“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.