AS PROFESSOR ANTONOWSKI sat at his desk in the German stacks of the Library, he wondered if he hadn't been puttig two and two together and getting five. And yet there was no question that he had received the letter, and there was also no question that this very morning Professor Thomas had spoken to him. But he was, as he himself well knew, an old man given to doubts, scruples, misgivings, hesitations, suspicions. What was worse, at that man's shoulder stood yet another old man, analytical, distrustful of self, skeptical, even on occasion mocking. And at that man's shoulder-despite his worry, Antonowski had to smile at the image of little Professors Antonowski standing one behind the other in endless series. Pushing aside the volume of Publications of the Modern Language Association opened at the article on Heine which he had been trying to read, he stretched his stiff, bony, arthritic legs under the desk, leaned back with a sigh in the wooden chair, and, nervously rubbing the fluff of white hair over each ear, looked out the raised window. On Saunders Field the girls were engaged in the ancient rites of archery. It was an American pastorale, all chaste innocence. Nevertheless, somewhere in the scene had to be fitted the letter-what was it they called it ?-yes, the poisonpen letter. He could see the muscular Professorin bounding from girl to girl straightening shoulders and correcting posture, and he could follow the shallow parabola of the arrows from bow to target. Ach, die jagende Mddchen der Jugendl He snorted. Now which member of the Gescllschaft of Antonowski, Antonowski, Antonowski, and Antonowski had prompted that pedantic pun?