"But I tell you," said the harassed young lady, "number 18 was flashed on the board and the book was picked up." The little man clucked impatiently and waved the card. "But I have number 18," he said shrilly, "and I must have the book!" Normally I am not a fast thinker. Years of teaching Roman history to classes of dozing students, interested only in easy credits, are not reckoned to sharpen one's wits. However, I instantly realized what must have happened. I tapped the little man on the shoulder. "Pardon me, sir," I whispered, "is this your book?" He whirled around violently. He had a thin, sharp-pointed face with deep-set eyes, heavy brow and a receding chin that terminated in a little scrub of a beard. Rudely he snatched the book from my hand and began leafing through it with shaking fingers. I started to say, "If Roman numerals had been used instead of--" but saw he was paying no attention to me, so I headed for the Main Room to get another card. I had no sooner reached the entrance when I was confronted by the little bearded man again. His mouth was agape with distress, his loud-checked bowtie askew. He waved the book in my face. "Didn't you find anything in here?" he demanded. "Not really," I said. "I have no interest in French cooking." He shook his head vigorously. "I mean _inside_ the book!" "Quiet, please," said the guard at the entrance, holding his finger to his lips disapprovingly. I continued into the Main Room, the little man scurrying alongside me. "Please," he pleaded, "think. Wasn't there _something_ in the book?" Irked at his persistence, I was about to move on, when I remembered. "Why, yes," I said, slowly. "There _was_ something. This." I fished the bit of green paper from my pocket. He snatched it from me, uttered a squeak of delight, and hurried away. * * * * * Relieved that this untidy business was finally done with, I decided to forego Publilius Syrus for the day, since I was no longer in the mood and I had some important papers to edit. So I returned to my home, a rather large and comfortable room on the first floor of a converted brownstone in lower Manhattan. I had no sooner settled down at my desk when there came an urgent knock on my door. I slipped on my glasses and opened the door. Imagine my amazement and irritation when the little man from the library scuttled into the room. He hurried to the window and pulled down the blind. Then he firmly removed my hand from the doorknob, closed the door and locked it. He leaned against the door, facing me. "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?"