sounding in his ears.
At first, Graham had no recollection of how he had reached this spot. A medley of scattered thoughts ached through his brain: King Furzman - Wolf Daggert - Carma - these three who had played a part in his career of crime seemed somehow responsible for his present plight.
Graham tried to collect his ideas into a reasoned process, but failed in the attempt. Somehow, he realized that he was no longer working for King Furzman; he also seemed to know that Wolf Daggert had caused him trouble. These thoughts were disturbing, but through them, Graham had a vague belief that all that might have happened had at least freed him from Carma.
Unsteadily, Graham managed to rise to his feet. He experienced a sickening sensation and a pain in the back of his head. He rubbed his face; dimly, in the moonlight, he saw blood upon his hand. Moving weakly toward the brook, Graham stooped and began to bathe his face in water.
This experience was refreshing; nevertheless, Graham had difficulty in remembering recent events.
One impression stood out; that of a wild leap from a traveling automobile. Responding to the thought, Graham began to feel his arms and legs as though expecting to find some broken bones.
Revolver shots! They had come with that leap. Graham smiled weakly. He had escaped the death that was intended for him. He had fallen far; he had crashed through snapping boughs and scratching brambles; but he was still alive. There was satisfaction in the thought.
Mechanically, the young man forced his way through a mass of bushes and came to the side of the ravine. He picked his way up the steep ascent, gripping clumps of thick, dry grass, slipping and tottering at times as he made the climb. At times, he caught hold of projecting chunks of rock. His fall down the ravine had been fortunate in that he had escaped these.
Graham sank exhausted when he reached the brink beside the road. He felt many aches. The climb had been a painful one. The jarring effects of the fall were apparent. Graham had a slight limp as he regained his feet and started to walk along the road; but the trouble departed as he continued.
Actually, the young man was suffering from a slight concussion of the brain, caused by one of the jolts that he had experienced. This injury, while it curbed his mental processes, made him oblivious to the minor hurts which he had sustained.
LIMPING and bleeding from small wounds, his face bearing livid scratches, Graham Wellerton made a sad appearance as he trudged along on a meaningless quest. He was a natty gentleman of crime no longer; he looked like a battered rowdy who had emerged from a strenuous brawl.
Hazily, Graham recognized his plight. He was somewhere in a rural district, illy clad and away from the help of friends. For the first time, Graham’s thoughts pertained to money, and he shoved his hand into the pocket where he had carried a roll of more than six thousand dollars. It was empty.
Startled, Graham came to a halt. He turned to head aimlessly back toward the ravine; then came a momentary burst of memory.
He recalled himself as a captive in an automobile; he remembered a captor seated beside him. That was where the money had gone. One of his former associates had frisked his pocket after Wolf Daggert had decreed his death.
Graham Wellerton did not have a dime. He laughed hoarsely and began to trudge onward. After a mile of long, winding road, he came to a crossroad and stared gloomily at the signpost. He noted names there and repeated them in a familiar tone; then, while his thoughts were still confused, he turned to the left and began to walk along.
Where was he going? Why?
Graham did not know. He knew that he was miles from the main road where Wolf Daggert had overtaken the marauding band. He could recall that event now. But he had no desire to go back to the main highway. He was following this little-used road in response to some peculiar awakening of long-forgotten memory.
Another crossing. By the moonlight, Graham Wellerton read a new sign and laughed. He resumed his progress. As he reached a fork, he instinctively took the road to the right. He seemed to recall events of long ago, when hiking had been his hobby.
Steady tramping became monotonous. Not once did Graham Wellerton desist from his steady, plodding pace as he covered weary miles. A predominating purpose was banging in the back of his head. He was going somewhere; he would not stop until he arrived. His whole condition was governed by a mental cloud.
Minutes became hours. Graham, was indifferent to the passage of time. At last he struck a macadamized road and breathed a long sigh of relief. This long tramp had been a weary experience; without knowing it, Graham had covered a distance of nearly twenty miles; but the journey seemed to be nearing a logical end.
A picket fence showed on the right. Dull moonlight revealed a grilled gateway. Graham Wellerton stopped and peered through the upright bars of the gate.
Gray tombstones, whitened by the shimmering light, showed the place to be a cemetery. Graham felt a desire to enter the graveyard - why, he did not know. The iron gate resisted his feeble efforts to open it. Desisting, Graham continued his course along the road.
This time a wooden fence stopped him. He looked upon the expanse of an old abandoned race track. He wanted to climb that fence; to run around the half-mile oval. Weariness, coming with increased recognition, caused him to change his mind. He resumed his roadway plodding.
He passed houses set back behind rows of evenly-planted trees. He found himself entering the main street of a town, where occasional lights shone from overhead. Then came a sound that made him stop and listen intently. A loud-chimed clock was tolling the hour of four.
EACH reverberation of the beating gong was a driving stroke in Graham Wellerton’s brain. Surging recollections came in furious deluge.
Quickening his pace, the dazed man moved along the street. He began to eye buildings that seemed familiar. He turned a corner down another lighted street. He came to a building that stood apart. It looked like a large store; but its barred windows proved that it must serve some other purpose.
Graham Wellerton read a large-lettered sign above the building. The words were plain in the light from the street. An angry scowl came to Graham’s face as he saw the legend:
EZRA TALBOY
STATE BANK
The irony of the present moment came clearly to Graham’s mind. Clouds lifted. He understood. Until this minute, he had not realized in what part of the country he might be; he had known only that he was somewhere between New York and Grand Rapids. Now he knew that he was in the town of Southwark.
Every important incident since the ravine was suddenly explained. The first signpost had pointed to the town of Southwark; so had the next. Then Graham had found himself upon a familiar road. He had followed the natural direction of his boyhood hikes, back to the town of Southwark.
The cemetery - that was where he had so often visited his mother’s grave. The race track - that was where he had run races with his boyhood companions. This building had been his father’s bank. The house beyond it was Graham’s old home.
The name of Ezra Talboy signified the truth which Graham had learned while absent from the town of Southwark. Ezra Talboy, brother of Graham’s mother, had swindled Graham’s father of all he owned. Well did Graham remember his sour-faced uncle. Ezra Talboy must be an old man by this time - a mean-hearted skinflint living on ill-gained wealth.
GRAHAM WELLERTON clenched his fists as he approached the bank building. His head was no longer swimming. He had regained his normal faculties. He wanted to smash through the grated windows. He reached in his pocket to feel for his revolver. It was gone. The weapon had been stolen also.
Surging wrath, unquenchable hatred - these were the elements which ruled Graham Wellerton. He despised this town of Southwark, hated every person who lived within its limits. He had a mad desire to do damage here, coupled with a wish to leave the town as soon as possible.
