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 Early next morning Arnold came in again, burdened with the Sunday papers. The musical supplements were folded over and on the outside.

“Done it again, Dot!” he called out, as he raced up the stairs.

And it had been done again. The Tribune, the World, and the Herald had included Dorothy’s picture in the lay-out of artists for the week. The World and the Herald had published rotogravure pictures. And the Staats-Zeitung had printed a long paragraph about Doro- thy. Lena was summoned to translate it. It was perfectly lovely!

Uncle Elliott arrived with another set of Sunday papers.

“You’ve seen them?” he asked, with no little disappointment in his voice.

His dejection at not being the original bearer of the news passed quickly.

“Now that’s my idea of how things ought to be done,” he declared, punctuating his speech with cigar thrusts. “Put your name before the public. Let ’em know who you are and what you do. That’s publicity. That’s what makes successes. Who did this publicity for you?”

“The bureau, I suppose,” Dorothy ventured.

“They’ve done a great piece of work,” was Uncle Elliott’s verdict. “By this time today, every man, woman and child in this city knows who Dorothy Reitz is. They’ve established your name. I’d like to meet their publicity man. There’s a place for him in my organization any time he wants to come over.”

“Mr. Borge is in charge of the press department,” said Dorothy.

“Any relation to the fellow who used to call here?”

“It’s—it’s the same man.”

“I always thought he was a bright young fellow. Well,