Treasures of Death

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GLEAMING lights formed an endless streak as the taxicab whirled uptown on Fifth Avenue. Terry Barliss experienced a keen zest as he viewed the thoroughfare that he had not seen for a dozen years. This feeling, however, was tempered as the cab swung to the right and roared through the darkness of an uncrowded side street.

In an instant, Terry forgot the interesting glamour of Manhattan. His thoughts became sober. This street marked the end of the glittering ride. His destination lay only a few blocks ahead; there he was to face the sadness of an interview with his aged uncle.

One definite purpose had brought Terry Barliss East from California. He had been summoned here by telegram. He had received the definite statement that his uncle, Shattuck Barliss, had not long to live. Terry Barliss, though not yet thirty, had seen many years elapse since he had met his only living relative.

The grinding of the taxi brakes brought a quick response from Terry Barliss. The cab was stopping in front of a gloomy brownstone house, the front of which was rendered old and decadent by the glare of a street lamp. Terry recognized this as his uncle’s home. He alighted from the cab and paid the driver.

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