The Road Of Crime

CHAPTER XVI GRAHAM STATES FACTS

THREE days had elapsed since the affray at Ezra Talboy’s home. Graham Wellerton, recuperated from his wound, was seated in Ralph Delkin’s living room. The young man was alone, idly passing the early afternoon in a leisurely fashion.

Eunice Delkin entered. The girl’s eyes were sympathetic, as they turned toward Graham. The young man seemed moody; Eunice thought that she knew the trouble.

“It is too bad, Graham,” she said. “Too bad to think that after your brave effort, your uncle died. We feared that he would not recover, but no one expected that he would pass away last night. Father hesitated to break the news to you this morning — that was why he did not tell you until he was leaving for the factory—”

“Don’t worry about me,” interrupted Graham. “I am not sorry because my uncle died. There was no good will between us.”

“But your uncle said that you had saved him!” exclaimed the girl. “It seemed so wonderful to think that you had gone to his home to make a friendly visit!”

“You are mistaken, Eunice,” declared Graham cryptically. “I had a different purpose in visiting my uncle’s home. When he told his story, I offered no objection — that is all.”

“Another purpose?” echoed Eunice. “What other reason could you have had?”

“You may learn that later,” said Graham. “After I have gone from Southwark.”

“You are leaving us?”

“Yes. Today.”

As Graham arose, Eunice stared in bewilderment. This decision was an unexpected one. The girl seemed wistful. She placed a restraining hand upon Graham’s arm, and urged the young man to remain.

“You can’t leave here now!” Eunice exclaimed. “You have found yourself, Graham! You have been so different since the night you saved your uncle’s life — so friendly — so patient—”

“I did not intend to leave Southwark,” interposed Graham, “until my uncle died — as I expected he would. Now that he is dead, there is nothing to keep me here.”

“Nothing?” questioned Eunice sadly. “I thought — we thought, father and I, that you would learn to like us, to appreciate the friendship and the hospitality that we offered. You are free to leave here, Graham, but there is every reason why you should stay.”

“There is every reason why I should leave,” responded Graham. “I have been a cad. I came to the realization that I was wrong. I have tried to make amends — to reward you and your father for the kindness that you have shown me.”

“You can do that best by remaining.”

“Not now, Eunice. I have only one more favor to ask — one that I believe your father will grant. That is sufficient money to enable me to leave town and go somewhere else.”

“But Graham! You must explain your reasons!”

Graham Wellerton shook his head. A heavy feeling gripped his heart. He was sick of crime — through with it forever, and it hurt him to realize that the only way he could have found to reward Eunice and her father had been through theft.

RALPH DELKIN had not yet found the notes which Graham had placed in his safe. Graham had done that job with elation; he had since experienced the reaction. For the first time in his career of lawlessness, he had thought of other persons while committing a deed of crime. The paradox — the belief that the end justified the means — had produced chaos in his mind.

He had recalled all his previous crimes — actions impelled by thought of selfish gain. He realized that Eunice Delkin was so far above him that comparisons were futile. The thought that he had stooped to crime to insure this girl’s happiness made him feel that he was a creature unworthy even of contempt.

What would Eunice think if she knew him to be a crook? All Graham’s usual indifference faded at the thought. He wanted to leave Southwark before this beautiful girl would know that he had dealt in crime.

Let Ralph Delkin find the notes; the manufacturer would understand. He would destroy those paper obligations, without, Graham hoped, mentioning the subject to his daughter.

Graham Wellerton walked toward the door. He was going upstairs to pack some luggage. Then to the factory, to borrow money from Delkin, and after that a departure to begin a new and honest career.

It grieved Graham to realize that he was forced to leave behind him the one person who had ever shown understanding. Graham liked Ralph Delkin, but he knew in his heart that the manufacturer had tolerated his idle term of residence only because of Eunice’s persuasion.

The girl was not willing to see Graham depart without further discussion. Eunice stopped the young man at the door, and quietly demanded a reconsideration of his decision. This increased Graham’s misery; it did not, however, change his notion. Firmly, Graham repeated that he was leaving Southwark.

The front door opened while Graham was still insisting that nothing could change his mind. Ralph Delkin appeared. At sight of her father, Eunice decided that she had found an ally. She turned to Delkin and blurted forth the news.

“Graham wants to leave, father!” exclaimed the girl. “He says that he can no longer remain in Southwark. He will not tell me why.”

“I know the reason,” returned Delkin calmly. “Graham — I should like to talk with you for a few minutes — in here—”

Delkin indicated the living room.

GRAHAM turned from the steps. He knew that Delkin had discovered the notes in his safe. Eunice followed the two men into the living room. Ralph Delkin turned to bid his daughter to leave. Graham Wellerton shook his head in resignation.

“Let Eunice remain,” he asserted. “She may as well know the truth — now that you have learned it.”

Ralph Delkin nodded. He was serious as he noted the resignation in Graham’s tone. Reluctantly, the manufacturer drew the clipped papers from his pocket and held them out for Graham to see.

“You placed these in my safe?” he questioned.

Graham nodded.

“How did you get them?” quizzed Delkin.

“I broke into my uncle’s bank,” declared Graham. “I blew open his safe. I found the notes and took them. I knew the combination of your safe, and opened it to place the notes there.”

“I thought that the burglars blew the safe,” said Delkin in a puzzled tone. “That was Sheriff Taussig’s decision — a most logical one. The sheriff said that they must have lacked sufficient explosive to blow the vault. How could you have blown the safe? You were wounded—”

“I went there early in the evening,” explained Graham, in a dull tone. “I came back afterward to see if an alarm had been given. That was when I discovered burglars torturing my uncle.”

Ralph Delkin began to understand.

He nodded as he looked at the notes in his hand. He seemed at a loss. At last, he spoke in a sincere tone.

“You did wrong, Graham,” he said. “Nevertheless, your motive was excusable. Still, these notes do not belong to me. If your uncle were still alive, I would be forced to return them to him. Now that he is dead, I must declare them to his estate.”

“I thought so,” returned Graham. “That is why I decided that I would leave town — one reason why, at least. I knew that you would not want to incriminate me — so I felt that it would be best to leave you free to act as you desired.”

Regretful in tone, Graham unconsciously turned toward Eunice. The girl approached and laid her hand upon his arm. There was no reproach in her voice.

“Graham,” she said, “you did wrong. Father and I could not accept a favor of this sort. But we can find a way to arrange matters without your leaving Southwark. No one will know of this but father and myself. We shall remember only the intention — not the deed.”

The girl’s gentle persuasion was almost irresistible. Graham Wellerton felt the mad desire to say nothing more — to accept these terms without a comment. Then came a wave of remorse; the knowledge that Eunice knew nothing of his past. What right had he, a despicable crook, to further prey upon the sincere friendship of this girl and her father?

There was only one way out — a complete confession. With surging thoughts, Graham Wellerton broke forth with a complete denunciation of his evil past.

“I’LL tell you why I’m leaving Southwark,” he declared bitterly. “I’m leaving because I’m a crook. I’ve been a bank robber. Those men who were torturing my uncle were once members of my mob. I belong in prison — not in the home of respectable people.

“I’m not going to jail. That would be futile. Nor am I staying here; that would be unfair. There are only two people living who could prove my past guilt” — Graham’s face hardened as he thought of Wolf Daggert and Carma Urstead — “and if I can dodge them, I can go straight.

“That’s why I’m leaving here, so that I can try to live right. But I’d never impose upon such fine people as you. I know you think I’m scum” — Graham was observing the expression of disapproval on Ralph Delkin’s face — “and that’s why I’m glad I’ve told you everything. I don’t deserve your friendship. That’s all.”

Graham could see that his words had had full effect upon Delkin. The honest manufacturer had drawn away, apparently alarmed by Graham’s presence. If that was the way Delkin felt, Graham decided, how much more disdainful would Eunice be! With that thought, Graham turned toward the girl. He stood dumfounded, as he gazed into her eyes.

Eunice was pale, but her face had lost none of its kindliness. With a forgiving smile, the girl looked directly into Graham’s eyes and gave her answer to his self-accusation.

“The past does not matter, Graham,” she said. “This is the present and the future lies ahead. You are honest. You have told the truth. You desire to live a straightforward life; begin it here, in Southwark, with friends who understand.”

His daughter’s confidence caused Ralph Delkin to change his attitude. He seemed to lose his temporary aloofness. Although he did not speak, Delkin nodded, to show that he would second his daughter’s invitation.

“I appreciate this, Eunice,” gulped Graham. “I’ll never forget this friendship. But I had better go — away — on my own. I need a little money — that’s all—”

Ralph Delkin pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and proffered the cash. Eunice began an objection as Graham took the money.

“Graham must not leave us, father!” she exclaimed. “It is not right — he needs us more now than ever.”

“I’m leaving,” announced Graham quietly.

Ralph Delkin found himself in the position of mediator. Abashed at his own lack of confidence, the manufacturer was ready to add his pleas to those of his daughter. Graham, his heart burning, broke forth in a new effort to make himself appear worthless.

“There are people who know what I have done,” he asserted. “Two people — one a crook — the other a woman — my wife. Yes — my wife. She is living in New York, under her maiden name, Carma Urstead. She will cause trouble if she knows I am here. She has always caused me trouble.”

A gleam of understanding flashed in Eunice Delkin’s eyes. The girl’s intuition prompted her to put a pointed question.

“This woman who has caused you trouble,” queried Eunice. “Was she the person who forced you into crime?”

GRAHAM did not reply. Looking at his face, however, Eunice knew that she had struck the truth. Graham saw that further words would only prompt Eunice to again urge her father to make Graham stay in Southwark. Quickly, the young man turned to Ralph Delkin.

“You can understand,” said Graham. “You see why I must leave. All I ask is that my confidence be kept.”

“Yes,” agreed Delkin. “You had better go.”

Swinging, Graham walked past Eunice, The girl turned to call to him. Her father stopped her. Graham hurried upstairs and packed. When he came down, he found Eunice, pale and worried, standing beside her father.

“I shall drive you to the station,” declared Delkin. “Eunice has consented to your departure.”

Graham could see that the girl had been reluctant. Only her confidence in her father’s judgment could possibly have made her come to this agreement.

As Graham walked toward the door, Eunice extended her hand. As Graham received it, he could see true sympathy and lasting friendship in the tear-dimmed eyes that looked toward him.

“We must start,” declared Delkin.

Eunice was standing at the door when Graham looked back from the departing car. Graham Wellerton caught one last glance, and his heart filled with admiration for the wonderful spirit of the girl who had been his true friend.

Graham did not speak to Delkin as they rode along. There was nothing to be said. The pair arrived at the station. Graham alighted and took his bag. Silently he extended his hand in farewell. He noticed that Ralph Delkin was looking beyond him. Graham turned.

Coming from a car which had swung up to the station was Sheriff Ellis Taussig. The official was making directly for Graham Wellerton. Taussig’s gruff voice blurted forth before Graham could speak.

“Where you going, young fellow?”

“Just leaving town,” responded Graham quietly.

“Not yet,” chuckled Taussig. “You’re coming up to Harwin Dowser’s office, along with me.”

“What for?”

“You’ll find out,” responded the sheriff. “Say, Delkin — have you got time to drive us up there? You’re a friend of Wellerton’s—”

Graham saw Ralph Delkin nod. At the sheriff’s urge, Graham entered the car. As they rode along the street, he wondered what had happened. Had Wolf Daggert been caught? Had the yellow gangster lingered long enough to catch a glimpse of Graham and denounce him as a crook?

Graham worried; then, with calm indifference, he waited the outcome of this unexpected event which had interrupted his much-desired departure from the town of Southwark.