“Good!” said the benevolent reporter. “Fine! Of course it’s all bunk—”
“Bunk!” echoed Barbran and Phil, aghast, while Cyrus sat with his lank jaw drooping.
“You don’t see any of your favorite color in my eye, do you?” inquired the visitor pleasantly. “Just what you’re putting over I don’t know. Some kind of new grease paint, perhaps. Don’t tell me. It’s good enough, anyway. I’ll fall for it. It’s worth a page story. Of course I’ll want some photographs of the mural paintings. They’re almost painfully beautiful.... What’s wrong with our young friend; is he sick?” he added, looking with astonishment at Phil Stacey who was exhibiting sub-nauseous symptoms.
“He painted ’em,” explained Cyrus, grinning.
“And he’s sorry,” supplemented Barbran.
“Yes; I wouldn’t wonder. Well, I won’t give him away,” said the kindly journalist. “Now, as to the membership of your circle....”
The Sunday “story” covered a full page. The “millionairess” feature was played up conspicuously and repeatedly, and the illustrations did what little the text failed to do. It was a “josh-story” from beginning to end.
“I’ll kill that pious fraud of a reporter,” declared Phil.
“Now the place is ruined,” mourned Barbran.
“Wait and see,” advised the wiser Cyrus.