced the most severe literature, and ourselves produced such light reading as was necessary; when (in the words of Canada’s poet) we studied the works of nature, also those little frogs; when, in short, we were extremely young. For the sake of that age I offer you this book. Yours always, E. C. BENTLEY Contents I. Bad News II. Knocking the Town Endways III. Breakfast IV. Handcuffs in the Air V. Poking About VI. Mr. Bunner on the Case VII. The Lady in Black VIII. The Inquest IX. A Hot Scent X. The Wife of Dives XI. Hitherto Unpublished XII. Evil Days XIII. Eruption XIV. Writing a Letter XV. Double Cunning XVI. The Last Straw [Illustration] Chapter I. Bad News Between what matters and what seems to matter, how should the world we know judge wisely? When the scheming, indomitable brain of Sigsbee Manderson was scattered by a shot from an unknown hand, that world lost nothing worth a single tear; it gained something memorable in a harsh reminder of the vanity of such wealth as this dead man had piled up—without making one loyal friend to mourn him, without doing an act that could help his memory to the least honour. But when the news of his end came, it seemed to those living in the great vortices of business as if the earth too shuddered under a blow. In all the lurid commercial history of his country there had been no figure that had so imposed itself upon the mind of the trading world. He had a niche apart in its temples. Financial giants, strong to direct and augment the forces of capital, and taking an approved toll in millions for their labour, had existed before; but in the case of Manderson there had been this singularity, that a pale halo of piratical romance, a thing especially dear to the hearts of his countrymen, had remained incongruously about his head through the years when he stood in every eye as the unquestioned guardian of stability, the stamper-out of manipulated crises, the foe of the raiding chieftains that infest the borders of Wall Street.