New Britain herald., 1930-07-25
CHAPTER 1

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 It was a stormy night in mid January. The pavements were swept by drenching sheets of rain, and a piercing wind was blowing.
 In that cosmopolitan corner of New York called Greenwich Village the streets were almost deserted by 10 o'clock. From behind the closed blinds of the little cafes and drink ing shops came bursts of music and laughter.
 Halfway down the narrow street, Bastien Dumont, tumbling down the steps leading to the Cafe Ture and pushing open the door, was met with a twang of a mandolin and a light, gay tenor voice singing "Funic- uli, Funicula."
 Bastien was Anglo French one of score of struggling artists who frequented the little cafe. The place was something like a club for the indigent who would sip the wine of life. but who must have it cheap.
 There were two rooms at the Cafe Turc-the first just below the level Of the street, small and low ceiled with the bar, the coffee urns, and a reredos of bottles on the left; the second few steps lower still, much larger. equally low in pitch, with sanded floor and some dozen tables, big and little, ranged round the walls. These walls displayed a col lection of sketches, leeacies from various artists.
 One night a great man had sat there and laughed over his wine, and had turned and drawn a girls head on the wall behind him, His had been a name to conjure with.
 At the door the young man paused. blinking, and expelling a grateful breath.
 "Peste. what night" he ex- claimed. Grouping his way through the blue-gray fog 10 the shining counter he shook the proprietor by the hand. What night" he cried in a warm, youthful voice. "1s Judy hereo"
 The proprietor returned Dumont's greeting and answered his question In the French language, which the young man had used.
 T have not seen Judy yet, NJ. Dumont; but she will doubtless be here Chummy is in there" He jerk his thumb toward the inner room
 Dumont passed on, calling out greeting hers and there to friends who sat in smoke -encircled groups. Between the two rooms the man who was singing to his mandolin rose and looked at him expectantly. eral factotum of the establishment "a lanky being who looked like a clown in his basgy clothes.
 Dupont ordered coffee and cog mac, And, entering the inner room, was noisily greeted by crowd of men at one of the larger tables. Room was made for him, and he sat down among them
 At a table on the opposite side Of the room to the one at which Bastien Dumont had joined his friends, two men were sitting. Of the other tables. most were occupied by groups of twos and threes.
 From time to- time glances of curiosity were directed at the two men. For one thing they were not habitues of the place, and it was seldom that strangers came 10 the Cafe Turc. One of them, however, was known to several people there. He was Vincent StornaWay. a suc- cfssful portrait painter, who had long ago abandoned any pretense of a bohemian life. He exuded pros perity with his faintly picturesque clothes, his flowing tie, his golden brown beard, pale cheeks, and clear, healthy skin.
 His companion was known to mo- body, and various uhfattering com ments were passed on his appear ance. He was unprepossessing to a degree, his pallid face being feshy and heavy jawed. his eyes pale and small and sunk in puffy bags. his forehead low and square and livid against a band of coarse, black hair. He had a big, hooked nose and a thick neck, and there was a sin ister suggestion in the straight line of his lips, which were thin and peevish, and contradicted all the rest of his face.
 "A libertine with a bad temper" murmHred clever Tony Leigh. the