UNDER THREE FLAGS
—A Story of Mystery

Under Three Flags

A Story of Mystery

BY

B. L. TAYLOR AND A. T. THOITS.

CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:

RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY.

MDCCCXCVI.

A PRIZE STORY

In The Chicago Record’s series of “Stories of Mystery.”

UNDER THREE FLAGS

BY

B. L. Taylor and A. T. Thoits.

(This story—out of 816 competing—was awarded the THIRD PRIZE in The Chicago Record’s “$30,000 to Authors” competition.)

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Copyright, 1896, by B. L. Taylor and A. T. Thoits.

UNDER THREE FLAGS.

CHAPTER I.
“OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY.”

“No; I am not tired of life. Who could be on such a day? I am weary simply of this way of living. I want to get away—away from this stagnant hole. It is the same dull story over and over again, day after day, world without end, amen!”

“Would you be a bit more contented in any other spot?”

“I think so. I cannot believe that mankind in general is so selfish, so hypocritical, and, worst crime of all, so hopelessly stupid as it is here. The world is 25,000 miles in circumference. Why spend all one’s days in this split in the mountains?”

“But, tell me, what is your ambition, then? Have you one?”

“You would smile pityingly if I told it you.”

“No; I’ll be as serious as—as you.”

“Then incline thine ear. I would I were the ruler of a savage tribe, in the heart of far-away New Zealand, shut in by towering mountains from the outer world.”

“But why spend all one’s days in a valley?”

“Oh, well, if you’re going in for a valley, why not have a good one?”

She throws herself down beside him on the grass and clasps her arms about his neck. “You foolish boy; you don’t know what you want.”

“Don’t I?” He draws the glowing face to his and kisses it.

The two are idling in a grassy nook on the slope of one of Vermont’s green hills, sheltered by a clump of spruce from observation and the slanting rays of the sun.

There is an infinite calm in the late spring air, and the golden afternoon drifts by on lazy pinions. Away in the west, across the vale, the main spur of the Green Mountain range awaits the last pencilings of the low-descending sun. Southward Wild River sings its way through buttercup and daisy flecked meadows; to the north the smoke from the chimneys of Raymond blurs the lines of as fair a landscape as earth can boast.

Derrick Ames pulls his hat over his eyes, stretches himself on the greensward and gazes long and lovingly at his companion. The fair face, browned by many rambles among the hills; the rippling hair, tumbled in confusion about mischievous and laughter-laden brown eyes; the rounded arms; the slim, girlish figure, about which even the coarse dress donned for mountain climbing falls in graceful lines; the dainty feet and the perfectly turned ankles, make a picture for an artist.

She picked up the book which lies open upon the grass and glances over its pages, dreamily.

The sun goes down in a golden haze, and still the lovers tarry in their sylvan trysting-place.

“It is getting late and damp; we had better be moving,” he says, finally.

They arise and take their way across the pasture, their arms clasped about each other’s waist. Derrick is talking in low, earnest tones, with an infrequent interruption by his companion.

“It’s no use,” he exclaims, impatiently, in reply to a protest on her part. “Twice I have spoken to your father, with the same result. I have been refused and insulted. He is selfish, overbearing—”

She places one hand upon his lips. “But will you not make a third trial—for my sake,” she pleads.

“For your sake I would do anything,” he answers, pressing the soft hand to his lips. “There is no time like the present. Will you wait for me here?” She nods. “Where will I find your father?”

“At the bank. I think he said he would be there all the evening.”

“I will return shortly, for I know what the answer will be.”

She watches the erect form of her lover as he strides down the road leading into the village.

The shadows deepen in the valley. The opalescent light that hangs over the range fades into the darkening gray. The moon rises in full, round splendor and transforms the river into a silver torrent.

The clanging of the Raymond town clock, as it hammers out the hour of 8, rouses the girl. “Derrick should be here soon,” she murmurs. Then she clutches her heart with an exclamation of pain and terror.

It is a swift, sharp spasm, that passes away as quickly as it came, and which leaves the girl for several minutes afterward somewhat dazed. Footsteps echo in the road.

“The result?” eagerly, anxiously queries the girl as Derrick reaches her side.

He must have walked swiftly. He is breathing hard and his face is pale as the moonlight. Or is it the reflection of that light?

“Come away from here, for God’s sake!” he exclaims in a harsh, unnatural voice, half-dragging her into the road. “I beg your pardon; I did not mean to be rough,” he adds, as the astonished eyes of the girl look into his. “Will you come for a walk, dear?” And as she follows, mechanically, wonderingly, he walks swiftly away from the village.

“I am all out of breath,” she protests, after a few moments of the fierce pace he has set. And they stop to rest at a spring beside the road.

“You have quarreled with father,” asserts the girl, half questioningly; but Derrick remains silent.

He stops suddenly, and, holding her in his arms, smooths back the dark ringlets from her moist brow. “Helen, darling, do not press me for an answer to-night. Let us be happy in the present. God knows it may not be for long.” He presses a passionate kiss upon the girl’s unresisting and unresponsive lips, and then lifts to the moonlight a face as troubled as the tossing river behind the dusky willows. As he releases her he extends his arm toward the ball of silver that is wheeling up the heavens. “See!” he cries. “The moon is up and it is a glorious night. Shall we follow that pathway of silver over the hills and far away?”

A loving look is her willing assent.

The witchery that the moon is said to exert o’er mortals must be more than a poet’s myth. A strange peace has come upon the girl. Her senses are exalted. She seems to be walking on air. Nor does she now break upon the silence of her companion, whose agitation has been replaced by a singular calm.

What a stillness, yet what a busy world claims the woods they are crossing to-night! The crawling of a beetle through the dead leaves is distinctly heard, and a thousand small noises that the day never hears fill the forest with a strange music.

A short distance farther and the wanderers emerge into the open and pause to marvel at the picture spread before them.

It is a wondrous night. Bathed in a radiance that tips with silver every dew-laden spear of grass, the pasture slopes down to a highway, and the brawling of the brook beside it comes to their ears as a strain of music.

Silently the lovers take their way through this fairyland, clamber over the wall into the road, and continue on.

“I am cold,” complains the girl, with a little shiver. Derrick wraps his light overcoat about her shoulders.

The striking of a town clock causes them both to start.

“Where are we?” asks the girl, looking about her in bewilderment. The moon passes behind a cloud. The spell is over.

“Why, this is Ashfield, isn’t it? There is the station, and the church and the—Derrick! Derrick, where have we been wandering? Five miles from home and midnight! What will Louise and father say? We must go home at once.”

“Home,” he repeats, bitterly, pointing to the north. “There is no home yonder for me. Listen, Helen!” He draws her to him fiercely. “If we part now it must be forever. I shall never go back. I cannot go back! Will you not come away with me—somewhere—anywhere? Hark!”

The whistle of the Montreal express sounds from the north.

The girl seems not to hear him. The long whistle of the express again echoes through the night.

“Helen, darling!” There is a world of yearning and entreaty in his voice.

She throws her arms about him and kisses him. “Yes, Derrick; I will go with you—to the end of the world.”

The station agent regards the pair suspiciously. In the dim light of the kerosene lamps of the waiting-room their features are only partially discernible.

“Sorry,” he says, “but this train don’t stop except for through passengers to New York.”

“But we are going to New York,” almost shouts Derrick. “Quick, man!” The train has swept around the curve above the village and is thundering down the stretch.

“Wall, I guess I kin accommerdate ye,” drawls the station master. He seizes his lantern and swings it about his head and No. 51 draws up panting in the station.

“Elopement, I guess,” confides the station agent to the conductor, as Derrick and the girl clamber aboard the train.

The latter growls something about being twenty minutes late out of St. Albans, swings his lantern and No. 51 rumbles away in the mist and moonlight.

CHAPTER II.
THE PRISONER OF WINDSOR—THE TRAGEDY OF A NIGHT.

“Stanley, I have good news for you.”

“All news is alike to me, sir.”

Warden Chase of the Vermont state prison regards the young man before him with a kindly eye.

“Your sentence of three years has been shortened by a year, as the governor has granted you an unconditional pardon,” he announces.

“His excellency is kind,” replied the young man in a voice that expresses no gratitude and may contain a faint shade of irony.

He is a striking-looking young fellow, even in his prison garb, his dark hair cropped close and his eyes cast down in the passive manner enjoined by the prison regulations. His height is about five feet ten inches and his figure is rather slender and graceful. His face is singularly handsome. His eyes are dark brown, almost black, and the two long years of prison life have dimmed but little of the fire that flashes from their depths. A square jaw bespeaks a strong will. The rather hard lines about the firm mouth were not there two years before. He has suffered mentally since then. There are too many gray hairs for a man of 28.

Warden Chase touches a bell. “Get Stanley’s things,” he orders the attendant, who responds.

“Sit down, Stanley.” The young man obeys and the warden wheels about to his desk.

“I am authorized to purchase you a railroad ticket to any station you may designate—within reason, of course,” amends Mr. Chase. “Which shall it be?” A bitter smile flits across Stanley’s face and he remains silent.

“North, east, south or west?” questions Mr. Chase, poising his pen in air.

“I have no home to go to,” finally responds Stanley, lifting his eyes for the first time since his entrance to the room.

“No home?” repeats the warden, sympathetically. “But surely you must want to go somewhere. You can’t stay in Windsor.”

Stanley is thoughtful. “Perhaps you had better make the station Raymond,” he decides, and he meets squarely the surprised and questioning look of the warden.

“But that is the place you were sent from.”

“Yes.”

“It is not your home? No; I believe you just stated that you had no home.”

“I have none.”

“And you wish to revisit the scene of your—your trouble?”

Stanley’s gaze wanders to the open window and across the valley.

“Well, it’s your own affair,” says the warden, turning to his desk. “The fare to Raymond is $2.50. I am also authorized to give you $5 cash, to which I have added $10. You have assisted me about the books of the institution and have been in every respect a model prisoner. In fact,” supplements Mr. Chase, with a smile, “under different circumstances I should be sorry to part with you.”

“Thank you,” acknowledges Stanley, in the same impassive tones.

“And now, my boy,” counsels the warden, laying one hand kindly on the young man’s shoulder, “try to make your future life such that you will never be compelled to see the inside of another house of this kind. I am something of a judge of character. I am confident that you have the making of a man in you. Here are your things,” as the attendant arrives with Stanley’s effects.

Mr. Chase resumes his writing and Stanley withdraws. Once within the familiar cell, which is soon to know him no more, his whole mood changes.

“Free!” he breathes, exultingly, raising his clasped hands to heaven. “What matter it if my freedom be of a few days only, of a few hours? It will be enough for my purpose. Heavens! Two years in this hole, caged like a wild beast, the companion of worse than beasts—a life wrecked at 28. But I’ll be revenged! As surely as there is a heaven above me, I’ll be repaid for my months of misery. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth!”

He throws his prison suit from him with loathing. Then he sinks back into his apathy and the simple toilet is completed in silence.

A suit of light gray, of stylish cut, a pair of well-made boots, a negligee shirt and a straw hat, make considerable change in his appearance. He smiles faintly as he dons them.

He ties his personal effects in a small package. They are few—half a dozen letters, all with long-ago post-marks, a couple of photographs, and a small volume of Shakespeare given him by the warden, who is an admirer of Avon’s bard.

“Off?” asks Mr. Chase, as he shakes hands. “Well, you look about the same as when I received you. A little older, perhaps”—surveying him critically—“and minus what I remember to have been a handsome mustache. Good-by, my boy, and good luck. And, I say,” as Stanley strides toward the door, “take my advice and the afternoon train for New York. Get some honest employment and make a name for yourself. You’ve got the right stuff in you. By the way, do you know what day it is?”

“I have not followed the calendar with reference to any particular days.”

“The 30th day of May—Memorial day,” says Mr. Chase.

“It will be a memorial day for me,” responds Stanley. “Good-by, Mr. Chase, and thank you for your many kindnesses.”

“I’m rather sorry to have him go,” soliloquizes the warden, as his late charge walks slowly away from the institution. “Bright fellow, but peculiar—very peculiar.”

Stanley proceeds leisurely along the road leading to the station. His eyes are bent down, and he seemingly takes no note of the glories of the May day, of the throbbings of the busy life about him. A procession of Grand Army men, headed by a brass band that makes music more mournful than the occasion seems to call for, passes by on the dusty highway.

“Homage for the dead; contumely for the living,” he murmurs, bitterly.

The train for the north leaves at 4:30. Stanley spends the time between in making some small purchases at the village.

“At what hour do we arrive at Raymond?” he asks the conductor, as the train pulls out.

“Seven forty-five, if we are on time.”

“Thank you,” returns the young man. He draws his hat over his eyes, and turns his face to the window.

At 7:45 o’clock in the evening Sarah, the pretty housemaid at the residence of Cyrus Felton, answers a sharp ring at the door bell. In the semi-darkness of the vine-shaded porch she distinguishes only the outlines of a man who stands well back from the door. The gas has not yet been lighted in the hall.

“Is Mr. Felton at home?” inquires the visitor.

“The young or the old Mr. Felton?”

“The young or the old?” repeats the man to himself.

Sarah twists the door-knob impatiently. “Well?” she says.

“I beg your pardon; I was not aware that there were two Mr. Feltons. I believe the elder is the person I wish to see.”

“He is not at home.”

“He is in town?”

“Oh, yes. He went down-street about 7 o’clock, but we expect him back before long.”

“Would he be likely to be at his office?”

Sarah does not know. Mr. Felton rarely goes to the office evenings. Still, he may be there.

“And the office is where?”

“In the bank block.” Sarah peers out at her questioner, but, with a “thank you,” he has already stepped from the porch. As he strides away in the dusk and the house door slams behind him, a second figure leaves the shadow of the trellis, moves across the lawn and pauses at the gate.

“In the bank building,” he muses. “One visitor ahead of me. Well, there is no need of my hurrying,” and he saunters toward the village, the electric lamps of which have begun to flash.

At 8:05, as Sarah afterwards remembers, Cyrus Felton arrives home. Sarah comes into the hall to receive him.

“A gentleman called to see you, sir, about ten minutes ago. Did you meet him on your way?”

“Probably not. I have been over to Mr. Goodenough’s. Did he leave any name?”

“No, sir. Oh, and here is a letter that a boy brought a little while ago.” Sarah produces a note from the hall table and disappears upstairs.

Mr. Felton opens the note, glances at its contents and utters an exclamation of impatience. He crumples the paper in his hand, seizes his hat and hurries from the house and down the street.

In the brightly lighted room of Prof. George Black, directly over the quarters of the Raymond National Bank, a party of young men are whiling away a few pleasant hours. The professor is lounging in an easy-chair, his feet in another, and is lost in a “meditation” for violin, to which Ed Knapp is furnishing a piano accompaniment. Suddenly the professor rests his violin across his knees.

“Hark!” he exclaims and bends his head toward the open window. “Wasn’t that a shot downstairs?”

“Probably,” assents one of the group. “The boys in the bank have been plugging water rats in the river all the afternoon.”

“But it’s too dark to shoot rats.”

“Oh, one can aim pretty straight by electric light. Go ahead with your fiddling, George. Get away from that piano, Knapp, and let the professor give us the cavatina. That’s my favorite, and your accompaniment would ruin it. Let ’er go, professor.”

As the strains of the Raff cavatina die away, a man comes out of the entrance of the Raymond National Bank. He glances swiftly up, then down the street. Then he crosses the road in the shadow of a tall building and hurries toward the station.

“There is no train, north or south, before 11:50,” says the telegraph operator, in response to a query at the window. He is clicking off a message and does not turn his head. His questioner vanishes.

“Jim, Mr. Felton wants to see you,” the clerk of the Raymond Hotel informs the sheriff of Mansfield County, who is playing cards in a room off the office. Sheriff Wilson is a man with a game leg, a war record, and a wild mania for the diversion of sancho pedro. When he sits in for an evening of that fascinating pastime he dislikes to be disturbed.

“What’s he want?” he asks absent-mindedly, for he has only two more points to make to win the game.

“Dunno. He seems to be worked up about something.”

“High, low, pede!” announces the sheriff triumphantly. “Gentlemen, make mine a cigar.” He throws his cards down and goes out into the office. Cyrus Felton is pacing up and down excitedly. He grasps the officer by the arm and half drags him from the hotel. When they are out of hearing of the loungers he exclaims, in a voice that trembles with every syllable:

“Mr. Wilson, a fearful crime has been committed. Mr. Hathaway has been murdered!”

“Murdered!” The sheriff’s excitement transcends that of his companion, who is making a desperate effort to regain his composure.

“He is at the bank. I discovered him only a few moments ago. Come, see for yourself.”

They soon reach the bank, which is only a stone’s throw from the hotel. After passing the threshold of the cashier’s office in the rear of the banking-room the two men stop and look silently upon the grewsome sight before them.

Lying upon the floor, one arm extended toward and almost touching the wide-open doors of the vault, is the body of Cashier Roger Hathaway. His life has ebbed in the crimson pool that stains the polished floor.

CHAPTER III.
JACK ASHLEY, JOURNALIST.

A loud pounding on the door of his room in the tavern at South Ashfield awakens Mr. Jack Ashley from a dream of piscatorial conquest.

“Four o’clock!” announces the disturber of his slumbers, with a parting thump. Ashley rolls out of bed and plunges his face into a brimming bowl of spring water.

It is early dawn. A cool breeze, laden with the scent of apple blossoms, drifts through the window.

“God made the country and man made the town,” quotes the young man, as he descends to the hotel office.

“Ain’t used to gittin’ up at this hour, be ye?” grins the proprietary genius of the tavern.

“The habit, worthy host, has not fastened upon me seriously. This is usually my hour for going to bed. Hast aught to eat?”

“Breakfas’ all ready,” with a nod toward what is known as the dining-room.

Ashley shudders as he gazes at the spread. It is the usual Vermont breakfast—weak coffee, two kinds of pie on one plate, and a tier of doughnuts.

“Gad! This country is a howling wilderness of pie!” he mutters, surveying the repast in comical despair. “And to flash it on a man at 4 a.m.! It is simply barbarous!”

During his short vacation sojourn Mr. Ashley’s epicurean tastes have suffered a number of distinct shocks. But the ozone of the Green Mountains has contributed toward the generation of an appetite that needs little tempting to expend its energies. He makes a hearty breakfast on this particular morning, drowns the memories of the menu in a bowl of milk, and announces to Landlord Howe that he is ready to be directed to the best trout brook in central Vermont.

Mr. Howe surveys the eight-ounce bamboo with mild disdain. “Them fancy rigs ain’t much good on our brooks,” he declares. “Ketch more with a 75-cent rod.”

“I am rather inclined to agree with you on that point, most genial boniface; but it’s the only rod I happen to have with me, and I expect to return with some fish unless the myriad denizens of the brook which you enthusiastically described last night exist only in your imagination. By the way, what do you think of the bait?” passing over a flask.

Mr. Howe’s faded blue eyes moisten and a kindly smile plays over a countenance browned by many summers in the hay field.

“Didn’t buy that in Vermont,” he ventures.

“Hardly. I’m not lined with asbestos.”

The landlord grins. It is a habit he has.

“I keeps a little suthin’ on hand myself,” he confides in a cautious undertone, although only the cattle are listening. “But fact is, there ain’t no use er keepin’ better’n dollar’n a half a gallon liquor. The boys want suthin’ that’ll scratch when it goes down. Now that, I opine,” with an affectionate glance at the flask which Ashley files away for future reference, “must a cost nigh onter $3 a gallon.”

“As much as that,” smiles Ashley. “That, most appreciative of bonifaces, is the best whisky to be found on Fulton street, New York. Well, I must be ‘driving along.’ Where’s this wonderful brook of yours?”

“Follow that road round through the barnyard and ‘cross the basin to the woods. Good fishin’ for four miles. And mind,” as Ashley saunters away, “don’t bring back any trouts that ain’t six inches long, or the fish warden will light on ye.”

“Thanks. If I should run across the warden—” and Ashley holds up the flask.

“That’d fetch him, I reckon,” chuckles Mr. Howe. Ashley vaults over the bars and strides across the meadows.

Ashley is in high feather. “This air rather discounts an absinthe frappe for stimulative purposes,” he soliloquizes. “Ah, here’s the wood, there’s the brook, and if I mistake not, yonder pool hides a whopper just aching for a go at the early worm.” But it doesn’t and Ashley enters the forest.

The farther he plunges into the spice-laden wilderness the more is he enchanted with his surroundings. Picture a cleft in the mountain whose sides drop almost sheer to a gorge barely wide enough to accommodate a wood road and a brook that parallels and often encroaches upon it. Tall pines interlace and shut out the direct rays of the sun and every now and then a cascade comes tumbling somewhere aloft and plunges into a broad, pebble-lined basin.

As Ashley sits by one of these pools, his wading boots plunged deep in the crystal liquid, and pulls lazily on a briar pipe, the reader is offered the opportunity of becoming better acquainted with him.

He is a prepossessing young fellow of something like 27, medium height and rather well built. Blue eyes and an aggressive nose, on which gold-bowed eyeglasses are airily perched, are characteristics of a face which has always been a passport for its owner into all society worth cultivating. A well-shaped head is adorned with a profusion of blond curls, supplemented by a mustache of silken texture and golden hue, which its possessor is fond of twisting when he is in a blithesome humor, which is often, and of tugging at savagely when in a reflective mood, which is infrequent.

Ashley is noted among his friends for chronic good humor and unbounded confidence in his own abilities. He is one of the brightest all-round writers on the New York Hemisphere, and he knows it. The best of it is, City Editor Ricker also knows it. All the office sings of his exploits and “beats” and does their author reverence. Jack always calls himself a newspaper man. That is the sensible title. Yet he might wear the name of journalist much more worthily.

Ashley is in Vermont for his health. Five years of continuous hustling on a big New York daily has necessitated a breathing spell. He was telling Mr. Ricker that his “wheels were all run down and needed repairing,” and that he believed he would take his vacation early this year.

“I’ll tell you where you want to go,” volunteered the city editor, who was “raised” among the Green Mountains and served his apprenticeship gathering locals on a Burlington weekly.

“All right; let’s have it.”

“Take three weeks off and go up into Vermont.”

“Vermont—Vermont—where’s Vermont? O, yes, that green daub on the map of New England. Railroad run through there?”

“Now, see here, Jack,” retorted Ricker, “you’re not so confoundedly ignorant as you imply. That’s the trouble with you New Yorkers who were born and bred here. You consider everything above the Harlem River a jay community. You’re a sight more provincial than half the inhabitants of rural New England.”

Jack laughed. “Come to think of it, you hailed from there.”

“Yes, and it’s a mighty good State to hail from. Now, you run up to Raymond—it’s a little town about in the Y of the Green Mountain range. You’ll not have Broadway, with its theaters, and restaurants, and bars, but you’ll get a big room, with a clean, airy bed to sleep in—none of your narrow hall-chamber cots—and good, plain, wholesome food to eat. Those necessities of life which Vermont does not supply, good tobacco and good whisky, you can take with you. You’ll come back feeling like a fighting cock.” And before his chief finished painting the attractions of the Green Mountain State, with incidental references to John Stark and Ethan Allen, Ashley was willing to compromise and two days later found him en route for Raymond.

Jack fishes the brook as he does everything else—without any waste of mental or physical exertion.

Landlord Howe did not deceive him. It is an excellent trout brook, and by the time the sun is well up he has acquired a well-filled creel. He is sauntering along to what he has decided shall be the last pool, when, as he turns a bend in the road, he runs upon a man lying beside the path, with one arm shading his face and clutching in the other hand a package.

“Hello!” sings out Ashley, stopping short in surprise. The man arises and passes his hand over his eyes in bewilderment.

“Off the main road, aren’t you?” queries Ashley. The stranger makes no reply. He bestows upon Ashley a single searching glance and hurries down the road in the direction of the village.

“He’ll be likely to know me again,” is Jack’s comment. “Gad! What eyes! They went through me like a stiletto. What the deuce is he prowling around here for at this time o’ day? He isn’t a fisherman and he can’t be farming it with those store clothes on. Well, here goes for the last trout.”

The last trout is not forthcoming, however, so the fisherman unjoints his rod, reloads and fires his pipe and strolls slowly back to the hotel. Landlord Howe sees him as he comes swinging across the basin and waits with some impatience until the young man gets within hailing distance, when he informs him dramatically:

“Big murder at Raymond last night.”

“How big?” asks Ashley, with lazy interest. Murders are frequent episodes in his line of business.

Well, it is the largest affair that Mr. Howe has known of “round these parts since dad was a kid.” Roger Hathaway, cashier of the Raymond National bank, has been found murdered and the bank robbed of a large sum of money, and there is no clew to the murderer. The details of the tragedy have come over the telephone wires early this morning, and the whole county is in a fever of excitement.

“No clew?” muses Ashley, and his interest in the affair grows. Then he thinks of the man he encountered on the brook an hour ago. “Seen any strangers around here?” he inquires of Mr. Howe.

“No one ’cept you,” replies that worthy, contributing a broad grin.

“Oh, but I can prove an alibi,” laughs Jack. “I came down from Raymond on the early evening train, and everyone was alive in the town then, I guess. Are the police of this village on the lookout?”

“Well, rather. The local deputy sheriff is on the alert as never before in his life.”

“It is not impossible that my early morning friend on the brook was mixed up in last night’s affair,” thinks Ashley. But he says nothing of the meeting. What is the use? If the unknown was fleeing he must be pretty well into the next county by this time. But in what direction?

The Raymond murder is the one topic of the day at South Ashfield. The villagers are gathered in force about the hotel veranda and Ashley fancies that they regard him a trifle askance as he hunts up a chair and kills an hour while waiting for the up-train, in listening to the rural persiflage of the group and the ingenious theories of the local oracle.

“At what time did the killing occur?” he inquires of one of the loungers. Somewhere around 8 o’clock the night before, he is informed.

“And no clew to the murderer,” he meditates. “Now, if this was New York I’d take hold of the affair and work it for all it was worth.”

He little dreams what effect the “affair” is to have on his future. Yet as the train bears him to Raymond the instinct of the newspaper man tells him that it is a cast possessing phases of peculiar interest. And he is not wholly unprepared for the telegram that is thrust into his hands when he leaves the train.

“One of the disadvantages of telling your paper where you intend spending your vacation,” he remarks as he glances at the dispatch. Then to the telegraph operator: “I’ll have a story for you after supper.”

CHAPTER IV.
THE STORY OF A CRIME.

The following dispatch appeared in the columns of the New York Hemisphere, under the usual sensational headlines:

“Raymond, Vt., May 31.—This quiet town among the Green Mountains had cause indeed to mourn upon this year’s occurrence of the nation’s Memorial Day. Last evening, at the close of the most general observance of the solemn holiday yet undertaken in Raymond, the community was horror-stricken by the discovery of the foulest crime ever committed within the limits of the state.

“Roger Hathaway, cashier of the Raymond National Bank and treasurer of the Wild River Savings Bank, was found murdered at the entrance of the joint vault of the two institutions, which had been rifled of money and securities aggregating, it is thought, not less than $75,000. The crime had apparently been most carefully planned and evidenced not only thorough familiarity with the town and the interior arrangements of the banks, but also the possession of the fact that the national bank had on hand at the time an unusual amount of ready money. The position of the murdered cashier and the conditions of the rooms indicated also that the official had met his death while endeavoring to protect the funds entrusted to his care, his lifeless body, in fact, barring the entrance to the rifled vault, a mute witness to his faithfulness even unto death.

“The Raymond National and Wild River Savings Banks occupy commodious quarters on the ground floor of Bank Block, a three-story brick structure on Main Street, the principal business thoroughfare of the town. The banking rooms are in the northern portion of the block, occupying the entire depth of the building, the only entrance being from Main Street. The north wall of the block is parallel with a tributary of the Wild River, which joins that stream, about 300 yards distant. The interiors of the banking-rooms are plainly but conveniently arranged. A steel wire cage extends east and west, separating the officials of the institutions from the public, with the customary counter and two windows for the savings and national bank, respectively. At the rear of the room is the private office of the cashier, separated from the main room in part by the vault, an old-fashioned brick affair, built into the partition in such a manner as to be partly in both rooms. The iron doors to the vault open into the cashier’s private office, although originally designed to be entirely within the main office. Some years prior the office of the cashier was enlarged to accommodate the meetings of the directors, and the partition was moved east, bringing the major portion of the vault within the enlarged room. Two doors communicate with the cashier’s room, one opening from the public office, the other from the interior of the main banking-room. Two large windows, looking respectively west and north, afford light for the cashier’s office. Both these windows are heavily barred, as indeed are the two windows on the north side of the main office. A dark closet, four by six feet, in the southwest corner of the cashier’s room, serves in part as a storage-room for old ledgers, account-books and supplies, and as a wardrobe for employes.

“It was in the cashier’s room that the tragedy that has so sadly marred the evening of Memorial Day took place, that witnessed the awful struggle between the assassin and the white-haired custodian of the bank’s funds. The details of that struggle may never be known, but the circumstances tell plainly that Cashier Hathaway either surprised the assassin in the dark closet, where he had perhaps concealed himself to await an opportunity to work upon the combination of the safe, or had himself been surprised while about to close the door of the vault.

“The crime was committed in the vicinity of 8 p.m., and its early discovery—within less than half an hour thereafter, indeed—singularly enough was due to a letter which the murdered cashier had previously sent to the president of the bank, requesting his immediate presence to confer on a business matter. The president, the Hon. Cyrus Felton, upon returning to his residence shortly after 8 o’clock, found a note from Cashier Hathaway asking him to call at the bank at once. The note had been left by a messenger, the servant stated, about fifteen minutes before. Mr. Felton hastily repaired to the bank, about ten minutes’ walk. He found the outer door ajar, but the door to the cashier’s private office was locked. This was not unusual, and, presuming that the cashier was busy within, Mr. Felton used his own key and opened the door without knocking. Then the awful discovery of the murder was made.

“Cashier Hathaway lay face downward in front of the open safe door, his right arm partially drawn up beneath the body and his heavy oaken desk chair overturned near by. His first thought being that the cashier had fallen in a shock, Mr. Felton hastened to raise the recumbent form. As he turned the body over, the soft rays from the argand lamp on the cashier’s desk revealed an ominous pool upon the polished floor, even now augmented by the slight moving of the body. Roger Hathaway lay weltering in his own blood, slowly oozing from a bullet hole directly over the heart.

“It was several moments before Mr. Felton could pull himself together to take cognizance of the circumstances. He then noted the unmistakable evidences of a desperate struggle. As stated, the cashier’s own chair lay overturned near the body; one of the side drawers in the desk was partially drawn out, and the orderly row of directors’ chairs were now disarranged as if a heavy body had been flung violently against them. The door of the dark closet was wide open and a lot of old ledgers that had been piled upon its floor were toppled over into the room. The doors of the safe were open, and a glance within revealed the principal money drawer half-withdrawn, and empty save of two canvas bags of specie and nickels; a goodly bunch of keys with chain attached hanging in the lock. The story was told. Cashier Hathaway had been murdered and the bank robbed.

“Mr. Felton immediately notified Sheriff Wilson, and the legal machinery of the town was at once set in motion to encompass the capture of the murderer and robber. It was thought that with the short start obtained the feat would be a comparatively easy matter.

“Nearly $50,000 in available cash, and half as much more in securities, part negotiable and part worthless to the robber, were secured by the murderer. The presence of this unusually large amount of ready money was due to the fact that $50,000 of Mansfield County bonds matured to-day and were payable at the Raymond National Bank.

“The presence of Cashier Hathaway in the bank at that particular time was by the merest chance, and the conclusion is therefore irresistible that the murder was not premeditated. The savings and national banks, though both among the most prosperous and stable fiduciary institutions in the state, are comparatively small, the capital of the national bank being $50,000 and employing but a small clerical force. The latter comprise, besides the cashier, the teller of the bank, Frederick Sibley; the bookkeeper of the savings bank, Ralph Felton, son of the president, and one clerk, a youth named Edward Maxwell. For the last two weeks the teller, Mr. Sibley, has been confined to his residence by illness, and considerable extra labor has necessarily devolved upon the cashier. Memorial Day, a legal holiday in Vermont, the bank had been closed, and on returning from the services at the cemetery, in which he had taken part—for Mr. Hathaway had been a gallant soldier in the famous Vermont brigade—the cashier had dropped into the bank, apparently to complete some work upon the books. It is possible that the robber—the opinion is general that there was but one engaged in the enterprise—had previously entered the bank, and upon the entrance of the cashier concealed himself in the only place available, the dark closet. He may have remained an unobserved spectator of the cashier through the partly opened door and as the latter finished his work and prepared to close the safe, the robber may have concluded, by a coup de main, to save himself the trouble of attempting to solve the combination, and, noiselessly stepping from the closet, have sought to surprise the cashier. On this hypothesis the presumption is that Mr. Hathaway became aware of his danger, and turning sought to ward off the blow, when the struggle ensued that was ended with his death. Or the cashier may have discovered the presence of some intruder in the closet, and seizing his revolver, which he kept in a drawer of his desk, he may have approached the closet, when the robber sprung upon him and, wresting the weapon from the feeble hands of the old banker, turned it against the latter’s breast.

“The fatal shot was fired at so close range that the clothing of the victim was scorched by the explosion. No weapon was found in the room; the revolver which, as noted above, the cashier was known to have kept in his desk, is also missing. The wound was made, the physicians state, by a 32-caliber bullet, which penetrated the breast directly above the vital organ, and death must have been instantaneous. The shot was fired at about 8 o’clock. Prof. Black, who occupies rooms directly over the cashier’s office, heard a shot at that time, as did several friends who were in the room with him, but they attributed it to boys shooting water rats from the bridge beneath the professor’s window.

“Thus far the tragedy possesses few extraordinary features. But what has become of the murderer? Raymond is not so populous that the presence of a stranger would be unnoted. Yet no one has volunteered information of any suspicious characters in town. Within fifty minutes of the commission of a daring crime the perpetrator disappeared, leaving not a trace for the local sleuths. The last seen of Mr. Hathaway alive, so far as known, was about 7:45 o’clock, when he stepped to the door of the bank, and, calling a boy who was standing on the bridge, throwing stones into the stream, asked him to take a letter to President Felton at his house. Half an hour later he was found shot through the heart in his office.

“President Felton was seen by the Hemisphere representative to-day, and told the story of the finding of the dead cashier substantially as outlined above. He was terribly affected by the tragedy and could hardly be induced to converse regarding it.

“Roger Hathaway was one of the best known and highly esteemed residents of Raymond. He was 63 years of age and had been identified with the national and savings banks ever since their organization, the last twenty years as cashier and treasurer respectively. He was prominent in Grand Army and church circles; a deacon in the Congregational Church. Of a severely stern but eminently just disposition, it was not known that Deacon Hathaway possessed an enemy in the world. He lived in a plain but substantial mansion, the family homestead of several generations of Hathaways, with his two daughters, his wife having died some ten years before. He was one of the founders of both the savings and national banks, which under his management had prospered to an unusual degree and stood high among the banking institutions of the state. He had held several important positions in the gift of his townspeople, and as town treasurer his rugged honesty, economic conservatism and strict observance of the letter of the law in the handling of the town’s funds, had earned for him the sobriquet of ‘watchdog of the treasury,’ a title which he sealed even with his life blood.

“Up to a late hour this evening no clew to the murderer has been discovered. The theory is held by the local police that the deed was clearly that of an expert bank robber, and they are inclined to think that he may be a member of the same gang that has broken into numerous postoffices in New Hampshire and Vermont within the last few months. The officials cite the fact that the local papers had advertised that $50,000 in Mansfield County bonds were to be redeemed at the Raymond National Bank upon this particular date, and the natural presumption that the bank would have on hand a large amount of currency, with the knowledge that yesterday was a holiday, when the bank would be closed and afford an unusual opportunity to work upon the safe, would form a strong inducement to a daring burglar.”

CHAPTER V.
A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE.

(By telegraph to the New York Hemisphere.)

“Raymond, Vt., June 1.—A startling sequel to the murder of Cashier Hathaway and the robbery of the Raymond National and Wild River Savings Banks was developed to-day in the mysterious disappearance of Miss Helen Hathaway, the younger daughter of the dead banker, and Derrick Ames, a well-known young man of Raymond.

“Ames is about 27 years old, and occupied a responsible and lucrative position in the local office of the Vermont Life Insurance Company. While not possessing a positive reputation for evil, Ames was regarded askance by the more staid and conservative residents of the town, and his position socially was somewhat anomalous. He had resided in Raymond some five or six years and was known to have been a warm admirer of Miss Hathaway. But it was equally apparent to the gossip-loving townspeople that Deacon Hathaway regarded the young insurance clerk with distinct disfavor, and had forbidden his daughter’s continuing the intimacy. It was likewise well known that the missing girl had frequently met Ames clandestinely.

“Neither Miss Hathaway nor Derrick Ames was seen after the discovery of the bank tragedy. Ames was at his boarding house at noon on the day of the murder, but did not return to supper. His room, with all his effects, was left as usual and gave no indication that he contemplated a hasty departure. Even at the office where he was employed he left some personal effects and half a month’s salary was to his credit.

“In the case of Miss Hathaway, also, there are absolutely no indications of premeditated departure. Her sister states that she has taken not even a wrap, only the clothes she wore that afternoon as she left the house. Neither man nor maiden was seen by any person to leave Raymond. No vehicle was secured for either of them, and no one answering their description boarded the train at the Raymond Station. They have disappeared as completely, as suddenly and as mysteriously as did the murderer of Cashier Hathaway.

“The knowledge of these circumstances has intensified the excitement occasioned by the murder and robbery. The coincidence, if it be but a coincidence, of the unpremeditated elopement of Helen Hathaway upon the very day, nay, perhaps the very hour, that her aged father was stricken by the bullet of the assassin, is sufficiently startling of itself to cause the most intense excitement.

“Is there any connection between the disappearance of Derrick Ames and Helen Hathaway and the shooting of Cashier Hathaway and the subsequent looting of the bank vault? Why did the couple, if they simply ran away to get married without the parental sanction, do so manifestly on the spur of the moment, without any prearranged plans, without notification to even their intimate friends? And why, if they went innocently away, have they failed to acquaint any one with their present whereabouts, when they must be aware of the cruel murder of Miss Hathaway’s good father, the details of which have been published far and wide, not only in the provincial newspapers, but throughout the metropolitan press?

“There is not a resident of Raymond who will hint at even the possibility of any guilty knowledge of the taking-off of her father by Helen Hathaway, before or during her hurried flight. For although regarded as unusually high-spirited and impetuous, she was loving and lovable to a degree and the idol of her sister. The only indiscretion that can be attributed to the missing girl was her occasional meetings with Derrick Ames without the sanction of her father.

“Her companion in flight, on the other hand, was not especially favorably known in Raymond. While he came to the town with excellent credentials, he was not a favorite in any particular set or society. Handsome in face and figure, an athlete of considerable local repute, with alternate moods of extreme depression and satirical good humor, he was such a one as might be expected to turn the head of a romantic young girl like the absent Miss Hathaway. Ames was free with his money, and while not a drinking man, in the sense of the term in this part of the country, he occasionally wooed the wine cup with great energy and originality. He had enemies in plenty and but a week before the tragedy had abruptly resigned the lieutenancy of the Raymond Rifles because of a trifling disagreement with the captain. It must be stated, however, that no mean or ignoble act or petty crime had ever been attributed to him, the chief cause of his unpopularity proceeding from his reserve, the sharpness of his tongue and the irascibility of his temper.

“Had Derrick Ames disappeared alone, on the evening of the murder, there would have been but one opinion as to his guilt or innocence. But the unaccountable flight of Miss Hathaway—this is the one flaw in the chain of circumstantial evidence. Some people will explain this away on the universal theory for every inexplicable action of the human mind—hypnotism. It is said that Ames placed Miss Hathaway within the spell of his own powerful will, and unknowingly, unwittingly, blindly obedient, beautiful Helen Hathaway accompanied the cold-blooded slayer of her own father in his flight from the scene of his crime.

“Did Ames and Miss Hathaway leave Raymond together? While there is no evidence that they did, the presumption is so strong as to compel the inference. In any event Raymond has practically convicted Derrick Ames of complicity, if not actual participation, in the murder of Roger Hathaway.

“It is possible that the murder was not premeditated, as was intimated in these dispatches yesterday. Ames may have called upon the cashier at the bank, to plead again his suit for the hand of Helen Hathaway. A blunt refusal, hasty words, a bitter quarrel, Ames’ temper, quick and ungovernable, a brief struggle, the fatal shot and the older man lay dead upon the floor. What more natural than that the young murderer, fully appreciating his terrible situation, and cognizant of the large amount of ready money in the safe, should wrench the familiar bunch of keys from the pocket of the dead cashier and possess himself of the treasure? It requires something of a stretch of the imagination to fancy the assassin, his hand yet reeking with the blood of her father, inducing the young girl to accompany him in his flight for life and liberty, yet it is not impossible—and in the belief of many it is just what Derrick Ames did do.

“There is but the faintest possible clew as yet to connect any one else with the crime. Besides a few hotel arrivals—commercial men comparatively well known—one stranger, and one only, is believed to have been in Raymond on the day of the murder. No one saw him come, no one saw him leave the town. Inquiry was made at the depot, the telegraph operator states, shortly after 8 o’clock, as to the time of departure of the next train south. The operator did not notice the questioner particularly, although he is positive he was a stranger in Raymond.

“The theory of a prearranged plot to rob the bank on the night the cashier was shot has been assiduously worked by the local authorities. It was known that there would be a large amount of money in the bank on the night preceding the paying off of the matured county bonds. Was it not worth while for an organized gang of bank robbers to plan a descent on the Raymond institution? Was it not possible that they did so plan; that they had already secured access to the banking-room while the populace was watching the parade in the afternoon; that they were awaiting the cover of darkness to begin work upon the safe, when all unexpectedly the cashier arrived and entered the bank; that the robbers retreated to the dark closet; that here they remained hidden while Mr. Hathaway performed some pressing work upon the books, meanwhile sending the note requesting the presence of the president; that while he stepped to the front door to secure a messenger for the letter the robbers may have conceived the daring scheme of seizing the cash drawer from the vault; that the cashier returned while they were in the very act of executing their design; that he rushed to his desk and had already possessed himself of his revolver, when he was seized by the robbers and shot dead before he could succeed in making use of his own weapon, which was subsequently picked up and carried off by the robbers?

“More careful investigations of the scene of the murder developed the fact that the struggle between the cashier and his assailant, or assailants, must have been not only a severe one, but of several minutes’ duration. There were marks of violence on the body of the dead banker, the physicians report, which must have been made by an exceptionally strong man. The right wrist showed quite severe abrasions, as if it had been grasped fiercely by a strong hand, and on the other side of the wrist was a purple mark that was evidently made by a seal ring pressed into the flesh by the tremendous force with which the hand had been seized. The snow-white and abundant hair of Mr. Hathaway was also disheveled, when the body was first discovered, and the chain to which his bunch of keys had been attached was snapped off, only about two inches remaining upon his person. No signs of a weapon or any burglarious tools were discovered in or about the bank premises, but evidence of the extreme coolness and sang-froid of the murderer is afforded by the fact that, apparently in searching for suitable paper in which to wrap the big package of bills two or three full pages of the big bank ledger were torn out and used for the purpose.

“Nothing was missing from the person of the dead man, except, singularly enough, a curiously fashioned locket which Mr. Hathaway wore as a watch charm. It contained miniatures of his two daughters, Louise and Helen. No reason for its being carried off is apparent. The link which held it to the watch-chain was broken as if the locket had been violently removed.

“The exact amount of money stolen cannot as yet be stated. President Felton alleges that, until the trial balance is drawn off, it will be impossible to give figures. Certainly not less than $40,000 in greenbacks was secured, and probably half as much more in securities, which, however, are not negotiable and are therefore worthless to the robbers. The bank is perfectly solvent, President Felton states, and will resume business at an early date.

“Mr. Felton is well-nigh prostrated by the shock of his awful discovery on the evening of Memorial Day and has aged visibly in the last two days. He does not attach so much importance to the dual disappearance of Derrick Ames and Helen Hathaway as do most of the citizens, and expresses the opinion that it is a simple elopement and that the couple will return shortly.

“The directors of the savings and national banks, at a meeting this morning, authorized the offer of a reward of $4,000 for the capture and conviction of the murderer or murderers, in addition to the purse of $1,000 ‘hung up’ by the town.

“The coroner’s inquest will be begun to-morrow.”

CHAPTER VI.
THE CORONER’S INQUEST.

For a town the size of Raymond, 3,000-odd inhabitants, the Mansfield County court house is an unusually large and commodious structure. But the spacious room is not nearly adequate to the demands of the pushing crowd that seeks admittance to the inquest that has been summoned by Coroner Lord to sit upon the body of the dead cashier, Roger Hathaway. George Demeritt, the town’s sole day police force, is literally swept off his feet by the surging assemblage, and in less than five minutes after the throwing open of the doors the room is a solid mass of perspiring humanity.

With much difficulty Sheriff Wilson makes a passage for the dozen witnesses under his charge, the crowd gazing, with the sympathetic impudence of an inquest audience, at the statuesque form of Miss Hathaway, heavily veiled, and the bowed figure of President Felton of the Raymond Bank.

The jury selected by Coroner Lord files in from the judges’ room, and after the customary preliminaries the autopsy performed by Drs. Robinson and Dodge is read by the latter. The document, stripped of its verbiage and medical terms, alleges that Roger Hathaway died from a bullet wound, the leaden missile having entered the left breast almost directly over the heart, and that death must have been instantaneous. There were signs of violence on the person of the dead man, a severe contusion on the forehead that might have been inflicted by a blow or might have been caused by the fall to the floor. There were also slight abrasions on the right wrist.

Dr. Dodge states, in reply to an inquiry from the coroner, that Mr. Hathaway had probably been dead an hour when he reached his side. Rigor mortis had not begun.

“Mr. Cyrus Felton.”

There is a craning of necks in the court room as the coroner calls to his feet the aged bank president. Jack Ashley, who is sitting at the lawyers’ table, jotting down a few notes, begins to take a lively interest in the case.

Mr. Felton slowly walks to the witness stand. That he is greatly moved even the least observant in the throng can but notice, and his hand trembles visibly as he replaces his pince-nez and turns to face Coroner Lord.

The usual formal questions as to his acquaintance with the dead man, his connection with the bank, etc., are asked and answered.

“I visited the bank in response to a note which I found when I returned home from my—from the postoffice,” Mr. Felton states.

“The note was from Mr. Hathaway?”

“It was.”

“And its contents?”

“The note merely said: ‘Come to the bank immediately.’”

“Have you the note with you?”

“No; I tore it up,” replies Mr. Felton, and the expression which accompanies his words is noted by Ashley, who is scanning narrowly the countenance of the banker.

“The note had been left at my house a short while before I returned home, my servant tells me,” proceeds Mr. Felton. “I went at once to the bank.” The witness has grown so agitated that he is obliged to seat himself, and his voice is hardly audible in the stilled room.

“The front door was slightly ajar and I walked through the bank to the directors’ room. The door to this apartment was locked; I unlocked it and entered. Mr. Hathaway lay face downward in the middle of the floor, I should think. I thought he might have fallen in a shock and went to lift him up, when I saw the blood. I felt for his pulse, but there was no motion.” The voice of the witness breaks as he utters these words and he covers his face with his handkerchief.

“Were there any evidences of a struggle?” the coroner asks, after a moment.

“Yes. Mr. Hathaway’s office chair was overturned and the directors’ chairs were disarranged. One of the drawers in Mr. Hathaway’s desk had been pulled so far out that it had dropped to the floor and the contents were spilled. A lot of old ledgers that had been piled in the closet were toppled over into the room. I glanced into the closet and then turned my attention to the open vault. I found the cash drawer in the safe withdrawn and empty except for a couple of canvas bags of silver and nickels. I then hastened to find Sheriff Wilson.”

“What hour was it when you entered the bank?” asks Coroner Lord.

“About 8:20 o’clock.”

“And at what time did you notify Sheriff Wilson?”

Mr. Felton hesitates a moment and glances inquiringly at that official. “It did not seem more than a minute that I spent in the bank. But I was so shocked—and I—and I stopped to gather up the papers on the floor—perhaps it was five minutes before I got to the hotel.”

“Did you notice any weapons on the floor of the cashier’s room?”

“No, sir.”

“What amount of money do you estimate was stolen from the safe?”

President Felton debates a moment, as if making a mental calculation, and replies: “At least $37,000 in currency and gold, and some securities. The exact amount of the latter we cannot tell until we have listed our papers.”

“That is all, Mr. Felton.”

A suppressed murmur of intense interest runs around the crowded room as Louise Hathaway takes the witness stand. As she raises the veil that has concealed her features the townspeople marveled at the composure her marble countenance evinces. Ashley glances at her with interest and draws a long breath. “Gad! she’s a beauty,” he decides, and then drops his eyes as they encounter the calm gaze of the witness.

Her father left the house to go to the bank about 6:30 o’clock, Miss Hathaway testifies. Tea was served at 6 o’clock. Her sister Helen had not returned at that time, but at her father’s request they had not waited the tea, because he said he had some work to do at the bank. It was an unusual thing for him to go to the bank evenings, but the illness of the teller had necessitated extra work.

“Miss Hathaway, do you know where your sister is?” The silence in the court room is intense as the coroner asks the question.

“My sister did not return that afternoon,” declares Miss Hathaway, after a brief pause. “I have reason to think that she has gone with Mr. Ames to be married.”

“And you do not know where they now are?”

Miss Hathaway shakes her head, as her fingers clasp and unclasp nervously in her lap. The ordeal is a trying one.

“When did you last see your sister?”

“About 2 o’clock in the afternoon.”

“And when did you last see Mr. Ames?”

A slight flush replaces the pallor for a moment; then as suddenly recedes, leaving her paler than before.

“I have not seen Mr. Ames for a fortnight,” she replies in a tone barely audible.

“Did your sister indicate to you her intention of eloping?” is the next question.

“I had no reason to think that she contemplated a clandestine marriage. But I should prefer not to discuss the matter further, Mr. Lord,” says the witness, in evident agitation. “I am sure Helen’s departure can have no possible connection with—with that awful deed. It was only an unfortunate coincidence that they went away on that afternoon. I—I am sure they will return in due time.”

Coroner Lord glances irresolutely at the state’s attorney, and after a moment’s deliberation permits Miss Hathaway to retire.

Sheriff Wilson, the next witness, describes minutely the appearance of the bank and vault and of the body of the dead cashier.

Sarah Johnson, the maid at Mr. Felton’s residence, testifies that the note referred to by Mr. Felton was left at the house shortly before 8 o’clock by a lad named Jimmie Howe. A few minutes later a stranger inquired for Mr. Felton at the house. There is a slight buzz of excitement among the audience at this first mention of the presence of a stranger in the village on the evening of the tragedy.

“How do you know he was a stranger?” sharply inquires the coroner.

“For the reason that when I asked him which Mr. Felton he wished to see he replied that he did not know there were two Mr. Feltons.” That evidence is conclusive. It is, so far as the audience is concerned.

“He asked where he could find Mr. Felton, and I told him perhaps at his office in the bank building,” continues Sarah.