“Oh, no! Let me read the horrible ones,” Irene begged.
Judy laughed. “Everyone to his own notions. I don’t mind, if you feel like giving yourself the shivers.”
There was a long table just back of the sofa, and it came in handy for the completed groups of papers. Judy removed a vase of flowers and a few books and made a clear place for the different piles.
“Golden Girl goes at the top of the list,” she remarked, as she took a yellowed slip of paper in her hand. “Miss Grimshaw says it’s valuable.”
“Is it the song?”
“It is,” Judy replied. “This poet wrote it. Imagine! And then turns to such morbid things as that one I fixed up; you remember, about the tower of flame?”
She broke off suddenly as the telephone on Emily Grimshaw’s desk jangled imperiously.
Both girls were buried in papers, and the telephone rang a second time before Judy was free to answer it.
“The switchboard operator says it’s Dale Meredith!”
She turned away from the mouthpiece and gave out this information in an excited whisper. Irene let a few of the papers slide to the floor.