The paper that Judy held in her hand was a jumble of morbid poetry written in what could have been a beautiful hand. Actually, it was an almost unreadable scrawl. In some places the rhymes were in perfect sequence, but in others the poet had wandered away from what must have been the theme to play with words that apparently amused her. Finally Judy made out this much:

How could anyone crumble in a tower of flame, Judy wondered. Oh, well, she supposed it was just a lot of melancholy words jumbled together to give the reader the creeps. Certainly she was not going to give Emily Grimshaw the satisfaction of knowing that it had impressed her.

“With the poet’s permission,” she looked up and said, “I would take out a few lines and then type the poem on a clean sheet of paper.”

“I have the poet’s permission,” Emily Grimshaw replied shortly. And, after a pause, “What lines would you take out?”

“Half of some of them and all of this one.” Judy pointed. “The words ‘Joy’ and ‘toy’ are repeated too many times.”

“That’s the first thing one notices,” the old lady replied, evidently pleased with Judy’s suggestion. “How do you like that poetry?”

“I don’t like it,” the girl replied frankly. “It sounds as if the writer had a distorted idea of life. It depresses a person just to read it.”

“There are people who like to be depressed.”

“I suppose so,” Judy answered wearily. She could see that the conversation was getting them nowhere, and Irene must be dreadfully tired of waiting. Besides, she did not care to stand and argue with as queer a person as Emily Grimshaw seemed to be. Why, she was more peculiar, even, than the matron at camp or the queer old lady who ran the dog and cat hospital.

“Would you like me to sit down and type the poem for you now?” Judy suggested. “Then you could see exactly what I mean.”

The old lady consented with a wave of her hand, and Judy set to work. The task was not an easy one, and when she had finished cutting out all the queer-sounding lines the poem was about half its original length. Hardly knowing whether to expect praise or criticism, she handed the revised poem to Emily Grimshaw and waited while she read:

“These are the four best lines,” Judy pointed out when she had finished reading. “I took out parts of the first three lines and switched the last three over toward the beginning. It’s more coherent that way if anyone should ever try to figure it out. But the middle stanza must either stay as it is or be taken out entirely. Which do you think, Miss Grimshaw?”

“I’d take it out,” she declared. “There’s too much truth in it.”

Too much truth? A person who could not die! Who drifted off in air! Judy would have said exactly the opposite. It was too impossible.

“Didn’t the poet explain what she meant when the manuscript was delivered?” she asked.

“Explain it! Humph! Jasper Crosby expects me to explain it. He’s the poet’s brother,” the agent pointed out. “He brings me the stuff in just such a jumble as this.”

The pile before her on the desk eloquently illustrated the word “jumble.” Old envelopes, bills, sales sheets, anything that happened to be about, had been used for the poet’s snatches of verse.

“It must take a lot of time to rearrange them,” Judy ventured.

“Time! That’s just it. Time and patience, too. But Jasper Crosby cares as much about the value of my time as a newborn baby. He never talks except in terms of dollars and cents. ‘What can you make out of this?’ ‘How much do we get out of that?’ And expects me to rewrite half of it! It’s trying my patience to the limit, I can tell you. If I weren’t so fond of the poet I would have given it up years ago. Her verses used to be of quite a different type. You know Golden Girl?”

“You mean the popular song? Of course I do.”

“Well, she wrote that twenty years ago. It’s just recently been set to music.”

Judy was becoming interested. As well as holding a promise of many new and charming acquaintances for herself and the other two girls the work was sure to be fascinating. Emily Grimshaw seemed pleased with the changes she had made in the poem, but it was best not to hurry her decision. Judy could see that she needed an assistant, but to make the agent see it also would require tact and patience.

In the course of another half hour Emily Grimshaw had made up her mind. Judy was to report at her office the following day. No mention had been made of Irene as Judy knew her chances of holding the position were slim enough without asking an additional favor. But she felt sure that her new employer would not object to the presence of both girls in the office after she had grown accustomed to the idea of being helped.

“And if she does object,” Irene said cheerfully, “I’ll apply for a position with Dale Meredith’s publisher.”

Eager to tell Pauline of their adventure, they walked toward the subway entrance and arrived just as the school girls were coming home.

“We found out who that man we met on the bus is,” Judy announced the moment she saw Pauline. “He’s an author and has written stacks and stacks of books. We bought one to read in our spare time.”

“Really?”

“It’s the honest truth,” Irene declared. “I read ten chapters today while I was waiting for Judy. And what do you think? She has accepted a position in Emily Grimshaw’s office.”

Pauline stared. “The woman who sent that telegram? Who on earth is she and where did you find out?”

“In the classified telephone directory,” Judy confessed. “She’s Dale Meredith’s literary agent, though why he should pick such a crotchety old woman to sell his stories is beyond me. I thought, at first, she was going to bite my head off. But she found out she couldn’t frighten me so she decided to hire me. When she calms down a bit she’ll probably let Irene help her, too.”

“Imagine!” Irene exclaimed, still bubbling with enthusiasm, “our own spending money and an opportunity to meet the most interesting people——”

“You mean Dale Meredith?”

Did Judy imagine it or was there the smallest trace of bitterness in Pauline’s voice?

“Well, perhaps I do,” Irene replied.