Thrills, Mysteries

The gnomelike figure of Dwight Whitney Morrow, U. S. Ambassador to Mexico, remitted its busy comings and goings in Mexico City last week and quietly lay, bolstered among fat white pillows, in bed. Ambassador Morrow had a fever; nothing serious, just a touch of grippe. Affairs of state awaited his mending. But there was no pause in the restless activity of Mr. Morrow's mind, which, accustomed to strenuous exercise, cried out for diversion at least. When his physician refused him permission to work, Mr. Morrow said: "All right, then, I will enjoy myself as I always do when I have to stay in bed."

Ambassadorial secretaries were soon ferreting about at Mexico City's newsstands and bookstalls. Back they went to the embassy laden with all magazines and novels "which seemed to promise thrills or mysteries." The hot sun soared over Mexico. Mr. Morrow lay among the big pillows reading. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, a secretary was again seen passing through the murmurous streets to the newsstands, the bookstalls. The gnomelike figure among the pillows, habituated to reading rapidly through complex business and legal documents, had used up more detective stories before sunset than most men could read in a week. "Almost a dozen," said the Associated Press reporter assigned to the case.

The secretary returned again with a fresh armful of thrills, mysteries.