FATHER AND SON.
An almost imperceptible raising of the eyebrows by the elder man, and
Ralph Felton turns quickly to the coroner.
“Really, Mr. Lord, I cannot furnish a detailed statement of my every
movement during the last week,” he says, nonchalantly. “I witnessed the
procession, or at least the local post, on its way to the depot to meet
the Ruggbury contingent, and later went to the Exchange for dinner. In
the afternoon I was in the billiard room of the hotel, and I believe I
visited the postoffice in the evening.”
“What time did you last see Mr. Hathaway?” The persistence of the
coroner in questioning the bookkeeper is inexplicable to the audience,
who have not observed the little slips of paper that State’s Attorney
Brown has passed along the table to Mr. Lord.
“About noon on the day of the murder.”
“Where?”
Ralph Felton is for the first time manifesting signs of impatience. “He
was in the bank. I went to get something which I had left there, and
while I was there Mr. Hathaway came in. I left him there and a short
time afterward saw him in the procession.”
“Mr. Felton, where were you between 7:45 and 8:30 o’clock the evening of
Tuesday?”
A dull red replaces the slight pallor on the face of the young man.
“Mr. Lord, I cannot say where I was during that particular time. I have
my own personal reasons—not connected with this case, I assure you—for
not desiring to answer your question.”
The murmur which has begun to overspread the room is quickly but only
temporarily hushed as the coroner announces:
“The inquest is adjourned until to-morrow morning at 9 o’clock.”
* * * * *
“You know why I did not answer Coroner Lord’s question. I am tired of
this hypocrisy. I simply will not go on the stand again—and that settles
it!”
Within the richly furnished library of Cyrus Felton’s home the
inquisition so abruptly broken off by Coroner Lord has been resumed.
The president of the Raymond National Bank now bears little resemblance
to the bowed old man who, with trembling lips and pallid brow, testified
regarding the murder of Cashier Hathaway a few hours before. There is an
angry flush upon his face and a stern setting of the chin that causes
one straight line to mark the location of his lips.
At the last defiant words of his son a spasm as of sudden pain for a
moment distorts his patriarchal face, and his hand involuntarily presses
his heart.
“I am going to leave Raymond—at once—to-night. Leave as Derrick Ames
left,” continued Ralph Felton, with an imprecation. “It’s no use
talking. My mind is made up and you should be the last man to urge me to
remain. You know—”
“Ralph, this is madness,” interrupts his father. “There can be no
necessity for your leaving town, least of all while matters are as they
are. The bank—”
“The bank needs both of us—I don’t think,” rejoins the younger man
flippantly. “As the boodle is gone I guess you can get along without a
bookkeeper for a time—maybe forever. But go I shall, and money I must
have. Oh, I know what you are going to say,” as Mr. Felton opens his
lips. “It doesn’t make any difference where it has gone. Suffice it to
say, it is planted. If you have ever had any experience with—but here it
is getting on toward 11 o’clock, and at 12:10 I must take the Montreal
express. I don’t propose to board it here. I shall drive to South
Ashfield. Now, understand me, father,” as Cyrus Felton again seeks to
interrupt him, “it is just as much for your interest for me to be a
couple of thousand miles from Raymond as it is mine. It is bound to come
out—why, what’s the matter?”
Once again that ashen pallor accompanies a spasm of severest pain, and
this time Cyrus Felton emits a slight groan as his fingers sink into the
heavily upholstered arms of the sleepy-hollow chair into which he has
sunk.
“Nothing—nothing but a pleurisy attack,” he faintly replies.
There is silence for a moment, broken only by the sonorous ticking of
the mantel clock.
“Well, the money?”
“Ralph, you know that I can ill afford to spare any considerable amount
just now. But your safety must, of course, be considered, and I will
endeavor to send you funds later. What I can spare now ought to be
sufficient to start life anew in some western city.”
Ralph Felton smiles sardonically as his father steps to the little safe
set in the wall, and, moving the screen from the front, turns the
combination. He lounges toward the receptacle, and, leaning on the
screen, gazes down at his father, who has withdrawn one of the two
drawers which the safe boasts and is running over a package of bills.
The contents of the lower drawer are exposed by the withdrawal of the
upper one, and the light from the chandelier is reflected back from some
shining substance in the till. It catches young Felton’s eye and his
long arm passes over the stooping figure of his father and picks the
gleaming metal from the drawer. It is a loaded revolver of the bull-dog
variety, 32 caliber, and one chamber has been discharged.
Cyrus Felton raises his head. The shining little engine of destruction
in the clasp of his son is almost before and on a level with his eyes.
With a shudder the elder man turns his head and slowly and laboriously
rises to his feet. He seems to have suddenly aged even in the last few
moments.
Ralph Felton examines the revolver critically, looks at his father’s
averted face, and, without speaking, lays the weapon in the drawer.
There is silence in the room, broken at last by the almost apologetic
tones of the father. “How will you reach South Ashfield?” he asked.
“Oh, Sam must drive me over with the mare. I will start him up now.”
As his son leaves the room Cyrus Felton sinks into an easy-chair and his
head drops upon his bosom. Who can tell the thoughts that surge through
his troubled mind at the moment? The clatter of hoofs on the concrete
driveway beside the window arouses him from his reverie, and a moment
later Ralph Felton enters, a satchel in his hand.
“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.”
Of course there is a sensation, a murmur of voices that the coroner
quickly checks. The few remaining witnesses are unimportant and the
inquest is adjourned until afternoon.
------------------------------------------------------------------------