"Suppose," Kalin went on, "that your life intervened between those you
love and happiness; suppose that your life meant misery and failure for
them, while your death meant success and--and comfort."
Benson drew up a chair and placed his hand on Kalin's arm as if to
emphasize his words.
"_The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away_," he quoted earnestly.
"Life is God's gift and should be treasured as such. You may not return
it until He calls, unless you would doubt His wisdom."
Kalin nodded his head thoughtfully.
"Men have gone to certain death for those they love and been glorified
for so doing," he argued.
"A man may _give_ his own life to save the life of another and be a
hero," returned Benson, "but he may not _take_ his own life for any
cause and be aught but a coward."
"What matters it whether he takes it or gives it, so long as the purpose
is the same?" asked Kalin.
Benson gripped the arm on which his hand lay and shook Kalin.
"Wake up!" he commanded sharply. "What's the matter with you to-day?"
Kalin roused himself, as if from a dream, and laughed in a forced,
dreary way.
"Nothing is the matter with me," he replied. "I must have been reading
something that gave my thoughts a morbid turn. Still, your reasoning
seems to be that of a man who never has been tested. Your view has been
my view, but I can see how a man's views may change when he is
confronted by the actual conditions concerning which he has previously
only theorized. I don't think you're right."
"It's a disagreeable subject, even for abstract consideration," asserted
Benson. "Let's drop it."
"All right," said Kalin. "I'm going in to lunch."
In the dining-room he got into an obscure corner and the waiter had to
joggle his elbow to rouse him from the reverie into which he immediately
fell. Then, after barely tasting the lunch he ordered, he went to the
office of the club and asked that all charges against him be footed up.
"There's nothing against me at all now?" he said inquiringly as he paid
the bill.
"Nothing at all, sir," replied the clerk.
"I'd hate to leave any club debts," he remarked, as if talking aloud to
himself.
At his office he found his sons still gloomily discussing the situation.
"I think," he said, "that I have found a way to save the business."
"How?" they asked eagerly.
"The details are not quite clear in my mind yet," he replied. "I would
like to give them a little more thought before explaining the matter.
But, if I succeed in pulling you through, you boys must be mighty
careful in the future. A concern doesn't get out of this kind of hole
twice, and I'm going to turn it all over to you."
"Why?" asked Albert in surprise.
"I ruined one business," was the reply. "One is enough. Be cautious. Go
slow. You've got a good thing--a fortune--if you handle your finances
properly and don't try to spread out too fast."
He shook hands with both the boys, to their great bewilderment.
"Where are you going?" asked Sidney. "One would think you were starting
on a long journey."
"I'm taking leave of the business," he answered, with a laugh that had
something of pathos in it. "I'm going to shut myself up for a day or so
until I get my little scheme elaborated, and then you shall have the
benefit of it, but I am out of active business."
Sidney and Albert were silent for some time after he had left. Jonas
Kalin always had been a rather eccentric man, and they were accustomed
to letting his whims and peculiarities of word and action pass without
comment, but there was something in this parting that made them feel
uncomfortable.
"I don't like it," remarked Sidney. "I wonder if the worry and
disappointment have been too much for him."
"It is a hard blow to him--not for himself, but for us," returned Albert.
"However, we'll see him this evening."
Mrs. Albert Kalin was the housekeeper for the three men. Sidney, being a
bachelor, had always lived with his father, but Albert had married and
moved away from the parental roof. Then, when his mother died, Jonas had
called him back and practically turned the house over to him and his
wife, reserving only one large room for himself. In this he had his own
little library, and to this he frequently retired for long evenings of
solitude, for, while not a recluse, he was a man who really needed no
other companionship than his own thoughts and often seemed to avoid the
society of others.
He was not at home, however, when his sons arrived for dinner. Mrs.
Albert Kalin said he had brought home two or three bundles early in the
afternoon, had gone directly to his room, where he remained for about an
hour, and had then appeared with a valise.
"I never saw him look so haggard and distressed," she explained. "He
kissed me most affectionately and said he had some business to attend to
and would not be home to-night."
Late that evening Sidney Kalin went to his father's club, where he saw
Benson and learned enough to send him to police headquarters. There was
no publicity, but a search for the missing man was begun at once. The
circumstances were, to say the least, disquieting.
At the moment this search was begun Jonas Kalin was crossing Lake
Michigan on one of the large steamers, and his actions were such as to
attract the attention of some of the other passengers. It was a Friday
night boat and was crowded with excursionists bound for a Saturday and
Sunday outing in Michigan. Jonas had a state-room, but he merely put his
valise in it, and then paced the deck, occasionally stopping to lean
over the rail and look down at the water. Once or twice he sought a
secluded corner and sat for a time buried in thought, but he moved away
the moment others stopped near him. About eleven o'clock, as he passed
through the main cabin, he saw a woman putting a little boy to bed on a
sofa, and he offered her his state-room.
"I'm very grateful to you, sir," she replied, "but we couldn't think of
taking it. You'll need it yourself."
"I shall not sleep to-night," he said. "It will be vacant unless you
take it. Shove the valise into a corner somewhere and I'll get it in the
morning."
He dropped the state-room key on a chair and disappeared through a door
leading to the deck before she could make further protest, but his face
haunted her all that night. In the morning, after some search, she found
him huddled up on a camp-stool against the rail of the forward deck, and
she thanked him again.
"You don't look well," she ventured. "Can I do anything for you?"
"It's not a question of what any one can do for me," he answered, "but
of what I can do for others."
"I don't understand you, sir," she said.
"It's a good thing you don't," he returned, and, fearing that she had to
deal with a crazy man, she left him.
After landing, he went directly to a hotel, engaged a room, and shut
himself up in it until afternoon. Then he went to the dock and wandered
nervously back and forth, looking out over the water and occasionally
down into it. The dock men watched him curiously, and one of them
loosened a life-preserver that hung near, but he went back to the hotel
without giving them an opportunity to use it.
He kept close to his room at the hotel, and was so unobtrusive that the
clerks and the other guests hardly realized he was there, and, being
registered under an assumed name, not one of them recognized him as the
Jonas Kalin who was described in the Sunday papers as being missing.
For, the secret search Friday night and Saturday failing to reveal any
trace of him, his sons had decided to try the effect of publicity.
It was not until he had surrendered his room Sunday night that his
identity was established. On the table was found a letter, sealed,
addressed to Sidney Kalin.
"Kalin!" cried the clerk, when the letter was brought to him. "Good
Lord! that's the man who disappeared. And there's a reward for
information. I remember, too, he had all the Sunday papers sent to his
room, and then kept out of the way until the moment he left."
The clerk looked at the letter, uncertain as to what he ought to do.
Finally, he decided to get the Chicago police department on the
long-distance telephone.
"Jonas Kalin has been here for two days under an assumed name," he
reported, "but his identity was discovered only after he had taken the
night boat back to Chicago. He left a letter. It is sealed and addressed
to Sidney Kalin."
"We'll notify Kalin and meet the boat," was the prompt reply. "Hold the
letter until you hear from Kalin."
A little later Kalin called up the hotel and instructed that the letter
be mailed to him at once. As Jonas was already on his way back, nothing
would be gained by having its contents transmitted by telephone. He was
beyond reach until the boat arrived.
It was an anxious little crowd that waited at the wharf for the arrival
of the boat. There were Albert and Sidney Kalin, two detectives and some
newspaper men. The news of Jonas Kalin's sojourn across the lake was
already in the morning papers, having come by telegraph, and there was
natural curiosity to learn the reason for this strange procedure. In
addition, there was an undefined and unexpressed feeling that there
might be a tragedy back of it. In any event, there was a mystery.
The boat reached its dock before five o'clock, but the state-room
passengers had the privilege of sleeping until seven, so only the
excursionists who had been obliged to sit up all night left the boat at
once. There were many of these, however--a weary and disheveled lot of
individuals, groups and couples straggling along to the dock. They were
talking of something that had happened during the night, or was supposed
to have happened. Something or some one certainly had gone over the
rail, for the splash was distinctly heard, and an excitable passenger
had raised the cry of "Man overboard!" The boat had been stopped, but
investigation had failed to discover an actual witness to any such
accident, although two people were sure they had seen something in the
water just after the splash. The captain, however, insisted that it was
all the result of some nervous person's imagination.
To Albert and Sidney Kalin these rumors brought sinking hearts and a
great dread. It took them a little time to locate the state-room that
had been occupied by their father, but a description of him, coupled
with the name he had used at the hotel, enabled them to do it.
His valise alone was found.
Several people remembered the haggard man who had tramped the deck so
restlessly. He seemed to be in great mental distress, anxious only to
keep away from all companionship, and no one could recall having seen
him after the cry of "Man overboard!" Even the captain had finally to
admit that it was probable he had lost a passenger, although, of course,
no blame whatever attached to him or to any of the boat's crew.
Then came the letter that had been forwarded from the hotel. It was
pathetically brief and to the point, as follows:
"My Dear Sons: The insurance money will pull you through. It is all
that I can give you. Your success is dearer to me than anything else
in the world. Your affectionate father,
Jonas Kalin.
Of course, Dave Murray read the story in the papers--all but the letter.
That was brought to him later by Albert Kalin.
"We wish to give you all the facts, without reservation," Albert
explained. "Father did this for us to save the firm, to save an almost
priceless invention." The young man choked a little. "We have hoped
against hope that his letter might prove to be capable of some other
interpretation, or that he may have changed his mind after writing it,
and we have left no stone unturned--"
"Neither have we," said Murray quietly. "Perhaps we know more than you."
"Have you got trace of him?" asked Albert quickly, and his face showed a
dawn of hope that could not be misunderstood: he actually believed his
father dead and would welcome any evidence to the contrary. It was not
the expression of a man who was principally interested in the payment of
the insurance money, although he was naturally presenting his and his
brother's claim.
"I am sorry to say we have not," replied Murray, "but neither have we
any proof of death."
Albert plainly showed his disappointment at Murray's first statement,
and it was a moment or two before he replied to the second.
"I do not know your rules or aims," he said, "but it is possible--indeed
almost probable, under the circumstances--that there never will be any
absolute proof of death. It--it happened in mid-lake, you know."
"Our aim," returned Murray, "is to pay every claim that we are convinced
is just, without resorting to any quibbling or technical evasions, but
we have to be careful. In saying this, I am merely stating a general
proposition, without particular reference to this affair. Indeed, I
concede that the presumption of death is unusually strong in this case.
I shall be glad to have any facts bearing on it that you can give me."
Albert fully reviewed the circumstances as he knew them, to all of which
Murray listened attentively.
"I shall make a complete report to the home office," said Murray at the
conclusion of the recital. "Of course, after the lapse of a certain
period there is a legal presumption of death, anyhow, but it is possible
that the circumstantial evidence may be deemed strong enough to warrant
an earlier settlement. Knowing the ostensible motive, I appreciate the
value of time to you, and I assure you the company has no desire to
delay matters longer than is necessary to assure itself of the justice
of the claim."
After Albert had departed, Murray went over the case carefully, and the
evidence seemed quite convincing. In the first place, there could be no
question as to a very strong motive. There was the certainty of ruin,
which the death of Jonas alone could avert, and, after a lapse of two
years from the date of the policy, suicide did not invalidate it.
Therefore, by his own sacrifice, he could purchase a bright future for
his sons. Then there could be no doubt that he had been depressed and
worried for some time, and latterly unquestionably had brooded on the
subject of self-destruction. In a talk with one man he had spoken of it
as "self-elimination," but he had spoken more bluntly to Benson at the
club. There could be no doubt now that he contemplated such action at
that time, and that he had reference to it when he told his sons he had
discovered a way to raise the necessary money. Everything indicated that
his troubles had made him temporarily insane.
Then there was the evidence of the woman to whom he had resigned his
state-room on the boat, and of various other passengers who had noted
his restlessness and his misery. One woman even asserted that she had
said to a companion at the time that there was a man who contemplated
some desperate act. It seemed probable that he had planned to jump
overboard that first night, but had been deterred, either by lack of a
favorable opportunity or because his courage failed him. His actions at
the hotel, and especially at the dock, were wholly consistent with this
theory, and the blunt note he left was further evidence of mental
derangement. Although his purpose in no way affected his policy, a man
in his right mind would hardly have stated it so frankly; indeed, a sane
man probably would have tried to give the appearance of accident to his
death. Finally, he had boarded the return boat and was missing when the
boat reached Chicago, although his strange actions had directed
particular attention to him during the early part of the trip.
After a brief delay the company paid the policy. The circumstantial
evidence could hardly be more convincing, and the body of a man who
drowned himself in mid-lake might never be recovered.
* * * * *
It was several years later that Albert Kalin called upon Murray and
introduced himself a second time.
"We have just heard from father," he said.
"What!" cried Murray.
"He died in South America," explained Albert; "died there miserably--not
because of any poverty, but because he was an exile and felt that he was
a swindler. He left a letter which was forwarded to us. His life, he
said, had been one long torture since that night on the boat, and he had
a thousand times regretted that he did not actually throw himself into
the lake. I fear," added Albert sadly, "that he really did commit
suicide finally. He made one dying request. I would like to read it to
you."
Albert took a letter from his pocket and read this paragraph:
"My life as an exiled swindler has been hell, but I have seen the
Chicago papers and I know that I saved the firm and the invention and
that you have prospered. That has been my only consolation. It would
have been some relief if I could have communicated with you, but I would
not make you a party to my crime. Now, at last, I ask you to do
something for the old man: Refund to the insurance company every cent
you received, less the premiums I actually paid. Refund it all, if
necessary, but make my record clear. That was the only dishonest act of
a long business career, and God only knows how I have suffered for it.
You have prospered, you can do this, and I know you will. It is that
alone that gives me consolation as my period of punishment at last draws
to a close."
"How did he do it?" asked Murray, before Albert could speak.
"He purchased and took with him a second-hand suit of clothes and a
wig," explained Albert. "He cut off his whiskers and mustache, so that
he appeared as a man who had neglected to shave for a week--a pretty good
disguise in itself, for father was always neat and clean. The clothes he
had worn went overboard with a weight attached, which accounts for the
splash, and he himself raised the cry of 'Man overboard!' After that he
kept out of the light, and he had little difficulty in slipping ashore
while we were hunting his state-room. His mental distress was real, for
he was leaving all he held dear and condemning himself to exile."
"Well," commented Murray, "I guess the circumstances would have fooled
any one, for his whole previous life made him about the last man who
would be suspected of anything of that sort."
"And now," said Albert, "my brother and I are prepared to make a cash
settlement with you on any basis that you deem satisfactory."