That's my favorite, and your accompaniment would ruin it. Let 'er go, professor."
As the strains of the Raff cavatina die away, a man comes out of the entrance of the Raymond National Bank. He glances swiftly up, then down the street. Then he crosses the road in the shadow of a tall building and hurries toward the station.
"There is no train, north or south, before 11:50," says the telegraph operator, in response to a query at the window. He is clicking off a message and does not turn his head. His questioner vanishes.
"Jim, Mr. Felton wants to see you," the clerk of the Raymond Hotel informs the sheriff of Mansfield County, who is playing cards in a room off the office. Sheriff Wilson is a man with a game leg, a war record, and a wild mania for the diversion of sancho pedro. When he sits in for an evening of that fascinating pastime he dislikes to be disturbed.
"What's he want?" he asks absent-mindedly, for he has only two more points to make to win the game.
"Dunno. He seems to be worked up about something."
"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
