“I remember the picture you mean; I remember.  And I was there.  It was a bridge-luncheon at the Country Club in honor of Mrs. Feversham.  And she—­ the lady you were reminded of—­won the prize.  So you think I resemble that photograph?” She tipped her head back a little, holding his glance with her half-veiled eyes.  “What an imagination!”

“Of course if you did pose for that picture, it doesn’t do you half justice; I admit that.  But”—­regarding her with a wavering doubt—­“I guess I’ve been jumping at conclusions again.  They call me the ‘Novelist’ at the office.”  He paused, laughing off a momentary embarrassment.  “That’s why I didn’t want to depend on getting your name from the society editor.”

“I am glad you did not.  It would have been very annoying, I’m sure—­to the lady.  I suppose,” she went on slowly, while the glamour grew in her eyes, “I suppose nothing could induce you to keep this story out of the Press.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head decidedly.  “I don’t see how I can.  I’d do ’most anything to oblige you, but this is the biggest scoop I ever fell into.  The fellows detailed by the other papers to report the fair went straight through by way of the Northern Pacific.  I was the only reporter at the wreck.”

“I understand, but,” her voice fluctuated softly, “I dislike publicity so intensely.  Of course it’s different with Mrs. Feversham.  She is accustomed to newspaper notice; her husband and brother are so completely in the public eye.  But since you must use the story, couldn’t you suppress my name?”

“Oh, but how could I?  The whole story hinges on you.  You were driving the machine.  I saw you from the train window as you came through the cut.  You handled the gear like an imported chauffeur, but it was steep there on the approach, and the car began to skid.  I saw in a flash what was going to happen; it made me limp as a rag.  But there was a chance,—­the merest hairbreadth, and you took it.”  He waited a moment, then said, smiling:  “That was a picture worth snapping, but I was too batty to think of it in time.  You see,” he went on seriously, “the leading character in this story is you.  And it means a lot to me.  I was going to be fired; honest I was.  The old man told me he wasn’t looking for any Treasure Island genius; what his paper needed was plain facts.  Then his big heart got the upper hand, and he called me back.  ‘Jimmie,’ he said, ’there’s good stuff in you, and I am going to give you one more trial.  Go over to North Yakima and tell us about the fair.  Take the new Milwaukee line as far as Ellensburg and pick up something about the automobile road through Snoqualmie Pass.  But remember, cut out the fiction; keep to facts!’”

“I understand,” she repeated gravely, “I understand.  The accident came opportunely.  It was life and color to your setting and demonstrates the need of a better road.  The most I can hope is that you will not exaggerate or—­or put us in a ridiculous light.”