“Well, father, Sam is ready and I must go. We shall have little more than an hour to make the ten miles and catch the express. Good-by; it is all right, sir; believe me, father,” the younger man drops his disengaged hand not unkindly on the other’s shoulder, “my sudden departure will do nobody here any harm, and least of all will it affect you. One thing I will say; I will find the scoundrel who took Helen Hathaway from Raymond, if he is above ground, and when we meet he will have occasion to remember that time.” Ralph Felton’s face is darkened by a savage scowl as he speaks, and he raises a clenched fist with a gesture so suggestive that his father involuntarily steps back. “Yes, I have two objects in cutting the town. One reason you know, the other is to seek and find the hound who has stolen Helen Hathaway from me. I cared for her as I shall never love another woman, and I meant to have her. Now—”
The musical chime of the clock begins to strike the hour. Ralph Felton seizes the package of bills that lies upon the table and places it in an inner pocket.
“I will return sometime, father, when this bank affair has ceased to be a subject of investigation,” he says, with his hand on the door-knob. “Good-by. Just keep a stiff upper lip and you’ll be all right. I’m off.”
The outer door closes with a sharp click and a moment later the impatient stamping of hoofs is succeeded by the even footfalls of the fastest mare in Mansfield County.
As the sound grows fainter and fainter Cyrus Felton suddenly starts as if aroused from a stupor.
“Why did I let him go? Idiot that I am! It is madness—worse than madness. It is confession. Am I losing my senses, that I did not insist upon his remaining and completing his testimony? At the worst it could never be proved. The wages of sin! The wages of sin!” he groans, as he sinks back in his chair and buries his face in his hands.
“Mr. Ralph Felton to the stand,” orders Coroner Lord.
As on the preceding day, the court room is packed with the people of Raymond. There is a craning of necks toward the settees reserved for witnesses. Ralph Felton is not there, and there is a death-like stillness as Coroner Lord again calls this now most interesting of witnesses.
“Mr. Coroner!” The lank figure of the station agent at South Ashfield elevates itself above the crowd. “If it please your honor, Ralph Felton boarded the Montreal express at South Ashfield last night.”