A voice in the instrument replied, “Hullo be blowed! What do you want?” “This is Molloy,” said Sir James. “I know it is,” the voice said. “This is Trent. He is in the middle of painting a picture, and he has been interrupted at a critical moment. Well, I hope it’s something important, that’s all!” “Trent,” said Sir James impressively, “it is important. I want you to do some work for us.” “Some play, you mean,” replied the voice. “Believe me, I don’t want a holiday. The working fit is very strong. I am doing some really decent things. Why can’t you leave a man alone?” “Something very serious has happened.” “What?” “Sigsbee Manderson has been murdered—shot through the brain—and they don’t know who has done it. They found the body this morning. It happened at his place near Bishopsbridge.” Sir James proceeded to tell his hearer, briefly and clearly, the facts that he had communicated to Mr. Figgis. “What do you think of it?” he ended. A considering grunt was the only answer. “Come now,” urged Sir James. “Tempter!” “You will go down?” There was a brief pause. “Are you there?” said Sir James. “Look here, Molloy,” the voice broke out querulously, “the thing may be 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?”