He laid the book on the bed, and my hands pounced upon it like two white cats on a small brown mouse.
"I've been starving for some!" I announced, and turned the book over to read the title, The Lyric Hour by Richard Warren.
"Where," I asked, tucking my treasure under my pillow, "did you get it?"
"It came in the morning mail," he answered.
I looked at him searchingly.
"There is," I ventured, "some mystery about this Lyric Hour."
Father laughed, and fished once more in his pockets.
"Here is the letter which came with it," he said.
I opened the envelope, which bore the name of father's publisher and good friend, and read:
New York City
June 18th