The Strange Case of Robert Kenyon

The Strange Case of Robert* Keny on By Charles F. Steele

Robert Kenyon sat in the comfortable depths of a leather chair. A cheery fire blazed in the grate. He was alone in the library reading the evening paper. Outdoors a December snow was falling, but the winter cold did not penetrate the comfortable Kenyon home. Neither did the hungry cries of the poor, although their dingy dwellings were not far away. — Robert Kenyon was a successful man in the eyes of the world. He was a broker, and had mastered the "game" in years of experience on the exchange. The world said he was wealthy. His friends said he was a man of big business. His physician said the strain was injuring his heart, advising a rest in Florida or southern California. At this Robert Kenyon only laughed. He was of that class of men who scorn the faintest allusion to physical decline. A — rest bah! Then he had a wife and family. They had to be provided for, and the times were critical, and the money market — was tightening 0, there were a hundred reasons why the doctor's counsel was passed by. He had never been much of a churchman. He gave religion no thought. He accepted as true the existence of God, also some sort of a life beyond the grave. Although he had been baptized a member of the Church, he had never been active in its work. Robert Kenyon might be called, like thousands of other American business men, a religious nondescript. He looked upon the Church as a necessary fixture of society, but it meant little more to him. Occasionally he donated to the Church funds, thus managing to keep his name on the records. It must be said to his credit, that he always encouraged his wife and daughters to attend divine service on the Sabbath, providing a handsome limousine for the purpose. Such a man was Robert Kenyon, hard in business, clean in his morals, kind in his family life. And so we find him this Saturday night enjoying a few hours of relaxation, after a strenuous week of business. Through the half-open library door floated the airy strains of an operatic ballad, blending softly with violin and piano accompaniment. The music came from the parlor where his two daughters were entertaining their set for the evening. His son, Robert, Jr., home from college for Christmas holidays, was also

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in the happy party. The only son was just then engaged in the very serious business of making love to the daughter of a prominent banker of a near-by city. He had received the cue from his far-sighted father, whose business instincts led him to invade even the sacred domain of Cupid. On the mantel in the library a clock ticked off the seconds, minutes, hours. Outside the snow was still falling. A north wind had sprung up, presaging a blizzard before morning. The music and laughter in the parlor at length ceased. The farewells were said. The motor cars honked hoarsely. Doors slammed. Lights went out. Then silence fell over the Kenyon mansion. — Twelve o'clock midnight! The clock on the mantel is still ticking off the endless measures of time. The fire has died out. The electric light still burns, its white glow falling over a figure in a leather chair- It is the figure of Robert Kenyon. The evening paper is Iving crumpled at his feet. His massive, iron-gray head is lunged forward on his breast. His two white hands are clutching the arms of the chair. How silent he is! How strangely silent the room — an(i C old. The library is as ghastly in its nocturnal shadows as a chamber of death. Twelve-thirty. The library door opened. A woman, garbed She peered inquisitively in a loose dressing-gown entered. around the room. She approached the figure in the leather chair. The light revealed the anxious face of Mrs. Kenyon. She figure. But spoke. But there was no response. She shook the movement nerve. She touched there was not so much as the of a white hand and snatched it back, a low cry of anguish freezthe ing the midnight air. Robert Kenyon was dead. His doctor had said his heart would fail him— and ' it did. Robert That morning the citv was shocked at the news of Kenyon's strange, sudden death. At the exchange men looked much the usual pandemonium was lacking, ihe orave and of newspapers published his picture and eulogized him in eloquent attended. Banks of floral terms. His funeral was numerously covered the massive black casket. And he was interred offerings in a marble tomb. . Ihe The family lawyer handled Robert Kenyon s estate. press stated that he had left creditors sent in their claims. The was wound up, and the public was no will Finally, the estate There it was in pitiless black and white-at the a-ain shocked. Kenyon was on the verge of time of his untimely death Robert were unpaid, necessitating the bankruptcy. Many creditors still

sale of the stately old Kenyon mansion. Kenyon s old And it was sold-by auction-to a stranger. their beautiful his family lose friends said it was hard to see

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home, but it was just another of the strange tricks of fate, and they were helpless to render any service. They had worries of their own, they argued. And so the bereaved family, humiliated and heart-broken, sought more lowly quarters. Here our story ends. It has a message. Robert Kenyon appeared to the world to be a man of financial stability. He could "get by" as long as he lived. But death overtook him. And he — was not prepared to die. He was a financial and spiritual bankrupt. Death was the farthest thought from Robert Kenyon's mind that fateful December night. But death came and it found him —unprepared. Chattanooga, Tenn.

E. L. WHITING, LE GRANDE, OREGON Standing in his onion patch. He is very much interested in "work with boys," and set a good example on Small Acreage Project work, by tending a garden last year of about two and one-half acres, cultivating almost entirely with his hoe. He raised all kinds of small stuff, including over seven tons of carrots on one-fourth of an acre. ..In signing his report, he says: "From one of the kids, only 73 years old."