“That so?” Horton looked up, interested. “What is his line?”
“Real estate. He’s the same old plodding George, except that he is getting fat. McKnight died in the prison camp at Rastatt and Swain went under in Wall Street and blew the top of his head off.”
Horton’s ruddy face sobered.
“That makes three of the old crowd gone, for Caldwell was killed in a motor smash-up,” he said. “I remember reading about it in the papers. All violent deaths, too! Well, maybe we’re none of us fated to die in our own beds.”
Storm started nervously and glanced at him. Was there something prophetic in Horton’s speech? Then he shook himself angrily. Bah! he was getting morbid. Morbid, with a hundred thousand dollars at his feet, waiting for him to stoop and pick it up!
Horton, too, stirred in his chair as though shaking off unwelcome thoughts, and added:
“Anyway, here we are! You’re well fixed, and I’m on the road to it; that leaves only Van Tries, of our bunch. Ever hear anything from him?”
“Not since he beat it for Japan with another man’s wife.”
“You don’t say!” Horton’s eyes widened. “Well, he always was a wild one; too much money and no responsibility. I tell you, Norman, money is a comfortable thing to have, but it causes a hell of a lot of trouble in this world! Not that mine will bother me very much, but fellows like Van Tries. They don’t know the value of it till it’s gone, and then they’re out for the count because they’ve never learned to do anything except spend.”
His tone dropped to a monotonous drawl with a note of fatigue in it, and Storm drew a deep breath. It was nearly one o’clock. His plan was complete and there remained only to put it to the test. How quickly the inspiration had come to him! How simple it was and yet how masterly! Perhaps that first murder had sharpened his wits for this! There was no reason for waiting longer; it must be now or never! He rose.