“I want you to jot down some facts, Figgis,” said Sir James, banishing all signs of agitation and speaking with a rapid calmness. “When you have them, put them into shape just as quick as you can for a special edition of the _Sun_.” The hard-featured man nodded and glanced at the clock, which pointed to a few minutes past three; he pulled out a notebook and drew a chair up to the big writing-table. “Silver,” Sir James went on, “go and tell Jones to wire our local correspondent very urgently, to drop everything and get down to Marlstone at once. He is not to say why in the telegram. There must not be an unnecessary word about this news until the _Sun_ is on the streets with it—you all understand. Williams, cut across the way and tell Mr. Anthony to hold himself ready for a two-column opening that will knock the town endways. Just tell him that he must take all measures and precautions for a scoop. Say that Figgis will be over in five minutes with the facts, and that he had better let him write up the story in his private room. As you go, ask Miss Morgan to see me here at once, and tell the telephone people to see if they can get Mr. Trent on the wire for me. After seeing Mr. Anthony, return here and stand by.” The alert-eyed young man vanished like a spirit. Sir James turned instantly to Mr. Figgis, whose pencil was poised over the paper. “Sigsbee Manderson has been murdered,” he began quickly and clearly, pacing the floor with his hands behind him. Mr. Figgis scratched down a line of shorthand with as much emotion as if he had been told that the day was fine—the pose of his craft. “He and his wife and two secretaries have been for the past fortnight at the house called White Gables, at Marlstone, near Bishopsbridge. He bought it four years ago. He and Mrs. Manderson have since spent a part of each summer there. Last night he went to bed about half-past eleven, just as usual. No one knows when he got up and left the house. He was not missed until this morning. About ten o’clock his body was found by a gardener. It was lying by a shed in the grounds. He was shot in the head, through the left eye. Death must have been instantaneous. The body was not robbed, but there were marks on the wrists which pointed to a struggle having taken place. Dr Stock, of Marlstone, was at once sent for, and will conduct the post-mortem examination. The police from Bishopsbridge, who were soon on the spot, are reticent, but it is believed that they are quite without a clue to the identity of the murderer. There you are, Figgis. Mr. Anthony is expecting you. Now I must telephone him and arrange things.” Mr. Figgis looked up. “One of the ablest detectives at Scotland Yard,” he suggested, “has been put in charge of the case. It’s a safe statement.” “If you like,” said Sir James. “And Mrs. Manderson? Was she there?” “Yes. What about her?” “Prostrated by the shock,” hinted the reporter, “and sees nobody. Human interest.”