"There is no 432 West 28th Street," he announced, angrily.
"The information does not impress me," I said. "How did you find out where I live? And why?"
"I asked several of the librarians if they knew you. It seems they did. And since you are listed in the telephone book, the rest was simple." He held up the green slip of paper. "Was this ALL you found?"
Well, I thought, childishly pleased, at least I am not one of the innumerable nameless faces that pour in and out of the library daily. "What else was there supposed to be?" I asked pleasantly.
The little man sank into my favorite leather chair, almost disappearing from view. He waved the slip of paper aimlessly. "There must be more to it than this."
Despite his rudeness I found myself taking a liking to him. He was so intense and so—frightened. "There was a man," I said.
He leaped to his feet and clutched my coat. I believe he would have tried to shake me had I not been a foot taller and fully fifty pounds heavier than he. "What man!"
"In the library. He indicated that book and said something to me."
He leaped onto the chair in his excitement and grasped my shoulders with his hands. We stood thus eye to eye. "Please!" he begged. "Try to remember! What did he say?"