“Wouldn’t I do? Come into my office, won’t you? I represent him in some things.”
“Not in this one, I hope,” he replied, following her to an inner room. “It is about a paragraph not yet published, which might be misconstrued.”
“Oh, I don’t think any one could possibly misconstrue it,” she retorted, with a flash of wicked mirth.
“You know the paragraph to which I refer, then.”
“I wrote it.”
Banneker regarded her with grave and appreciative urbanity. All was going precisely as Ely Ives had prognosticated; the denial of the presence of the editor; the appearance of this alluring brunette as whipping-girl to assume the burden of his offenses with the calm impunity of her sex and charm.
“Congratulations,” he said. “It is very clever.”
“It’s quite true, isn’t it?” she returned innocently.
“As authentic, let us say, as your authorship of the paragraph.”
“You don’t think I wrote it? What object should I have in trying to deceive you?”