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Show ii r- - . . j i FICTION THE LAST CRY oK. H Cot net 111 . . JiiMI his fears, realizing, of course, that this would be only a routine investigation. investi-gation. Surely nothing could have gone wrong. He hastened into his clothes. The police drove him to the house of his uncle. It seemed all of them were awaiting him the state's attorney at-torney men, Jason's servant and in the background Doctor Phelps. "I'm here to give you gentlemen gentle-men every help," he said, gravely, and the sound of his voice gave him sudden courage. "I'm terribly upset to hear of my uncle's suicide." sui-cide." "Suicide? You're certain It was suicide?" The question was hurled roughly at him. Panic gripped him, and his eyes turned desperately to Doctor Phelps. "Surely, Doctor Phelps, you can tell them how absurd it is to think-otherwise. think-otherwise. You can tell them of my uncle's brooding over his ill-health." The doctor stepped toward Alex, his face stern, almost menacing. "I can only tell them the truth, Alex" "Yes, the truth," Alex pleaded. "Your uncle suffered a stroke a week ago and the gun which killed Jason Stoneleigh was found in bis right hand" the doctor paused "and that hand and the whole arm were paralyzed." TTE STOOD outside his uncle's 1 room, and as he listened for a brief moment to the labored breathing breath-ing coming from within, his features fea-tures became distorted by some sinister emotion. For the physical wreck within the room, his uncle stood between him and his inheritance. inheri-tance. Only upon Jason Stoneleigh's death would he come into his estate, and only yesterday he learned from Doctor Phelps, his uncle's physician, that old Jason would perhaps live for years. It was then he had made his decision. Alex clenched his fists as he thought how simple it would be to strangle the life 31 out of the old man Minute but there was an Fiction easier wav one I which would never throw an inkling of suspicion his way. His uncle kept a loaded gun in his room, eccentric as he was, he lived in fear of his life. He kept only one servant, who would be away today, and there would be away today. Alex smiled to himself, deeply satisfied with his plan, as he entered en-tered the room. He greeted his uncle with robust good cheer, but his uncle, a dark scowl upon his thin bony face, sat in his chair silently. There was no movement in his body. "Aren't you feeling any better?" he asked with feigned concern, and then the eyes of the two men met, and their glance seemed to sweep aside all pretense between them. "It's been a long wait, hasn't it, Alex," the old man said with biting contempt, "but I'm afraid It will even be longer. Doctor Phelps has been quite encouraging." encourag-ing." Alex edged toward the desk in which the gun would be. He opened the drawer, felt the brittle coldness of steel. He swept about to Jason Stoneleigh, and the gun was in his hand. "You miserable wretch," he slurred, "I won't have to wait a day longer." The old man's eyes stared wide with terror. His body did not rise from his seat as though he might be frozen with fear. There was only a pitiful cry: "You'll hang for it. Alex!" n MOMENT later,-with detached calm, Alex wiped the gun clean of his own fingerprints, and then placed the weapon in the murdered man's hand. He took one last glance about the room asuring himself there was no trace of evidence. He was sleeping soundly that night, happy in the thought that in the morning he would be a wealthy man. But it was almost midnight when he was awakened by the police. He was ordered to get into his clothes at once. "But I don't understand," he protested, pro-tested, his face white and drawn. Then he succeeded in controlling |
