And then there was another. That when certain restrictive measures were indulged in, the Arbuckle counsel had it whispered about that should things get too strong, the defense might allow the names of certain men and women, socially prominent in San Francisco, to be introduced as possible witnesses to testify as to the actual happenings. Needless to say, the well known Mr. and Mrs. Consternation immediately entered upon the scene. * * * * * And there was Captain Al Waddell, who commanded a battery in our late fracas. Al is the boy who made a hero out of Cliff Durant out here—really put over the son of the “Master Mind” of the automotive world, W. C. Durant. Al, who knows everybody and everything in California, might have made a fortune in writing a Hearst feature about the Durant divorce—but he’s too busy selling the Perfecto two-speed axles for Fords—whatever they may be. It seems that for six years young Cliff had been telling his wife what to do. When he returned from an important conference in New York with his dad, who was still president of the General Motors, she calmly announced: “For six years I’ve been listening to you tell me what to do. Now for six seconds just listen to me tell you what to do.” The inside of the bomb contained these sweet tidings: “Just give me one-half of what you own.” Since Cliff was worth eight or ten millions, you’ll advise it was disastrous news from the front, inasmuch as she “made it stick.” And now, so the story goes, Cliff won’t have to worry and fret about any mysterious looking gentleman coming to stop at his hotel at Le Bec when he blows in. * * * * * There’s another echo from the town of fogs and poodle dogs that doesn’t ring of Robbinsdale. Just shortly after that infamous Howard Street Gangsters affair the police raided a “Love Nest.” It seems that, regardless of race, creed or color (or sex) you indulged your favorite diversion while in the “Love Nest” with your neighbor. Inasmuch as minors were involved, there was another “Roman holiday” expected for those who would crowd the prisons. Just when they were getting ready to point thumbs down, the defense asked for continuance. “And on what grounds?” demanded the prosecution. “So that we may bring witnesses—women of high social rank in the city—to testify, by way of the indisputable means of photographs, that my clients are nothing more than artistic photographers, specializing in taking photos of women in the nude.” It is a rather singular fact that the continuance was granted, that little more was heard about the case and that instead of being sent to San Quentin for fifty years the defendants got off with light sentences. Asked how they could account for these women posing in the Altogether, one of the “Artistic photographers” replied, “Well, every woman seems to feel that she has the form divine.” * * * * *