Dorothy’s expression changed. “I must remind you, Mr. Harding, that I am the head of my department and responsible to the managing editor only. If you desire to detail me to a special assignment you must speak to him first.” There was truth in what she said, and Harding hesitated. Dorothy turned to Mitchell. “Do you wish to see me?”
Mitchell cast an amused glance at the indignant city editor whose florid complexion rivaled his red necktie in point of vivid color, then pulled forward a chair and made himself comfortable. Harding glanced about, and, finding no other chair in the small room, propped himself against the side of the desk and the wall.
“Go ahead, Mitchell,” he said pugnaciously. “Tell her what you told me.”
Dorothy glanced from one to the other, her calm demeanor covering a rapidly beating heart. What had the detective confided to Harding? What had he really discovered relating to Bruce Brainard’s death?
Mitchell took a paper from his pocket and, reaching up, bent the portable electric lamp so that its light fell directly upon the desk and incidentally shone full in Dorothy’s face. If she detected the maneuver she gave no indication of it as she leaned back in her revolving-chair and waited politely for the detective to speak.
“Miss Deane, you understand wireless?” questioned Mitchell.
“I do.”
“And Miss Millicent Porter also?”
“Yes. We were both taught wireless at the National Service School, the woman’s preparedness camp at Chevy Chase, Maryland.”
“Have you kept up wireless instruction since then?”