To such a basis had the two young people come in the course of the police investigation and afterward, that an agreement had been formulated whereby Banneker was privileged to call up the youthful star at any reasonable hour and for any reasonable project, which she might accept or reject without the burden of excuse.

“Oh, all right!” returned Banneker amiably.

The receiver produced, in some occult manner, the manner of not being precisely pleased with this.  “You don’t seem much disappointed,” it said.

“I’m stricken but philosophical.  Don’t you see me, pierced to the heart, but—­”

“Ban,” interrupted the instrument:  “you’re flippant.  Have you been drinking?”

“No.  Nor eating either, now that you remind me.”

“Has something happened?”

“Something is always happening in this restless world.”

“It has.  And you want to tell me about it.”

“No.  I just want to forget it, in your company.”

“Is it a decent night out?”

“Most respectable.”

“Then you may come and walk me home.  I think the air will do me good.”

“It’s very light diet, though,” observed Banneker.

“Oh, very well,” responded the telephone in tones of patient resignation.  “I’ll watch you eat.  Good-bye.”

Seated at a quiet table in the restaurant, Betty Raleigh leaned back in her chair, turning expectant eyes upon her companion.

“Now tell your aged maiden auntie all about it.”

“Did I say I was going to tell you about it?”

“You said you weren’t.  Therefore I wish to know.”

“I think I’m fired.”

“Fired?  From The Ledger?  Do you care?”

“For the loss of the job?  Not a hoot.  Otherwise I wouldn’t be going to fire myself.”

“Oh:  that’s it, is it?”

“Yes.  You see, it’s a question of my doing my work my way or The Ledger’s way.  I prefer my way.”

“And The Ledger prefers its way, I suppose.  That’s because what you call your work, The Ledger considers its work.”

“In other words, as a working entity, I belong to The Ledger.”

“Well, don’t you?”

“It isn’t a flattering thought.  And if the paper wants me to falsify or suppress or distort, I have to do it.  Is that the idea?”

“Unless you’re big enough not to.”

“Being big enough means getting out, doesn’t it?”

“Or making yourself so indispensable that you can do things your own way.”

“You’re a wise child, Betty,” said he.  “What do you really think of the newspaper business?”

“It’s a rotten business.”

“That’s frank, anyway.”

“Now I’ve hurt your feelings.  Haven’t I?”

“Not a bit.  Roused my curiosity:  that’s all.  Why do you think it a rotten business?”

“It’s so—­so mean.  It’s petty.”

“As for example?” he pressed.