CHAPTER LIX.
"WRITTEN BY THE HAND OF FATE."
"You are a detective," murmurs Derrick Ames, as he
drops back into his chair.
"I am," answers Barker. "For nearly a year I have been on the track of the murderer of Roger Hathaway, being ably seconded in my quest by my friend Jack Ashley. The trail has been a tangled one, and has wound under the flags of three countries, but for the past fortnight the end has been clearly in view. By a remarkable combination of circumstances affairs have been so precipitated that to-day nearly all the living characters in the Raymond drama are upon this vessel, the United States cruiser America. My work is done. I have only my story to tell. I shall begin, Mr. Ames, by asking you a few questions," resumes Barker.
"Well?" queries the object of his remarks.
"At what hour did you enter the Raymond National Bank on the evening of Memorial Day of last year?"
"I cannot say exactly. I judge that it was in the vicinity of 7:45."
"Will you be good enough to state what took place there between you and Roger Hathaway?"
Ames scans the detective's face keenly for a moment, then replies to Barker in deliberate tones:
"I went to the bank to ask Mr. Hathaway's consent that his daughter Helen might become my wife. I was confident that my errand was useless, as he had twice before scorned my suit. Helen and I had been idling all the afternoon on the hillside below the town. As evening drew on I left her at the bars and went to the bank, as she stated that she had understood her father to say that he should spend the evening at work upon his books. It being Memorial Day the streets were deserted, and, barring one acquaintance, a chap named Sam Brockway, I did not meet a person on my walk up the main
