TREACHERY AND TRAGEDY
But Curtin carelessly failed to carry out part of this arrangement and the driver caught Raymond in the act. He was arrested, convicted, and given the first and only prison sentence he ever received—eight years at hard labor. With the loyalty for which he was famous Raymond steadfastly refused to reveal the identity of the confederate to whose folly he owed his own arrest, and Curtin escaped to England.
Soon after his sentence began, rumors reached Raymond in prison of the undue intimacy of his wife and Curtin. He investigated the reports and found them true. Raging with indignation at his wife's weakness and his friend's treachery, he broke his lifelong habit of loyalty, confessed to the authorities Curtin's share in the attempted robbery and told them where he could be found. Curtin was brought back to Belgium and sentenced to five years in prison.
Mrs. Raymond's mind gave way under its weight of remorse, and soon after her husband's release she died in an asylum. This was not the only crushing misfortune the released convict had to face. Through unfortunate investments and the dishonesty of friends he had trusted, his fortune had dwindled to almost nothing. He had to sell his yachts, his horses, and his London house with its fine library and art galleries in order to raise enough to provide for the education of his three children. He sent them to America, where they grew to manhood and womanhood in ignorance of the truth about their father.
With an energy worthy of a better cause, Raymond at once set about making a new fortune. The whole world was his field-forgeries, bank robberies, and jewel thefts his favorite methods. But the nervous strain under which he had always lived and the long prison term were beginning to tell on him. His health was poor—his hand and brain were losing much of their cunning. Each crime made the next one more difficult, as the police got to know him and his methods better, and at last he was forced to abandon the bolder forms of robbery and devote his time entirely to the theft of famous paintings.
Yet, in the face of these handicaps, Raymond made in those last years of his life several fortunes. But one after another they were all swept away as quickly as they were made, and he died, as I have said, penniless.
Did crime pay Harry Raymond? He invested his natural endowment of brains, resourcefulness, daring, energy, and perseverance in criminal enterprises—and died a hunted, hungry, trembling outcast. One-half his industry and intelligence expended in honest business would have insured him a great and enduring fortune and a respected name. If crime does not pay for the really great criminals, how can the small criminals have any hope?