canter 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 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,' because father got it in his head some way that
it was about the Baptists, and I couldn't talk him out of it. It wasn't
as bad a performance as you'd think, and this little girl was a pretty
fair 'Babbie.' Father forgot all about the Baptists and kept talking
about her after we got home, until nothing would do but we must go over
and see that show again. He wanted to take her right out to the farm and
adopt her--or something; he's a widower, and all alone out there. Fact
is, I had all I could do to keep him from going aroun