In a recent interview in the Boston Traveler Mr. Royal Brown, a "successful author of stories" has made known the secret of his success. Contrary to the customary procedure of his profession as such a course may be, Mr. Brown informs the aspiring author that "plots are unimportant . . . . they develop themselves." And the Traveler itself continues in the worthy task of snatching bushel baskets from hopeful lights by supplying a directory of available though undeveloped stories.

The most usual lair of embryo plots of the sort which Mr. Brown and the Traveler hunt seems to be the police station. A volley of shots, a crash of glass, a succession of piercing shrieks,--and a complete detective story has clicked itself off on the Corona. Simple, what?

The shades of Shakespeare and Dumas may rattle in their shrouds, or whatever it is that shades do, for the plotless young author now has themes about which to spin his tales. But to be a real best seller Venus must now pursue her young Adonis through the gashouse district of New York ringing police boxes, while in order to feature in the brilliant pages of "Worthwhile Stories", the modern D'Artagan must, before starting out to crown cardinals, drop a note on the sergeant's desk, 8th Precinct, City of Boston.