Having thus engaged her honor, the advisor to the editor sat her down to plan.  At the conclusion of a period of silent thought, she sent a telephone message which made the heart of young Mr. Surtaine accelerate its pace perceptibly.  Was he too busy to come up to Greenvale, Dr. Elliot’s place, at 8.30 sharp?

Busy he certainly was, but not too busy to obey any behest of his partner.

That was very nice of him.  It would take but a few minutes.

As many minutes as she could use, she might have, or hours.

Then he was to consider himself gratefully thanked and profoundly curtsied to, over the wire.  By the way, if he had a galley proof of anything that had been written about Kathleen Pierce’s motor accident, would he bring that along?  And didn’t he think it quite professional of her to remember all about galleys and things?

Highly professional and clever (albeit in a somewhat altered tone, not unnoted by the acute listener).  Yes, he would bring the proof.  At 8.30, then, sharp.

“The new boss of our new boss,” Wayne had styled the charming interloper, on the occasion of her first visit to the “Clarion” office.  Had she heard, Esme would have approved.  More, she would have believed, though not without misgivings.  Well she knew that she had not yet proved her power over her partner.  Many and various as were the men upon whom, in the assay of her golden charm, she had exercised the arts of coquetry, this test was on a larger scale.  This was the potential conquest of an institution.  Could she make a newspaper change its hue, as she could make men change color, with the power of a word or the incitement of a glance?  The very dubiety of the issue gave a new zest to the game.

Behold, now, Miss Esme Elliot, snarer of men’s eyes and hearts, sharpening her wits and weapons for the fray; aye, even preparing her pitfall.  Cunningly she made a bower of one end of the broad living-room at Greenvale with great sprays of apple blossoms from the orchard, ravishing untold spoilage of her mother and forerunner, Eve, for the bedecking of the quiet, cozy nook.  Pink was ever her color; the hue of the flushing of spring, of the rising blood in the cheek of maidenhood, and the tenderest of the fruit-blooms was not more downy-soft of tint than the face it bent to brush.  At the close of the task, a heavy voice startled her.

“What’s all this about?”

“Uncle Guardy!  You mustn’t, you really mustn’t come in on tiptoe that way.”

“Stamped like an elephant,” asserted Dr. Elliot.  “But you were so immersed in your floral designs—­What kind of a play is it?”

She turned upon him the sparkle of golden lights in wine-brown eyes.  “It’s a fairy bower.  I’m going to do a bewitchment.”

“Upon what victim?”

“Upon a newspaper.  I’m going to be a fairy godmother sort of witch and save my foster-child by—­by arointing something out of print.”