“Oh, you aren’t, aren’t you? Well, if it’s no secret, just exactly what are you? A finger-print expert?”
“I’m a—a writer,” said the red-headed girl, looking unusually small and dignified. “This is my first as—assignment.” It was frightful to stammer just when you particularly wanted not to.
The real reporter eyed her severely. “A writer, hey? A real, honest-to-goodness, walking-around writer, with a fountain pen and a great big vocabulary and a world of promise and everything? Well, I’ll bet you a hot dog to a soup plate of fresh caviar that about four days from now you’ll be parading through these marble halls telling the cockeyed world that you’re a journalist.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare. Do all of you call yourselves journalists?”
The reporter looked as though he were about to suffocate. “Get this,” he said impressively: “The day that you hear me call myself a journalist you have my full and free permission to call me a —— Well, no, on second thought, a lady couldn’t. But if you ever call me a journalist, smile. And if you solemnly swear never to call yourself one I’ll show you the ropes a bit, because you’re a poor ignorant little writing critter that doesn’t know any better than to come to a murder trial—and besides that you have red hair. Want to know anything?”
“Oh,” cried the red-headed girl, “I didn’t know that anyone so horrid could be so nice. I want to know everything. Let’s begin at the beginning.”
“Well, in case you don’t know where you are, this is the courtroom of Redfield, county seat of Bellechester, twenty-five miles from the great metropolis of New York. And in case you’d like to know what it’s all about, it’s the greatest murder trial of the century—about every two years another one of ’em comes along. This particular one is the trial of the People versus Susan Ives and Stephen Bellamy for the wilful, deliberate, and malicious murder of Madeleine Bellamy.”
“A murder trial,” said the red-headed girl softly. “Well, I should think that ought to be about the most tremendous thing in the world.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” remarked the reporter, and for a moment it was no effort at all for him to look cynical. “Well, I’ll have you called at about seven to-morrow morning, though it’s a pity ever to wake anyone up that can have such beautiful dreams as that. The most tremendous thing in the world, says she. Well, well, well!”
The red-headed girl eyed him belligerently. “Well, yourself! Perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me what’s more tremendous than murder.”