I’d read about him in a column syndicated from New York: Another foreign commentator has decided fairer fields are closer home. Myron Kane, pal of princes, potentates and premiers—but not generals—is around town. He’s doing a piece for a national-circulation weekly on a Quaker City celeb. May be dull, may be a libel suit, depending on what table in snob Rittenhouse Square he picks his crumbs up at. That was in November, and when I got back home to Georgetown for the Christmas holidays, I found a letter from Myron on my desk. It said: Dear Grace: I understand you have relatives by marriage in Philadelphia. If they include, or you otherwise know, that eccentric museum piece, Abigail Whitney, will you drop me a note of introduction? I understand she’s taken her own name back, not being up to the mental effort of keeping her marital ventures in proper sequence. I’m doing a profile of her brother, Judge Nathaniel Whitney, for the Sat Eve Post, and I understand they’ve lived next door to each other and haven’t spoken for years, so I can’t meet her through him.
What do You think about The Philadelphia Murder Story?
