Down the deserted street to Broadway he ran.  There he hailed a cab and directed the driver to the telegraph office.  Then he leaned back and looked at the garish lights, the passing cabs, the theatre crowds hurrying along home, laughing and chatting as if the world held no such horror as that which he had just escaped.  That madwoman’s words rang through his brain, drowning out the voices of the street; the tapping of those flying feet sounded in his ears above the rattle of the cab.  That or this must be unreal; yet how far off both seemed!

Gradually the rough jolting of the cab shook him back to a sense of his surroundings and their safety.  He began to regain his nerve, and to busy himself knotting the strands of the story into a connected narrative.  And when, a few minutes later, he handed a message to the manager of the telegraph office and demanded a clear wire into the Banner office, he was quite the old breezy Simpkins.

Then, coat off, a cigar between his teeth, he sat down beside the operator and began to write his story, his flying fingers keeping time with the clicking instrument.  He made no mention of the fears that had beset him in the hall and the manner of his exit from it.  But there was enough and to spare of the dramatic in what he sent.  After a sensational half-column of introduction, fitting the murder on Mrs. Athelstone, and enlarging on the certainty of one’s sin finding one out, provided it were assisted by a Banner reporter, he swung into the detailed story, dwelling on the woman’s madness and sliding over the details of the murder as much as possible.

Then he described how, for more than a month, Mrs Athelstone had labored over the body, hiding it days in the empty case and dragging it out nights, until she had finished it, with the exception of some detail about the head, into a faithful replica of the mummy of Amosis, the original of which she had no doubt burned.  It all made a vivid story; for never had his imagination been in such working order, and never had it responded more generously to his demands upon it.  About two in the morning he finished his third column and concluded his story with: 

“So this awful confession of madness and murder ended.  I left the woman bound and helpless, sitting in her chair, her victim at her feet, to wait the coming of the police.”  Then he added to Naylor personally, “Going notify police headquarters now and go back to hall.”

Naylor, who had been reading the copy page by page as it came from the wire, and who, naturally, was taking a mere cold-blooded view of the case than Simpkins, telegraphed back: 

“What share did Brander have in actual murder?  You don’t bring that out in story.”

“Couldn’t get it out of her,” Simpkins sent back, truthfully enough.

“Find out,” was the answer.  “Get back to hall quick.  Brander may have looked in to help Mrs. A. with her night work while you were gone.  Will hold enough men for an extra.”