“I wouldn’t put that in, Mr. Figgis,” said a quiet voice. It belonged to Miss Morgan, a pale, graceful woman, who had silently made her appearance while the dictation was going on. “I have seen Mrs. Manderson,” she proceeded, turning to Sir James. “She looks quite healthy and intelligent. Has her husband been murdered? I don’t think the shock would prostrate her. She is more likely to be doing all she can to help the police.” “Something in your own style, then, Miss Morgan,” he said with a momentary smile. Her imperturbable efficiency was an office proverb. “Cut it out, Figgis. Off you go! Now, madam, I expect you know what I want.” “Our Manderson biography happens to be well up to date,” replied Miss Morgan, drooping her dark eyelashes as she considered the position. “I was looking over it only a few months ago. It is practically ready for tomorrow’s paper. I should think the _Sun_ had better use the sketch of his life they had about two years ago, when he went to Berlin and settled the potash difficulty. I remember it was a very good sketch, and they won’t be able to carry much more than that. As for our paper, of course we have a great quantity of cuttings, mostly rubbish. The sub-editors shall have them as soon as they come in. Then we have two very good portraits that are our own property; the best is a drawing Mr. Trent made when they were both on the same ship somewhere. It is better than any of the photographs; but you say the public prefers a bad photograph to a good drawing. I will send them down to you at once, and you can choose. As far as I can see, the Record is well ahead of the situation, except that you will not be able to get a special man down there in time to be of any use for tomorrow’s paper.” Sir James sighed deeply. “What are we good for, anyhow?” he enquired dejectedly of Mr. Silver, who had returned to his desk. “She even knows Bradshaw by heart.” Miss Morgan adjusted her cuffs with an air of patience. “Is there anything else?” she asked, as the telephone bell rang. “Yes, one thing,” replied Sir James, as he took up the receiver. “I want you to make a bad mistake some time, Miss Morgan—an everlasting bloomer—just to put us in countenance.” She permitted herself the fraction of what would have been a charming smile as she went out. “Anthony?” asked Sir James, and was at once deep in consultation with the editor on the other side of the road. He seldom entered the _Sun_ building in person; the atmosphere of an evening paper, he would say, was all very well if you liked that kind of thing. Mr. Anthony, the Murat of Fleet Street, who delighted in riding the whirlwind and fighting a tumultuous battle against time, would say the same of a morning paper. It was some five minutes later that a uniformed boy came in to say that Mr. Trent was on the wire. Sir James abruptly closed his talk with Mr. Anthony. “They can put him through at once,” he said to the boy. “Hullo!” he cried into the telephone after a few moments.