“It isn’t the society reporter’s fault,” he said.  “He knows those people don’t belong.”

“How do they get in there, then?” asked Hal.

“Mr. Shearson’s orders.”

“Is Mr. Shearson the society editor?” asked Esme.

“No.  He’s the advertising manager.”

“Forgive my stupidity, but what has the advertising manager to do with social news?”

“A big heap lot,” explained Wayne.  “It’s the most important feature of the paper to him.  Wolf Tone Maher is general manager of the Bee Hive Department Store.  We get all their advertising, and when Mrs. Maher wants to see her name along with the ‘swells,’ as she would say, Mr. Shearson is glad to oblige.  B. Kirschofer is senior partner in the firm of Kirschofer & Kraus, of the Bargain Emporium.  Miss Sproule is the daughter of Alexander Sproule, proprietor of the Agony Parlors, three floors up.”

“Agony Parlors?” queried the visitor.

“Painless dentistry,” explained Wayne.  “Mr. Shearson handles all that matter and sends it down to us.”

“Marked ‘Must,’ I suppose,” remarked Miss Elliot, not without malice.  “So the mystic ‘Must’ is not exclusively a chief-editorial prerogative?”

The editor-in-chief looked annoyed, thereby satisfying his visitor’s momentary ambition.  “Hereafter, Mr. Wayne, all copy indorsed ‘Must’ is to be referred to me,” he directed.

“That kills the ‘Must’ thing,” commented the city editor cheerfully.  “What about ’Must not’?”

“Another complication,” laughed Esme.  “I fear I’m peering into the dark and secret places of journalism.”

“For example, a story came in last night that was a hummer,” said Wayne; “about E.M.  Pierce’s daughter running down an apple-cart in her sixty-horse-power car, and scattering dago, fruit, and all to the four winds of Heaven.  Robbins saw it, and he’s the best reporter we have for really funny stuff.”

“Kathleen drives that car like a demon out on a spree,” said Esme.  “But of course you wouldn’t print anything unpleasant about it.”

“Why not?” asked Wayne.

“Well, she belongs to our crowd,—­Mr. Surtaine’s friends, I mean,—­and it was accidental, I suppose, and so long as the man wasn’t hurt—­”

“Only a sprained shoulder.”

“—­and I’m sure Agnes would be more than willing to pay for the damage.”

“Oh, yes.  She asked the worth of his stock and then doubled it, gave him the money, and drove off with her mud guards coquettishly festooned with grapes.  That’s what made it such a good story.”

“But, Mr. Wayne”—­Esme’s eyes were turned up to his pleadingly:  “those things are funny to tell.  But they’re so vulgar, in the paper.  Think, if it were your sister.”

“If my sister went tearing through crowded streets at forty miles an hour, I’d have her examined for homicidal mania.  That Pierce girl will kill some one yet.  Even then, I suppose we won’t print a word of it.”