Evening journal., 1922-08-24


would rather that that they too knew
the whole story. They. and ever
you. may call It murder. but by
that time / shall be out OF the way
Let them call 1t what they like.
Il must begin by taking you back
TO a summer day fifteen years ago.
when / was a boy of thirteen and
Mark a young man OF twenty-five.
His whole life was make-believe, and
just now he was pretending TO be
a philanthropist.
He sat in our little drawing
room, fiicking his gloves against the
back of his left hand. and my
mother. good soul. thought what a
noble young gentleman he was and
Philip and I, hastily washed and
crammed into collars. stood in front
of him. nudging each other and kick
ing the backs of our heels and curs-
ing him in our hearts for having in
terrupted our game.
He had decided to adopt one OF
us, kind Cousin Mark. Heaven
knows why he chose me. Philip
was eleven; two years longer 10 wait
Perhaps that was why.
"Well. Mark educated me. went
TO public school and to Cambridge,
and / became his secrtary. Well
much more than his secretary as
your friend Beveraly perhaps has
told you. Mark could never live
alone. There must always be some
body TO listen TO himl. think in
his heart he hoped l should be his
Boswell He told me one day that
he had made me his literary execu-
.or-poor devil. And he used to
write me the absurdest long letters
when ] was away from him, letters
which I read once and then tore up. |
rhe futility of the man!
1T was three years ago that Philip |
got into trouble. He had been hur-
lied through cheap grammar |
school and into a London office, and l
discovered there that there was not |
much fun to be got in this world on I
two pounds a week. ! had a frantic 1
letter from him one day, saying that /
he must have a hundred at once, or !
he would be ruined, and I went to
Mark for the money.
"only to borrow II, you under
stand: he gave me a good salary and
could have paid II back in three
months. But no. He saw nothing
for himself in II. I suppose; no ap-
plause, no admiration. Philips
gratitude would be to me, not to
him.
Il begged, I threatened, we argued
and while we were arguing, Philip
was arrested. II killed my mother
he was always her favorite--but /
Mark, as usual. got his satisfaction
out of it. He preened himself on his
judgment of character in having
chosen me and not Philip twelve
years beforel
Later on I apologized to Mark
'or the reckless things I had said to
nim, and he played the part Of a
gentleman with his !
accustomed skill, but. though out
vardly we were as before 10 each
,ther. from that day forward, /
hough his vanity would never let
lin see It, was his bitterest enemy.
'Tf that had been all. wonder ~
should have killed him? To live
y terms Of intimate friendship with
-man whom you hate is dangerous
york for your friend. Because OF
is belief in me as his admiring and
rateful protege and his belief in
imself as my benefactor. he was
ow utterly in my power. I could
axe my time and choose my oppor-i
unity. Perhaps I should not have
illed him, but had sworn to have
ay revenge-and there he was. poor
ain fool. at my mercy. was in
% hurry.
Two years later I had 70 recon
ider my position. for my revenge
vas being taken out OF my hands.
lark began to drink. Could I have
topped him? I don't think so, but
o my immense surprise I found
myself trying TO. Instinct, perhaps.
'etting the better OF reason; or did
reason It out and tell myself that,
he drank himself TO death.
hould lose my revenge2 Upon my
word. cannot tell you; but, for
whatever motive, I did genuinely
want 10 stop II. Drinking IS such a
'eastly thing, anyhow.
Continued in Our Next Issue.r