Jennie Baxter, Journalist

“My dear sir, the matter is already proved, and quite ripe for your energetic handling of it; that’s what the fifty pounds are for. This sum will secure for you—to-night, mind, not to-morrow—a statement bristling with figures which the Board of Construction cannot deny. You will be able, in a stirring leading article, to express the horror you undoubtedly feel at the falsification of the figures, and your stern delight in doing so will probably not be mitigated by the fact that no other paper in London will have the news, while the matter will be so important that next day all your beloved contemporaries will be compelled to allude to it in some shape or other.”

“I see,” said the editor, his eyes glistening as the magnitude of the idea began to appeal more strongly to his imagination. “Who makes this statement, and how are we to know that it is absolutely correct?”

“Well, there is a point on which I wish to inform you before going any further. The statement is not to be absolutely correct; two or three errors have been purposely put in, the object being to throw investigators off the track if they try to discover who gave the news to the Press; for the man who will sell me this document is a clerk in the office of the Board of Public Construction. So, you see, you are getting the facts from the inside.”

“Is he so accustomed to falsifying accounts that he cannot get over the habit even when preparing an article for the truthful Press?”

“He wants to save his own situation, and quite rightly too, so he has put a number of errors in the figures of the department over which he has direct control. He has a reputation for such accuracy that he imagines the Board will never think he did it, if the figures pertaining to his department are wrong even in the slightest degree.”

“Quite so. Then we cannot have the pleasure of mentioning his name, and saying that this honest man has been corrupted by his association with the scoundrels who form the Board of Public Construction?”

“Oh, dear, no; his name must not be mentioned in any circumstances, and that is why payment is to be made in sovereigns rather than by bank cheque or notes.”

“Well, the traitor seems to be covering up his tracks rather effectually. How did you come to know him?”

“I don’t know him. I’ve never met him in my life; but it came to my knowledge that one of the morning papers had already made all its plans for getting this information. The clerk was to receive fifty pounds for the document, but the editor and he are at present negotiating, because the editor insists upon absolute accuracy, while, as I said, the man wishes to protect himself, to cover his tracks, as you remarked.”

“Good gracious!” cried Stoneham, “I didn’t think the editor of any morning paper in London was so particular about the accuracy of what he printed. The pages of the morning sheets do not seem to reflect that anxiety.”

“So, you see,” continued Miss Jennie, unheeding his satirical comment, “there is no time to be lost; in fact, I should be on my way now to where this man lives.”

“Here we are at the office, and I shall just run in and write a cheque for fifty pounds, which we can perhaps get cashed somewhere,” cried the editor, calling the hansom to a halt and stepping out.

“Tell the watchman to bring me a London Directory,” said the girl, and presently that useful guardian came out with the huge red volume, which Miss Baxter placed on her knees, and, with a celerity that comes of long practice, turned over the leaves rapidly, running her finger quickly down the H column, in which the name “Hazel” was to be found. At last she came to one designated as being a clerk in the office of the Board of Public Construction, and his residence was 17, Rupert Square, Brixton. She put this address down in her notebook and handed back the volume to the waiting watchman, as the editor came out with the cheque in his hand.

The shrewd and energetic dealer in coins, whose little office stands at the exit from Charing Cross Station, proved quite willing to oblige the editor of the Evening Graphite with fifty sovereigns in exchange for the bit of paper, and the editor, handing to Miss Jennie the envelope containing the gold, saw her drive off for Brixton, while he turned, not to resume his game of dominoes at the café, but to his office, to write the leader which would express in good set terms the horror he felt at the action of the Board of Public Construction.

CHAPTER III. JENNIE INTERVIEWS A FRIGHTENED OFFICIAL

It was a little past seven o’clock when Miss Baxter’s hansom drove up to the two-storeyed house in Rupert Square numbered 17. She knocked at the door, and it was speedily opened by a man with some trace of anxiety on his clouded face, who proved to be Hazel himself, the clerk at the Board of Public Construction. “You are Mr. Hazel?” she ventured, on entering.

“Yes,” replied the man, quite evidently surprised at seeing a lady instead of the man he was expecting at that hour; “but I am afraid I shall have to ask you to excuse me; I am waiting for a visitor who is a few minutes late, and who may be here at any moment.”

“You are waiting for Mr. Alder, are you not?”

“Yes,” stammered the man, his expression of surprise giving place to one of consternation.

“Oh, well, that is all right,” said Miss Jennie, reassuringly. “I have just driven from the office of the Daily Bugle. Mr. Alder cannot come to-night.”

“Ah,” said Hazel, closing the door. “Then are you here in his place?”

“I am here instead of him. Mr. Alder is on other business that he had to attend to at the editor’s request. Now, Mr. Hardwick—that’s the editor, you know–”

“Yes, I know,” answered Hazel.

They were by this time seated in the front parlour.

“Well, Mr. Hardwick is very anxious that the figures should be given with absolute accuracy.”

“Of course, that would be much better,” cried the man; “but, you see, I have gone thoroughly into the question with Mr. Alder already. He said he would mention what I told him to the editor—put my position before him, in fact.”

“Oh, he has done so,” said Miss Baxter, “and did it very effectively indeed; in fact, your reasons are quite unanswerable. You fear, of course, that you will lose your situation, and that is very important, and no one in the Bugle office wishes you to suffer for what you have done. Of course, it is all in the public interest.”

“Of course, of course,” murmured Hazel, looking down on the table.

“Well, have you all the documents ready, so that they can be published at any time?”

“Quite ready,” answered the man.

“Very well,” said the girl, with decision; “here are your fifty pounds. Just count the money, and see that it is correct. I took the envelope as it was handed to me, and have not examined the amount myself.”

She poured the sovereigns out on the table, and Hazel, with trembling fingers, counted them out two by two.

“That is quite right,” he said, rising. He went to a drawer, unlocked it, and took out a long blue envelope.

“There,” he said, with a sigh that was almost a gasp. “There are the figures, and a full explanation of them. You will be very careful that my name does not slip out in any way.”

“Certainly,” said Miss Jennie, coolly drawing forth the papers from their covering. “No one knows your name except Mr. Alder, Mr. Hardwick, and myself; and I can assure you that I shall not mention it to anyone.”

She glanced rapidly over the documents.

“I shall just read what you have written,” she said, looking up at him; “and if there is anything here I do not understand you will, perhaps, be good enough to explain it now,—and then I won’t need to come here again.”

“Very well,” said Hazel. The man had no suspicion that his visitor was not a member of the staff of the paper he had been negotiating with. She was so thoroughly self-possessed, and showed herself so familiar with all details which had been discussed by Alder and himself that not the slightest doubt had entered the clerk’s mind.

Jennie read the documents with great haste, for she knew she was running a risk in remaining there after seven o’clock. It might be that Alder would come to Brixton to let the man know the result of his talk with the editor, or Mr. Hardwick himself might have changed his mind, and instructed his subordinate to secure the papers. Nevertheless, there was no sign of hurry in Miss Jennie’s demeanour as she placed the papers back in their blue envelope and bade the anxious Hazel good-bye.

Once more in the hansom, she ordered the man to drive her to Charing Cross, and when she was ten minutes away from Rupert Square she changed her direction and desired him to take her to the office of the Evening Graphite, where she knew Mr. Stoneham would be busy with his leading article, and probably impatiently awaiting further details of the conspiracy he was to lay open before the public. A light was burning in the editorial rooms of the office of the Evening Graphite, always a suspicious thing in such an establishment, and well calculated to cause the editor of any rival evening paper to tremble, should he catch a glimpse of burning gas in a spot where the work of the day should be finished at latest by five o’clock. Light in the room of the evening journalist usually indicates that something important is on hand.

A glance at the papers Miss Baxter brought to him showed Mr. Stoneham that he had at least got the worth of his fifty pounds. There would be a fluttering in high places next day. He made arrangements before he left to have the paper issued a little earlier than was customary, calculating his time with exactitude, so that rival sheets could not have the news in their first edition, cribbed from the Graphite, and yet the paper would be on the street, with the newsboys shouting, “‘Orrible scandal,” before any other evening journal was visible. And this was accomplished the following day with a precision truly admirable.

Mr. Stoneham, with a craft worthy of all commendation, kept back from the early issue a small fraction of the figures that were in his possession, so that he might print them in the so-called fourth edition, and thus put upon the second lot of contents—bills sent out, in huge, startling black type, “Further Revelations of the Board of Construction Scandal;” and his scathing leading article, in which he indignantly demanded a Parliamentary inquiry into the conduct of the Board, was recognized, even by the friends of that public body, as having seriously shaken confidence in it. The reception of the news by the other evening papers was most flattering. One or two ignored it altogether, others alluded to it as a rumour, that it “alleged” so and so, and threw doubt on its truth, which was precisely what Mr. Stoneham wished them to do, as he was in a position to prove the accuracy of his statement.

Promptly, at five o’clock that afternoon a hansom containing Miss Jennie Baxter drove up to the side entrance of the Daily Bugle office, and the young woman once more accosted the Irish porter, who again came out of his den to receive her.

“Miss Baxter?” said the Irishman, half by way of salutation, and half by way of inquiry. “Yes,” said the girl.

“Well, Mr. Hardwick left strict orders with me that if ye came, or, rather, that whin ye came, I was to conduct ye right up to his room at once.”

“Oh, that is very satisfactory,” cried Miss Jennie, “and somewhat different from the state of things yesterday.”

“Indeed, and that’s very true,” said the porter, his voice sinking. “To-day is not like yesterday at all, at all. There’s been great ructions in this office, mum; although what it’s about, fly away with me if I know. There’s been ruunin’ back and forrad, an’ a plentiful deal of language used. The proprietor himself has been here, an’ he’s here now, an’ Mr. Alder came out a minute ago with his face as white as a sheet of paper. They do be sayin’,” added the porter, still further lowering his voice, and pausing on the stairway, “that Mr. Hardwick is not goin’ to be the editor any more, but that Mr. Alder is to take his place. Anyway, as far as I can tell, Mr. Hardwick an’ Mr. Alder have had a fine fall out, an’ one or other of them is likely to leave the paper.”

“Oh, dear, oh, dear!” said Miss Jennie, also pausing on the stairs. “Is it so serious as all that?”

“Indeed it is, mum, an’ we none of us know where we’re standin’, at all, at all.”

The porter led the way to Mr. Hardwick’s room, and announced the visitor.