Читать книгу Under Three Flags - Bert Leston Taylor - Страница 9

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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.