Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

A MONTH turned to his home, quite out of funds, a common habit, I assure you. He might be a failure in everything, including health, but he was eminently successful in the spending of money. Rollin went straightway to the office of his attorney to have this little matter of finances adjusted. Now, Allan K. Mac- Kintyre, an old fashioned counsellor at law, of Scottish descent, had handled the Liv- ingston affairs as long as Rollin could re- member. He had been an old and trusted friend for so many years that he was given a free hand with everything and ran things about as he pleased. Indeed, this last Liv- ingston left everything to Attorney Mac, and freely spent every cent he could wheedle out of the old man, laughing at verbose lectures on economy. And, like so many of his kind, Rollin seemed to think that the supply of money was endless and that Attorney Mac would take care of him for the rest of his natural life. You shall learn how he was rudely awakened on this eventful Friday! Attorney MacKintyre almost belonged to the Livingston family. He had never. done anything else but manage the Living- ston affairs. As a clerk with Phinister Abrams he had shepherded the Livingston fortune and down through the years he had grown to be a wizened, bony faced, white haired custodian of the property, with a special duty to prevent the last Livingston from spending every cent and ending his days in the almshouse. Mac loved Rollin like his own son. He knew how desperately ill the boy was. He realized that it was a time for desperate remedies. As soon as Rollin wired that he was coming home Attorney MacKintyre set about doing the thing he had long planned to do—but, heretofore, had lacked the courage to carry through. Mac’s office was unlocked, but Rollin’s cheerful “ Hello ” was lost on the empti- ness within. Instead of the immaculate and orderly office which Rollin had always known, this was chaos. There was a litter of papers on the floor. Drawers and empty boxes were scattered about over dusty desks and chairs. All was disorder and neglect. The iQ LIVE. 5) one conspicuous thing about the room was a sheet of letter paper pinned to the top of the ancient desk with a steel letter opener. As though drawn thither by some unknown magnetic force, Rollin waded through the scattered papers and read what was scrawled thereon in the old attorney’s shaking fist. It was addressed to him. It merely stated in few and simple words that Attorney Allan K. MacKintyre had at last succumbed to the dire temptation that — had assailed him all these years and run away with the remnant of the Livingston fortune. It was obvious that if he ever wanted to steal anything from the Living- ston funds he had to do it quick. ‘‘ You poor old fool!” ejaculated Rollin; * vou silly old dolt! In a couple of months you could have had everything and welcome without all this bother!” He read the notice again. ‘Poor Mac!” said he. wasn’t more!” Upon the desk lay a folded bit of paper addressed to him, which Rollin opened. It Was an exact inventory of what Mac had taken. It totaled, at market prices, about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He was surprised at the way he had run through the family fortune. There wasn’t much for Mac to steal. Ali that was left for Rollin to do was to notify the police and motor to the poorhouse. Mac was always so thorough and damnably accurate. Trust him not to skip anything. With full power of attorney he had made a good job of it. Absolutely nothing remained but— Hold! Rollin Ross Foster Livingston laughed aloud. He read the list of stolen property again. There was one thing Attorney Mac had evidently overlooked. “Probably he couldn’t find a buyer,” laughed he. This was the old Livingston homestead ranch, long abandoned, in a near-by North- ern State, kept on the books for purely sentimental reasons. Rollin had not seen it in twenty-five years, or since his father died. This, and only this, was left him— and it was enough. When a man has but a few more days of life his requirements are COmicdooks ‘Tm sorry it com