"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?"
"What, indeed! By the way, what is Major Bussey's price?"
"Oh, Mr. Banneker!" Was it sheer delight in deviltry, or amusement at
his direct and unstrategic method that sparkled in her face. "You surely
don't credit the silly stories of--well, blackmail, about us!"
"It might be money," he reflected.
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