he inquired where Cyrus Felton lived. Felton, you know, is the principal owner in the Wild River Granite Quarries. It is more than likely, is it not, that he was the visitor at the Felton residence?"
"Still he may not have called that night."
"True. Admitting the caller to have been Stanley, what then? A motive must be assigned."
"We will discuss that later. For the present suffice it to be known that Stanley was sentenced to State prison for forging the name of Cyrus Felton two years ago."
"Well, what of it? If Stanley's thoughts were of revenge they were apparently directed against Felton, not the man who was murdered."
"That is precisely the point that is not clear to me," confesses Ashley.
"Now, listen. Here's a proposition for you: If Stanley was not concerned in the bank affair, what was he doing at 6 o'clock next morning asleep in the bushes in a lonely gorge near South Ashfield village?"
"The devil!"
"With a package of papers clutched fast in his hands, about the size that a bundle of treasury notes and securities would make."
"You know he was there?"
"I met him."
Barker is thoughtful. "You said nothing to the authorities or in your dispatches about the incident?"
"No. I didn't consider it worth while. The authorities were already scouring the country round about, and I did not exploit it in my dispatches because I concluded to save it for a longer and better story when we run down the criminal—beg pardon, when the criminal is run down. But," continues Ashley, as Barker remains silent, "that is the clew to which I attach the less importance.
"I had heard from some source that Ralph Felton had been seen at this hotel a good share of Memorial Day, and I started in on a pumping expedition, beginning with John Thayer, the clerk. Thayer was noticeably uncommunicative; I thought I'd bluff him a bit, so I remarked: 'Well, you've concluded to tell me what you
