Barker is too astounded to reply for an instant, and Ames and Ashley stare questioningly at Van Zandt.
"Let me relate briefly that much of my story which bears directly upon the tragic events in Raymond," says Van Zandt, quietly.
"On the afternoon of Memorial day of last year I was released from the State prison at Windsor, Vermont, after serving two of a three years' sentence for forgery, which, in reality, was committed by Ralph Felton. I took the afternoon train for Raymond, arriving there at 7:45. I went directly to Cyrus Felton's residence, and reached it at 7:55. As I was about to ascend the porch I heard footsteps behind me, and, thinking they might be those of the man I sought, I stepped into the shadow of the porch. The new arrival had apparently called to see Felton on business. I heard the housemaid tell the visitor that Felton was not at home; that he might be at his office in the bank building. As the man walked away I followed leisurely.
"When I reached the entrance of the bank building a man, presumably the caller at Felton's, came down the stairs and walked down the street. Then I went up the stairs and proceeded down the corridor until I reached a door with Felton's name upon it. But the door was locked and the office was dark. As I retraced my steps and stood again at the entrance of the block a man passed by hurriedly, ascended the steps to the bank, opened the door and went in.
"I remained where I was for five minutes, and then walked to the bank door and glanced through the glass panel. The interior was dark, save for a ray of light that issued through the partly opened door to the cashier's private office. Perhaps Felton is within, I thought, and pushing open the front door, which was ajar, I walked softly toward the shaft of light that slanted across the bank floor.
"What my errand to Felton was, gentlemen, it is not necessary for me to now state. Enough to say that when I threw open the door to the cashier's office I looked upon a sight that froze the blood in my veins.
