Constance Dunlap | Page 7

hired and introduced at the bank.
The mythical realty company prospered, at least if prosperity is
measured merely by the bank book. In less than a week the skilful pen
and brush of Constance had secured them a balance, after straightening
out Carlton's debts, that came well up to a hundred thousand dollars,
mostly in small checks, some with genuine signatures and amounts
altered, others complete forgeries.
As they went deeper and deeper, Constance began to feel the truth of
their situation. It was she who was really at the helm in this enterprise.
It had been her idea; the execution of it had been mainly her work;
Carlton had furnished merely the business knowledge that she did not
possess. The more she thought of it during the hours in the little office
while he was at work downtown, the more uneasy did she become.
What if he should betray himself in some way? She was sure of herself.
But she was almost afraid to let him go out of her sight. She felt a
sinking sensation every time he mentioned any of the happenings in the
banking house. Could he be trusted alone not to betray himself when
the first hint of discovery of something wrong came?
It was now near the middle of the month. It would not pay to wait until
the end. Some one of the many firms whose checks they had forged
might have its book balanced at any time now. From day to day small
amounts in cash had already been withdrawn until they were twenty
thousand dollars to the good. They planned to draw out thirty thousand

now at one time. That would give them fifty thousand, roughly half of
their forgeries.
The check was written and the office boy was started to the bank with it.
Carlton followed him at a distance, as he had on other occasions, ready
to note the first sign of trouble as the boy waited at the teller's window.
At last the boy was at the head of the line. He had passed the check in
and his satchel was lying open, with voracious maw, on the ledge
below the wicket for the greedy feeding of stacks of bills. Why did the
teller not raise the wicket and shove out the money in a coveted pile?
Carlton seemed to feel that something was wrong. The line lengthened
and those at the end of the queue began to grow restive at the delay.
One of the bank's officers walked down and spoke to the boy.
Carlton waited no longer. The game was up. He rushed from his coign
of observation, out of the bank building, and dashed into a telephone
booth.
"Quick, Constance," he shouted over the wire, "leave everything. They
are holding up our check. They have discovered something. Take a cab
and drive slowly around the square. You will find me waiting for you at
the north end."
That night the newspapers were full of the story. There was the whole
thing, exaggerated, distorted, multiplied, until they had become
swindlers of millions instead of thousands. But nevertheless it was their
story. There was only one grain of consolation. It was in the last
paragraph of the news item, and read: "There seems to be no trace of
the man and woman who worked this clever swindle. As if by a
telepathic message they have vanished at just the time when their
whole house of cards collapsed."
They removed every vestige of their work from the apartment.
Everything was destroyed. Constance even began a new water color so
that that might suggest that she had not laid aside her painting.
They had played for a big stake and lost. But the twenty thousand
dollars was something. Now the great problem was to conceal it and

themselves. They had lost, yet if ever before they loved, it was as
nothing to what it was now that they had tasted together the bitter and
the sweet of their mutual crime.
Carlton went down to the office the next day, just as before. The
anxious hours that his wife had previously spent thinking whether he
might betray himself by some slip were comparative safety as
contrasted with the uncertainty of the hours now. But the first day after
the alarm of the discovery passed off all right. Carlton even discussed
the case, his case, with those in the office, commented on it,
condemned the swindlers, and carried it off, he felt proud to say, as
well as Constance herself might have done had she been in his place.
Another day passed. His account of the first day, reassuring as it had
been to her, did not lessen the anxiety. Yet never before had they
seemed to be bound together by such ties