“Oh, Judy,” she cried, “our scheme did work after all!”
Judy’s answer was a glance of triumph, but her voice over the wire sounded very businesslike.
“Tell him to come up and wait. Miss Grimshaw will be in shortly.”
In the moment before he mounted the stairs Irene had time to smooth her hair and powder her nose. Then she picked up the fallen papers and was about to place them on the table.
“Never mind the work now. I’ll straighten things,” Judy told her. “You just sit there and look pretty when Dale Meredith comes in.”
The handsome young author greeted them with a surprised whistle. “Whoever expected to find you here!” he exclaimed, smiling first at Judy who stood beside the open door and then at Irene. “Why, the place looks like a palace with the princess enthroned on the sofa. What’s happened to Her Royal Highness?”
“You mean Miss Grimshaw?” Judy asked, laughing. “She will be in presently.”
“Not too ‘presently,’ I hope,” Dale replied, seating himself beside Irene. “Before we talk business I want to hear what happened to you girls. I’ve been scolding myself ever since for not finding out your names. The truth of the matter is, I was so dog-goned interested in that Art Shop Robbery——”
“The title of your new book?” Judy ventured, and his nod told her that she had reasoned correctly.
“You see, it was a rush order,” he went on to explain. “There seems to be a big demand for mystery stories. Most people like to imagine themselves as sleuths or big time detectives. I do, myself. The trouble is, there aren’t enough mysteries in real life to supply the demand for plots, and what there are make tales too gruesome to be good reading.”