He rose to his feet slowly. The girl, her breath coming in great sobs, sank limply into a chair. Hastings rushed for the editorial bottle, glass, and siphon. He tugged at the door of the cupboard, remembered that he had locked it, and began to fumble for his keys. They eluded him. He swore beneath his breath, and then started as a hand was laid on his shoulder. He had not heard her approach.
“Please don’t worry about that.” Her words came short, jerkily, as she strove for breath. “Please, please, listen to me! I’ve got a Story—the biggest yet! Must have a special done now, to-night, this morning!”
Hastings forgot the whisky. The editor came to the top.
“What’s happened?” snapped the editor.
“Cabinet Minister dead. John Hoode’s been killed—murdered! To-night. At his country house.”
“You know?”
The efficient Miss Margaret Warren was becoming herself again. “Of course. I heard all the fuss just after eleven. I was staying in Marling, you know. My landlady’s husband is the police-sergeant. So I hired a car and came straight here. I thought you’d like to know.” Miss Warren was unemotional.
“Hoode killed! Phew!” said Hastings, the man, wondering what would happen to the Party.
“What a story!” said Hastings, the editor. “Any other papers on to it yet?”
“I don’t think they can be—yet.”