"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. Good-*enough'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.
