I stared at the girl. She stared back, then, inexplicably, she smiled regretfully, rose out of her chair and smoothly walked over to the bookshelves, turned the corner and was immediately out of sight. Before I could follow her into art books U – Z and ask her to wait, I heard voices. Two elderly women were approaching us through the middle aisle. One of them held a library catalogue card and they both scanned the shelves. “Agnes, Denes, D, don’t think we will find anything here, Marie. Might just as well look for Leon Levinstein, L. Won’t find anything on him either, I bet. It’s all van Gogh and Monet and Renoir, coffeetable stuff. We will have to go to the New York Public Library for Agnes Denes, I tell you.” Marie grunted. “Now, “ she admonished her friend “we will not know until we look, will we? These libraries sometimes are better than their reputation. Librarians are strange people, and they are in charge. “ The ladies turned corners at “D – H”. Their voices were swallowed by the books. It was too late to try and follow the girl into U – Z.