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Rh for us," the man at the door explained, "and we didn't know who you were. You can't be too careful these days. It's getting so a man can't think his music out loud without running a chance of finding 'em singing it at the Palace the day after to-morrow."

The safest place in New York from prying ears, it appeared, was The Lambs library. The private showing of the score and lyrics of the nascent musical show continued. I and my eccentric interest in the books on the shelves were ignored politely. The library proved to cover a literary range I was not prepared for. Choosing a case at random, I drew forth a volume that turned out to be "The Yankee Girls in Zulu Land" by Louise Viscellus Sheldon. Stamped upon the flyleaf was the legend, "Sunday School Library of the Second Congregational Church of Haddonfield." At some time or the other I fear that Marcus Loew, who is notoriously careless about books, has borrowed "The Yankee Girls" and forgotten to send them back. By this time the fines must have exceeded the cost of the volume. Some of the other possibilities for a rainy Sunday afternoon I noted on the shelves were: "The Microscope and its Revelations," "Harris'