She gave it to him. As Mr. DeWitt read, he used his pencil to mark out large blocks of what had been written. But as he gave the story to a copy reader who would write the headline, he said: “Give her a byline.”
Elda heard and grinned from ear to ear. A byline meant that a caption directly under the headline would proclaim: “By Elda Hunt.”
Penny, who also heard, could not know that Mr. DeWitt had granted the byline only because it was customary with a personal interview story. She felt even more depressed than before.
“See if you can find a picture of this actress in the photography room,” DeWitt instructed Elda. “Salt Sommers took one this morning, but it hasn’t come up yet.”
With a swishing of skirts, for she now was in a fine mood, Elda disappeared down the corridor. Fifteen minutes elapsed. Penny, busy writing hand-outs and obituaries, had forgotten about her entirely, until Mr. DeWitt summoned her to his desk.
“See if you can find out what became of Elda,” he said in exasperation. “Tell her we’d like to have that picture for today’s paper.”
Penny went quickly toward the photography room. The door was closed. As she opened it, she was startled half out of her wits by hearing a shrill scream. The cry unmistakably came from an inner room of the photography studio and was Elda’s voice. At the same instant, a gust of cool air struck Penny’s face.
“Elda!” she called in alarm.
“Here,” came the girl’s muffled voice from the inner room.
Fearing the worst, Penny darted through the doorway. Elda had collapsed in a chair, her face white with terror. Wordlessly, she pointed toward the ceiling.