“My what?” he asked, momentarily puzzled. “Oh yes, my newspaper, of course!”
“I don’t believe you’re a reporter at all,” she said with sudden suspicion.
“Indeed I am,” he said glibly, and dared to pronounce the name of that widely-circulated sheet upon which the sun seldom sets.
“Though I’m not a great actress, and fear I never shall be, I like to believe it is because I’ve never had a chance—I’ve a horrible suspicion that Mr. Knebworth knows instinctively that I am no good.”
Mike Brixan had found a new interest in the case, an interest which, he was honest enough to confess to himself, was not dissociated from the niece of Francis Elmer. He had never met anybody quite so pretty and quite so unsophisticated and natural.
“You’re going to the studio, I suppose?”
She nodded.
“I wonder if Mr. Knebworth would mind my calling to see you?”
She hesitated.
“Mr. Knebworth doesn’t like callers.”