was a card upon which had been written in pencil, 'Gregory Clerkerton, Chartered Bank of—'"
It was under that open draw heading; and the paragraphs, when carefully read, related how a new coupé, very recklessly driven, had dashed up the approach of the Rush Street bridge and the driver, disregarding the danger signals, hurled his car through the barrier and into the river. The bodies were recovered; and there followed very fair descriptions of Miss Platt's husband and the girl who had been with Kincheloe the afternoon before.
Lucas, though no longer reading, held up the newspaper between himself and his wife; he arose from the table, after a few moments, and strolled into the empty smoking room. So Kinchcloe had killed himself! Well, that, in its way, was fair enough. Kincheloe would give no more trouble; and he had ceased to be an element of danger. "No good to any one; never was," Lucas said comfortingly to himself; and he recalled Kincheloe as he lay sleeping off his debauch. But now Lucas also recalled him as he had been at other times,—the handsome and affable, though indolent young man whom Miss Platt's income had attracted; and Lucas's thoughts carved, of their own accord, unwelcome channels. Miss Platt had possessed such alluring income because of her peculiar capacity to serve Lucas Cullen; and Lucas's need of her had come as a result of that crime committed so long ago. How extraordinarily the influence of that persisted, destroying, at last, not only James Quinlan, among others, but entangling and finally snuffing out the poor yellow canary, Kincheloe, and his weak, girlish companion.
Lucas tried to check himself from further ratiocination, but against his own will, his thoughts flowed on.
