“Interest me?” stormed the city editor. “Here I’ve been trying vainly to get a line on what’s doing out at the Porter mansion; every reporter refused admission, and you staying there--” He swallowed hard. “Write a fifteen-hundred-word human interest story for tomorrow’s paper, get an interview if possible from Mrs. Porter and her daughter--but remember, I want a story with meat in it--and don’t you come back to this office without it.” And his clenched fist, descending on the desk by way of emphasis, jarred the scissors and paste pot out of their accustomed places. Dorothy’s expression changed. “I must remind you, Mr. Harding, that I am the head of my department and responsible to the managing editor only. If you desire to detail me to a special assignment you must speak to him first.” There was truth in what she said, and Harding hesitated. Dorothy turned to Mitchell. “Do you wish to see me?” Mitchell cast an amused glance at the indignant city editor whose florid complexion rivaled his red necktie in point of vivid color, then pulled forward a chair and made himself comfortable. Harding glanced about, and, finding no other chair in the small room, propped himself against the side of the desk and the wall. “Go ahead, Mitchell,” he said pugnaciously. “Tell her what you told me.” Dorothy glanced from one to the other, her calm demeanor covering a rapidly beating heart. What had the detective confided to Harding? What had he really discovered relating to Bruce Brainard’s death? Mitchell took a paper from his pocket and, reaching up, bent the portable electric lamp so that its light fell directly upon the desk and incidentally shone full in Dorothy’s face. If she detected the maneuver she gave no indication of it as she leaned back in her revolving-chair and waited politely for the detective to speak. “Miss Deane, you understand wireless?” questioned Mitchell. “I do.” “And Miss Millicent Porter also?” “Yes. We were both taught wireless at the National Service School, the woman’s preparedness camp at Chevy Chase, Maryland.” “Have you kept up wireless instruction since then?” “Yes, we both took the commercial examination last fall.” “And you can operate the marine wireless at the Porter mansion?” Dorothy looked at Mitchell steadily. What was he driving at? “Yes, we have practiced on the wireless there,” she acknowledged. “When was the marine wireless outfit installed there?” “I don’t know.” “Last summer?” persisted Mitchell, annoyed by the curtness of her tone. “Oh, no, before then.” “Then it was not erected solely for Miss Porter’s benefit?” “No. I believe Mr. Craig Porter had it installed before he went abroad to join the French aviation corps, and Mrs. Porter never had it taken down.” “I see.” Mitchell stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Do you know the instrument’s sending capacity, Miss Deane?”