Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 149: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE BLACK TUBE, “I did. It seems Mr. Sands told his wife, Marsh, Miss Thurston, me, and—in fact—let it be generally known that you were to be retained. That was why I wasn’t at all surprised to see you here so quickly with Mr. Marsh.” Craton gave a weary nod. “I am told he did this as a matter of protection, believ- ing that if it were generally known that I would handle the investigation if he went as he did, it might deter the act. [t seems my ability—such as I have—was not rated very highly. However, this letter. Here is a copy, read it.” Deston took the paper and began to read slowly. You selected Thursday night because that was the night Deston was invariably away and Sands was likely to be alone. You went to Brookmeadow with the inten- tion of murder; I can see no excuse for a deed done in cold blood, planned and executed without a thought save of self. Murder In anger I can explain, murder such as you did allows of but one outcome. The law has its penalty and will exact it unless you See fit to place yourself beyond the law’s reach. You faced exposure for money stolen. Money collected by you which belonged to Mr. Sands, but was never turned over. Money given you by Mr. Sands to be given to his 139 son, but never paid to him. These were your reasons. I had the facts, but the changing of the tire on your car settled the matter with- out controversy. I could say a great deal more, but I decline the opportunity. I have no desire or wish except to say, in sorrow— cood-by. BANARD CRATON, Deston looked up. He felt between the lines of those brief words the hint of pathos, the sorrow in which they had been written. He was white of face, silent. “TT sent that letter,” said Craton, “ and the telephone call tells us what has been the result. It is best as it is.” He arose slowly and picked up his hat. “ But, Craton!” cried Deston, shaking himself out of the chill of horror that seemed to rest upon him. “ This letter! To whom was it sent?” “Is it possible?” questioned Craton. **'You, who declined to tell me who col- lected Mr. Sands contracts! You must know!” “ But I don’t. I always suppose Mr. Sands handled those collections himself.” Craton put on his hat. ; “T am going. Good night. That letter was addressed to Howard Marsh.” THE END AT LAST ND when f die, I want no man-made park, Or a granite headstone, tall. An iron fence high, A street lamp for the dark, Near a marble fountain’s fall. But a lone wolf’s cry, A pine tree for a mark, And starlit hills for a wall. Eari W. Scott. CoOnmicoookSse©