'Who is that?' he said. 'Who?... I can't hear you .... Oh, it's Mr. Bunner, is
it?... Yes, but... I know, but he's fearfully busy this afternoon. Can't
you... Oh, really? Well, in that case--just hold on, will you?'

He placed the receiver before Sir James. 'It's Calvin Bunner, Sigsbee
Manderson's right-hand man,' he said concisely. 'He insists on speaking to you
personally. Says it is the gravest piece of news. He is talking from the house
down by Bishopsbridge, so it will be necessary to speak clearly.'

Sir James looked at the telephone, not affectionately, and took up the
receiver. 'Well?' he said in his strong voice, and listened. 'Yes,' he said.
The next moment Mr. Silver, eagerly watching him, saw a look of amazement and
horror. 'Good God!' murmured Sir James. Clutching the instrument, he slowly
rose to his feet, still bending ear intently. At intervals he repeated 'Yes.'
Presently, as he listened, he glanced at the clock, and spoke quickly to Mr.
Silver over the top of the transmitter. 'Go and hunt up Figgis and young
Williams. Hurry.' Mr. Silver darted from the room.

The great journalist was a tall, strong, clever Irishman of fifty, swart and
black-moustached, a man of untiring business energy, well known in the world,
which he understood very thoroughly, and played upon with the half-cynical
competence of his race. Yet was he without a touch of the charlatan: he made
no mysteries, and no pretences of knowledge, and he saw instantly through
these in others. In his handsome, well-bred, well-dressed appearance there was
something a little sinister when anger or intense occupation put its imprint
about his eyes and brow; but when his generous nature was under no restraint
he was the most cordial of men. He was managing director of the company which
owned that most powerful morning paper, the Record, and also that most
indispensable evening paper, the Sun, which had its offices on the other side
of the street. He was, moreover, editor-in-chief of the Record, to which he