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Newspaper Page Text
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By Frank Filson
(Copyright, 1916, W. G. Chapman)
In the train on his way back to the
suburb in which he lived Harold Den
ton reflected bitterly that all his
troubles had arisen from a sentence
spoken by his wife.
"I don't see why you can't make
money as easily as other men."
That had been two years before,
when Denton was a bank clerk on a
salary of $35. Today he was still a
bank clerk, on a salary of $37.50.
But he was accounted one of the
leading citizens of the town.
Mrs. Denton had given out, as, in
deed, her husband had told her, that
Harold held every responsible posi
tion in the city bank. He lived on a
scale of about $125 weekly. And he
actuSlly spent $125 weekly, for he
had been defrauding the bank syste
matically for 18 months.
His wife knew nothing, of course.
She thought the manager had recog
nized her husband's solid worth. She
thought their automobile camei out
of his salary, and her clothes, and
the three maids, and1 the bountiful
table, the club subscription, and all
the rest of the tout ensemble which
had contributed to her happiness.
And Harold Denton reflected bitterly
that he had no more than before he
began his criminal career.
Things had been approaching a cli
max of late. Suspicion had been
aroused, and an expert auditor was.
to begin going through the books on
the morrow. Steel, the manager,
was like a thunderstorm all day. The
president had called in the account
ant against his judgment; he himself
had spent hours on the books, and he
seemed to regard the president's act
as a reflection on him.
Denton was wondering what to do.
His idea had been that, when discov
ery became inevitable, he would go
to Florida. Of course, she would di
vorce him. She was that type of
woman. He had long since been dis
illusioned about their happiness, or
the possibility of it.
When he got home a letter from
England was lying on his table. He
opened it, wondering a little who his
correspondent might be. Denton had
left England in youth, had been kick
ed out, he was wont to say, as a
ne-er-do-well, and he had long since
severed all connections with his fam
ily. He read the letter and looked at
the inclosure that fluttered to the
Fate Had Dealt Him a Sorry Stroke.
table. He reeled back against the
wall, gasping. Pate had dealt him a
sorry stroke. For it was a draft for
$70,000, which his uncle had left him.
And $40,000 would more than cover
With $30,000 he could realize his
aim of retiring from work and start
ing that Florida plantation of which
he had dreamed.
He had just time to hide the letter
when his wife came in.