that a certain photographer would consider it a great honour if Mr. Deacon would consent to sit for his portrait. A third envelope contained an invitation for him to speak at a dinner given by the Los Angeles Writers' Club. A fourth delivered up a note written in a long, scrawling hand which began, Dear Mr. Deacon. Turning the sheet, he was astonished to discover the signature of Imperia Starling. He read the note through:
He read this over three times before he was sure that he understood it. Then he examined the chirography more carefully. It was the kind of artificial, backhand writing often affected by boarding-school girls with unformed characters. There was certainly nothing of the petulant or aggressive Imperia in this letter and yet, considering what his reply to it should be, his past experience with the lady was inclined to make him wary.
The telephone bell rang.
