“But you probably did it unconsciously. You’re young. The boy’s new at the job and was in a hurry. He let it slip,” answered the man. “You see, I know a lot about newspaper work.”
“Do you know anything about mysteries?” Joan couldn’t help but ask. Somehow this fierce little man was not so fierce as he seemed. He had had a perfect right to be angry. Indeed, there was something really rather likable about him.
A smile played about his bulldog features. “Well,” he drawled. “I ought to. I have indigestion bad, lots of times, and then I can’t get to sleep, so I keep a good detective story right by my bed, all the time. I guess I read about one a week.”
“And don’t you think we have a mystery here?” Joan dropped her voice.
In answer, Mr. Johnson motioned Tim to leave. “I’ll talk with this young woman alone,” he said, and shoved a chair toward her. “Now, let’s get this straight. To begin with, before we go on to your little mystery, let me ask you, do you realize how serious a mistake like that is?”
“It’s libel,” said Joan, sadly. “I’ve lived next to the Journal”—she pointed through the smudgy window to her red brick home—“all my life, and I do know how terrible mistakes are. Daddy was city editor, and I know how particular he was about it.”
“Well, then what about me?” asked Mr. Johnson.
“Oh, I’m sure the Journal will make it right some way—write a contradictory story and explain that the Albert Johnson who lived on North Market Street is not the Albert Jackson who deserted his two children. Tim’ll write you something nice, I know. And the publicity may even help you.” She smiled encouragingly. Oh, if she could only get Tim out of this mess!
“Well, all right, I’ll risk that.” The man cleared his throat. “And now to business. Who’s the suspect?”