The Photo-Play Journal (May 1916-Apr 1917)

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PHP photoplay Journal Por PPCPMPPr, im. PAGE 23 mi: ;i IIIDIIQllllHlli DON'T RUN AWAY By DELBERT E. DAVENPORT ON ROTHWELL was the trusted bookkeeper of a widelyknown dentist, whose offices were in one of the large buildings facing Times Square in New York. He had held this position for five years and received a fair salary for his services, but it seemed he totally lacked ability to save money. Forsooth he could never even start a bank account, and he had ample incentive too, because there was a girl in his life, and he really loved her sincerely. Her name? Ah, therein was the irony of it all, for her name was Maude Thorne and she — a Thorne — was deep in his young, foolish heart. But he had a greater woe to combat. It was his own inability to crush his pride to the extent of admitting to her his financial weakness. Quite on the contrary and much to his own mental unrest, he had from the very inception of his suit for her hand represented himself as adequately blessed with pecuniary resources requisite to assuming the bonds of matrimony. He had carried on this deception to the point of a climax when he must either confess that he had prevaricated right along or run away. It was a wonderful night in early June, and despite the ideal conditions existing for a romantic stroll through Central Park, he had begged to be excused on the pretense that he was behind in his work at the office. His real reason in taking this course was to at least postpone for a few hours the final crash which he felt to be inevitable. He had led pretty Miss Thorne to believe he would take her as his own little wife ere the June had gone, and she had shown she was exceedingly happy in the anticipatio . of entering wedlock. Well knowing she would telephone hr" some time during the evening, Rothwell did go to his office and plunge into some work which could have waited, but which served to occupy his mind for the time being. He was discouraged and he was lonesome, and he was sure Fate had some malicious intent in thus keeping him in abject misery. Occasionally he would pause in his work and exert a tremendous effort to . make his mind work out a solution to his troubles. How could he get some money ? Was there anybody who could and would loan him enough to get married on and leave him free to continue his deception? "Oh pshaw," he finally muttered to himself in disgust, "I've thought of everybody I know, and the whole bunch of them hasn't enough money to cover up the amount I've led Maude to think I possess. There's only one way, and that's to steal it and then run away — with her." And that very instant his conscience got to working because he added : "Yes, and get caught, serve a term in prison and be an outcast the rest of my life." He shuddered and banged a book down on his desk at the thought of such a frightful blighting of his career. Then he once more attempted to lose himself in his work and fell to adding up a long column of figures. While he was thus engaged an athletic, middle-aged man entered his office from the hallway. The man wore a large, black slouch hat and a very plain blue-serge suit. He was smooth-shaven and had a very prominently thin, pointed nose, the sharp lines of which were accentuated by a pair of extremely deep-set steel-gray eyes, which shot piercing gazes such as send cold chills up one's back. The man wore rubber heels and soles on his shoes, and therefore Rothwell did not hear him walk in. The first he knew of the man's presence was when he spoke in stern, bass tones. "Say, get a move on you and let me see your account with James Hite," the stranger commanded with a show of authority. "What for?" Rothwell asked, springing to his feet and bravely confronting the man. "Because it's necessary in the name of the law," the man replied throwing back his coat and revealing a detective's badge. "Oh," gasped the bookkeeper as he felt himself being overwhelmed by numerous fears, chief of which was that this detective had overheard him talking to himself and had jumped to conclusions. "Quick, sonny ; I've got only two minutes to get this information in," the detective urged, growing impatient. "Where's your ledger ?" "Right here, but — er — " "Don't worry ; you won't get into any trouble over this," the officer assured him. "Turn to Hite's account." Rothwell obeyed the order without further quibble. "There," he said pointing at the open ledger, "is the account of James Hite. He had all his upper front teeth crowned with gold on February 16th, 1915." "Good," the detective replied as he turned to go. "Much obliged." And he left the office on the run. Naturally Rothwell was deeply mystified by this curious transaction. Apprehension soon got the upper hand on him, and he found himself worrying lest he might now be implicated in some sort of a crooked deal which would mean his undoing. He knew what a howl his employer would send up if he learned of the willingness with which he divulged the secrets of his private books, and he concluded it was morally certain his employer would sooner or later hear of his act in one way or another. It would be just like the brand of luck he usually drew. Why should he remain to face new worries? He had been burdened with all he could stand on account of his love affair. "Aw, what's the use of plugging along this way," he finally muttered to himself. "All that's in store for me is a grand expose and a big heart-breaking bawling-out, and then maybe something bad will come out of this stunt tonight. I'm going away from this burg, and I'm never going to let anyone hear from me again around this dump." Immediately he proceeded to carry out this wild resolution by putting on his coat and hat, leaving his books lay on his desk when it was one of his most important duties to invariably lock these books in the safe. "It'll be a bitter disappointment to poor Maude, but it will be better than to stay and face the music," he cried as his emotions began getting the best of him. He rushed to the door as if there was some necessity for great haste, and was just about to exit into the hall when he was confronted by a big, burly man, whose every physical characteristic was that of a thug Across his left cheek was a deep scar, his nose was very crooked and he had tin-ears. His was not a face to contemplate with a feeling of security, because bull-dog tenacity and wanton cruelty were written all over it. He wore a cap cocked on one side of his head and a heavy red sweater considerably soiled. His very manner was antagonistic. "Hold on," he ordered as he threw his forearm under Rothwell's chin. "I wantta see you'se on some private business. Get me?" So saying he bodily shoved the young bookkeeper back in the office and slammed the door shut after him. "What's the idea?" Rothwell stammered, trying hard to put up a brave front. "De ideer is just dis much dat if a guy comes up here and you'se give him any info 'bout a certain gink what's my pal, I'll croak you'se; dat's all," the bully declared. Fortunately Rothwell still had his wits about him despite his fright, and he realized this man was quite unaware of the fact that he had arrived too late to give his warning. "I should say I wouldn't give any information to no one," Rothwell responded, and then he summoned new courage. "What do you think I am, an information bureau ?" "All I got to say 'bout dat, bo, is you'se had better not be if it's info 'bout me pal they're after," the burly one replied. "Worry not. Goodnight." Rothwell started for the door, but was intercepted. "Don't be in such a rush," the thug said. "I gotta show you'se dat I've got de necessary forces to do me job wid if you dared to spill de beans." So saying he dragged the cowered young man over to a window facing Times Square. "Now, stand by," he ordered, whereupon he raised his hands high in the air as if he were stretching. Then he shoved the now curious bookkeeper into a chair. "Watch and see what me stretch means," he said. Rothwell felt a little too nervous now to venture any bravado. He wasn't just sure what his uncouth visitor planned on doing. Uppermost in his mind was the thought of gunmen and their bold atrocities. Still, he could not understand why he should be a marked man, unless he was only deluding himself to the extent of accepting it as a foregone conclusion that this menacing bruiser was ignorant of his being too late to fulfill his mission. Ye gods, if he be wrong in his deductions, he could see himself crammed in a trunk and figuring in a baffling murder mystery. Then something happened — five evil-faced men walked into the office single-file, and, strange to say, they were all nattily attired in clothes of the latest mcde. Silently sullen they all stopped in a group near the door.