husbands travelling with us. I won't have 'em! My soul! I don't
marry, do I?"

Packer rose. "Is there anything else for me, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes. Take this interlined script, get some copies typewritten,
and see that the company's sides are changed to suit it. Be
especially careful about that young Miss--ah--Miss Malone's.
You'll find her part is altered considerably, and will be even
more, when Mr. Canby gets the dialogue for other changes
finished. He'll let you have them to-morrow. By the way, Packer,
where did you find--" He paused, stretched out his hand to the
miniature sedan chair of liqueurs, took a decanter and tiny
glass therefrom, and carefully poured himself a sparkling
emerald of creme de menthe. "Will you have something, Mr.
Canby?" he asked. "You, Tinker?"

Both declined in silence; they seemed preoccupied.

"Where did I what, Mr. Potter?" asked the stage-manager,
reminding him of the question left unfinished.

"What?"

"You said: 'By the way, where did you find--'"

"Oh, yes." Potter smiled negligently. "Where did you find that
little Miss Malone? At the agents'?"

Packer echoed him: "Where did I find her?" He scratched his