“K. O.” answered the editor. “I’m busy. You’re a nice boy, Val, and I like to see you get along—so do so. Remember, you expect dividends from this old sheet semi-annually and⸺”
“That’s so,” mused Val, as though this had but occurred to him now for the first time. “I have got a little stock here, haven’t I. I’ve been informed that I’m Vice-President, or some other fool thing in this yellow sheet—so, unless I have the wrong dope as to what I really am here, I’m an official and ought to be treated with respect. And what do I get?” He went on oratorically with a recital of his wrongs. “I get ordered out, that’s what I get. I get contumely heaped all over my bean. I—say, Wally, did you ever see any contumely?” he broke off to ask. “I mean⸺”
“Oh, shut up!” said Wally. “Bustin’ into my office like this! What the devil do you want—and make it snappy, too!” He roared this at Val. Val smiled and slipped down into a chair alongside of the editor.
“There, there,” he soothed him, patting his sleeve, “calm yourself, ole kid—I’m coming to what I want. Suppose I were to tell you the name of the mysterious lady in the Masterson case—eh? What would you do?”
The other stared at him in unbelievable astonishment. “Do—you—know—that?” he asked slowly. Val nodded.
“Then, for the lova Mike,” he entreated, leaning toward Val and gripping his knee with long, bony fingers, “tell it to me, will you? You’ll see darn quick what I can do with it? Any other paper or the police know it yet?” Val shook his head.
“Gawd, what a beat!” ejaculated the editor. “Quick,
