She turned her back on the city which had given her birth, the city which had given her romance and the city which had booted her around and sneered and pointed in derision to her and her children, the widow and the babies of Dutch Schultz. She is a nurse in a Catholic hospital, still in her early thirties, still soft and attractive. She loves her new purpose and her new surroundings and the peace and usefulness of her life. Your authors know just where she is and who she is, but they will keep it confidential--even from her old friends on Dream Street--The Canyon! 3. THE MAIN DRAG If Broadway is a "state of mind," as some phrase inventor put it, a clinical psychiatrist should diagnose it. He might isolate the precise form of dementia which drives this wacky world of fancy, flesh, piracy, pruriency and pure poesy to its multiform objectives. Nowhere else do the Lord and the Devil work so nearly side by side. Here romance, misery, murder, adultery, mother-love and human frailty are commodities; carnal appeal and ridicule and horror are inventoried and price-tagged; the money-changers throng the steps of the temples of art with none to castigate them. Slashing through the very center of traffic in solid substances, this highway of economic parasitism dominates the scene. * * * * * New York is a great seaport--so are Baltimore and Boston; New York is a great factory town--so are Cleveland and Detroit; New York is a great railroad terminal--Chicago is greater; New York is a great seat of learning--so is Los Angeles. The difference is still Broadway. There is only one! In its days of richest glory, Broadway's crown jewels were its masters of stage production; their thrones were its theatres where their works reigned. Of all these, not even excepting the brothers Frohman, the most lustrous was David Belasco. He covered a wider range of time as well as of topic. He was the archdirector, a playwright of cunning talent, a manager and star maker. He was a more intensely exciting character than any he ever dreamed up. He built the Belasco Theatre, which was his show-case, his workshop, his royal castle, his private museum, and his play pen. Past 76, he was vigorous, virile, and planning for the future. Mr. B. (even his mistresses called him that) told one of your authors, who was his intimate friend despite a wide disparity in ages, that he couldn't truly interest himself in a play unless he had a sweetheart in the cast. Handsome, distinguished, with hypnotic and penetrating eyes under black lashes in contrast with snow-white hair, wearing always a priestlike costume which he had designed and would never explain, his years did not dim the electric effect he exercised on beautiful women.