The Waterbury Democrat., 1933-11-27
Who Was She-- This GOlden-Faired Girl of Mystery, Who Figured in the Most Fantastic Mystery Drama Ever Conceived?- You'll be Fascinated by the Romantic,
 Sensational Story of Mysterious Juliet France
Good night, Dave."

Bannistcr went through the re-
 volving doors out to the street. A fine mist had begun to fall and
 the, air was colder. He walked to
 the edge of the curb and halted
 there. Then after a moment he
 remembered. No use waiting and
 expecting a cab to come by, cruis-
 ing. He would have to go to the other entrance of the building
 where there was cab stand. Cabs did not cruise, expecting to pick
 up fares, in Fremont. He walked ito the Sixth street
 entrance of the hotel, stepped into
 cab and few minutes later was
 riding eastward toward his aunts
 home on the less fashionable side
 of town. He leaned back in the seat and |
 closed his eyes. It had been good |
 to see Jim again. He'd enjoyed |
 swapping yarns with him. The | | two had been friends ever since l they first met. They had been | i friends in spite of the fact that Paxton's father owned the news paper and Bannister's weekly pay envelope contained $20. But Jim had always been a square shooter, never pressing advantages that | were his by right of inheritance. l
 Yes, it had been good to talk over old times And then sud- denly Jim had spoiled everything
 by speaking of dinner parties and 1
 golf and bridge games. The West l | Haven country club where Ire | | r,1n nnt'c n1nnt tpothnrn6 Sfo1rr-
 day. afternoons and holidays. Dave Bannister sighed. What |
 difference did it make whether he
 was in Westchester or at Malibu | Beach or in Fremont? Bridge. |
 Golf. The same bores perform
 ing in the same way, though with |
 different backgrounds. The same 1 social climbers. The same silly
 quarrels and petty enmities. The
 same adulation for current favor
 ties, to be dropped shortly for a 1 newer crop. Bannister opened his eyes and | saw that the rain was coming | down faster. He noted this ab- sentmindedly, without interest. His i | thoughts continued in the groove l they had taken. Of course he knew why he had | refused Jim PaXton's invitation to l | join a bridge game. There would be no orc at Aunt Kate's house | when he arrived there and there | | was no reason for him to return. | No reason, at least, but one that | n1Ata a1r ,rff fn,.IHy ical. He knew that when he arr
 rived, he would go to his room and begin another letter to Adele | Allen-a letter which, quite likely, | he would tear up when 1t was fin- ished, just as he had torn up the Mast one. l But it was certainly better. to
 tear them up than to send them,
 after the other one had been re-
 turned. 'I'm all kinds of a fool,"
 Bannister told himself. He meant
 it. He had belabored himself in
 the same way hundred times | before. I That was why he had been so ir-
 ritated by Paxton's chatter about Hollywood. Jim hadn't meant any thing by it, he knew. But suppose | some of those internal gossip writ
 CTS shoud pick up something about | Adele and himself? A bitter smile | erased that thought instantly. No
 chance of that! Those profes-
 sional gossip distributors kept him up with the times at, least They
 might-and no doubt would-write | of Adele but 1t would be to couple
 her name with that of Donald
 Quayle. the leading man whose fan mail was so enormous.
 Anyone who knew. Hollywood at all would understand why Adele
 Allen had thrown over Dave Ban
 mister for Donald Quayle. Ban
 mister was. tos be sure. a promis- ing young writer. One of the new
 names ill literature. But Donald Quayle was an established suc- cess. Handsome. Wealthy, too,
 with a box office following reflect ed directly in his contract. Ger | tainly it was easy to understand why Adele found Donald Quayle so fascinating.
 Bannister stopped thinking about Quayle and thought about Adele.
 Adele's eyes, mocking and mis-
 chievous. danced before him.
 Adele's copper tresses. The slim
 figure, so perfectly graceful, per-
 fectly rounded. Her soft, throaty | and inviting.
 The picture disappeared in the | cold driZzling darkness outside. Bannister had known the girl in New York three years before. She
 had played a small part in a pro- duction that had had a long run | in the metropolis. He had met her at parties, taken her to dinner, | been friendly in a casual way.
 Then last spring in Hollywood he | had seen her again. That time | there was no mistake about it. Suddenly, inevitably, he had fallen head over heels in love. Adele
 was playing small parts still but
 they were in pictures.
 David had fallen in love and it | had been for the first time in his | life. There had been weeks when | the joy of Adele, the beauty of her, | | the amazing, unbelievable sweet ness of her were overpowering. | | Weeks that had been-oh, well, |
 they were over now! For Adele |
 had been given a part in a pic ture starring Donald Quayle. She ]
 had caught the directors atten- |
 tion. had given life and vividness |
 to the brief scenes in which she |
 appeared and with that single per
 formance she had stepped from |
 the realms of the comparatively |
 unknown to a place in the film | | Armament.
 With equal ease, too, she had |
 stepped into q new existence in |
 which Donald Quayle was always | | opposite her at luncheon tables, |
 Donald Quayle was driving with
 her. dancing with her, swimming | with her.