“Your explanation is very pat, Miss Deane,” said Mitchell. “Perhaps you can also explain what it was Miss Millicent Porter threw into an unused well late yesterday afternoon.”
Dorothy gazed silently at her questioner, then her glance traveled upward until it rested on Wyndham, and her breath forsook her. The gathering wrath in Wyndham’s eyes as he took a menacing step toward the unconscious detective acted like a douche of cold water on Dorothy’s benumbed wits.
“I can explain,” she announced, her voice quivering with subdued excitement. “Miss Porter dreads publicity. She threw a cut into the well, the only cut ever made from one of her photographs, so that her picture would not appear in a newspaper.”
“I-n-deed,” drawled Mitchell. “And where did Miss Porter get this—eh—cut?”
“I gave it to her.”
Her words brought a bellow from Harding. “What! do you mean to say you stole the cut from this office and gave it to Miss Porter?”
“I did.”
Harding pounded the desk. “Where’s your honesty?” he roared. “Where’s your loyalty to the newspaper that employs you?”
“My loyalty belongs to the paper so long as it does not conflict with my loyalty to my friends,” answered Dorothy. “As for my honesty—I have paid for the cut.”
“D-mn the money! It isn’t a question of money,” he retorted thickly. “You are fired, understand—fired!”