head. "Miss"--he said ruminatively, repeating the word slowly,
like a man trying to work out the solution of a puzzle--"Miss--"

"Miss Malone. I suppose you got her at an agent's?"

"Let's see," said Packer. "At an agent's? No. No, it wasn't.
Come to think of it, it wasn't."

"Then where did you get her?" Tinker inquired.

"That's what I just asked him," Potter said, placing his glass
upon a table without having tasted the liqueur. "What's the
matter, Packer? Gone to sleep?"

"I remember now," said Packer, laughing deferentially. "Of course!
No. It wasn't through any of the agents. Now I remember--come to
think of it--I sort of ran across her myself, as a matter of fact. I
wasn't just sure who you meant at first. You mean the understudy,
the one that's to play Miss Lyston's part, that Miss--Miss--" He
snapped a finger and thumb to spur memory and then, as in triumphant
solution of his puzzle, cried, "Ma-- Malone! Miss Malone!"

"Yes," said Potter, looking upon him darkly. "Where did you sort
of run across her, come to think of it, as a matter of fact?"

"Oh, I remember all about it, now," said Packer brightly. "Why,
she was playing last summer in stock out at Seeleyville,
Pennsylvania. That's only about six miles from Packer's Ridge,
where my father lives. I spent a couple of weeks with him, and
we trolleyed over one evening to see 'The Little Minister,'