“Perhaps; but I fail to see a reason for dragging Miss Porter further into the limelight. Why center publicity about her?”
“Because she’s good material for a ‘sob’ story, if nothing more; but I have a hunch”—he lowered his voice to a confidential pitch—“that she is going to be the big feature of the case before the Brainard mystery is cleared up. So long,” and he left the room.
Reynolds heaved a sigh of relief which was echoed by Dorothy. “Now we can get along with our work, Miss Deane; how will these photographs do for a layout of the leaders of the ultra-smart set?” placing a number of prints together; and Dorothy soon became absorbed in making her selections.
After the departure of the photographer, twenty minutes later, Dorothy wrote her directions on the back of each photograph and had just completed her task when the office boy entered and laid a “flimsy” on her desk.
“Take these photographs to the engraver and tell him I must have the cuts by tomorrow afternoon,” she directed, and picked up the “flimsy.” It proved to be a garbled account of Millicent Porter sent out by one of the news agencies and laid great stress upon her wealth and the social prominence of her family. Dorothy frowned as she crumpled it in her hand, then thinking better of her action she smoothed out the “flimsy” and carefully pigeonholed it.
Dorothy’s thoughts were far from her work as she mechanically carried out the daily office routine. A talk with a White House usher elicited the news that the President was playing golf and might go to the theater that night; a chat with a confidential clerk in the Department of State provided her with the list of guests at a diplomatic dinner to be given that night by the Secretary of State; but her other telephone calls drew blank; and Dorothy, after looking over the meager items chronicled in the social columns of the afternoon papers, welcomed the ring of the telephone. It proved to be a long-distance call from Albany, N. Y., giving her the information that a Congressman’s wife was receiving at the Governor’s reception, describing the gown which she would wear, and stating that she desired to have it fully written up in the Morning Tribune.
Half an hour later Dorothy was correcting her typewritten copy when the door was jerked unceremoniously open, and the city editor walked in, followed by Detective Mitchell. Dorothy’s heart sank at sight of the city editor’s aggressive air; previous encounters had given her an inkling of his bullying disposition, and the presence of Mitchell did not look propitious.
“See here, Miss Deane, why haven’t you informed me that you are visiting Millicent Porter?” demanded the city editor.
“I did not think the news would interest you.” Dorothy laid down her copy and nodded coolly to the detective. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Interest me?” stormed the city editor. “Here I’ve been trying vainly to get a line on what’s doing out at the Porter mansion; every reporter refused admission, and you staying there—” He swallowed hard. “Write a fifteen-hundred-word human interest story for tomorrow’s paper, get an interview if possible from Mrs. Porter and her daughter—but remember, I want a story with meat in it—and don’t you come back to this office without it.” And his clenched fist, descending on the desk by way of emphasis, jarred the scissors and paste pot out of their accustomed places.