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 was the merest hint of surprise in the glance which he directed at Dorothy. Apparently he had acquired poise.

“Here’s a new subject for you, Tommy,” said Harper. “Meet Miss Reitz. Miss Reitz, Mr. Borge, our press chief. He’ll make you notorious.”

“I know Miss L—Reitz,” said Tommy in a voice which had deepened since Dorothy had last heard it. “I also know Mrs. Loamford.”

“Hell, you know everybody!” exclaimed Harper. “You might as well lead ’em into your harem and get their confessions. Here’s the dope on the recital.”

He handed him the “Snappygram.”

“You’re safe with Mr. Borge,” Harper confided to Dorothy. “He’s pretty hard-boiled for one so young, but he’ll land you in all the papers.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Harper.”

“Don’t mention it, Miss Reitz, Come in whenever we can help you. And don’t forget that program and that picture. Good morning, Mrs. Loamford.”

They followed Tommy into the Press Department office. It was a little room with three desks crowded together. Tommy went to his desk, nearest the window. It was covered with an untidy mass of clippings, magazines, newspapers, pictures and typewritten sheets. Another desk was occupied by Classy, who was typing nimbly and gracefully. A stout, pleasant-looking young woman was leaving the office.

“Just a moment, Miss Gray,” commanded Tommy.

Miss Gray turned.

“I want you to meet Miss Reitz, who is singing at Aeolian on the second Saturday in October,” he said. “And Mrs. Loamford. As soon as we-get Miss Reitz’s pictures put them put them through the rotos. Fix up a few captions about a young American soprano, trained