“You make too much now, as you made too much then of a matter that having its sole ground in a mistake, is, as I say, easily explainable. This affair which has come up now, is not so clear. Three of the boxes have been opened, and from one certain valuables have been taken. Can you give me any information that will assist us in our search after the culprit?”
“No sir.” The tone was quite humble, Hopgood drew back unconsciously towards the door.
“As for the mistake of a year ago to which you have seen proper to allude, I shall myself take pains to inform Mr. Stuyvesant of it, since it has made such an impression upon you that it trammels your honesty and makes you consider it at all necessary to be anxious about it at this time.”
And Hopgood unused to sarcasm from those lips, drew himself together, and with one more agitated look at the box on the table, sidled awkwardly from the room. Mr. Sylvester at once advanced to the screen which he hastily pushed aside. “Well, sir,” said he, meeting the detective’s wavering eye and forcing him to return his look, “you have now seen the various employees of the bank and heard most of them converse. Is there anything more you would like to inquire into before giving us the opinion I requested?”
“No sir,” said the detective, coming forward, but very slowly and somewhat hesitatingly for him. “I think I am ready to say—”
Here the door opened, and Mr. Stuyvesant returned. The detective drew a breath of relief and repeated his words with a businesslike assurance. “I think I am ready to say, that from the nature of the theft and the mysterious manner in which it has been perpetrated, suspicion undoubtedly points to someone connected with the bank. That is all that you require of me today?” he added, with a bow of some formality in the direction of Mr. Sylvester.
“Yes,” was the short reply. But in an instant a change passed over the stately form of the speaker. Advancing to Mr. Gryce, he confronted him with a countenance almost majestic in its severity, and somewhat severely remarked, “This is a serious charge to bring against men whose countenances you yourself have denominated as honest. Are we to believe you have fully considered the question, and realize the importance of what you say?”
“Mr. Sylvester,” replied the detective, with great self-possession and some dignity, “a man who is brought every day of his life into positions where the least turning of a hair will sink a man or save him, learns to weigh his words, before he speaks even in such informal inquiries as these.”
Mr. Sylvester bowed and turned towards Mr. Stuyvesant. “Is there any further action you would like to have taken in regard to this matter today?” he asked, without a tremble in his voice.
With a glance at the half open box of the absent Mr. Harrington, the agitated director slowly shook his head. “We must have time to think,” said he.
Mr. Gryce at once took up his hat. “If the charge implied in my opinion strikes you, gentlemen, as serious, you must at least acknowledge that your own judgment does not greatly differ from mine, or why such unnecessary agitation in regard to a loss so petty, by a gentleman worth as we are told his millions.” And with this passing shot, to which neither of his auditors responded, he made his final obeisance and calmly left the room.
Mr. Sylvester and Mr. Stuyvesant slowly confronted one another.
“The man speaks the truth,” said the former. “You at least suspect someone in the bank, Mr. Stuyvesant?”
“I have no wish to,” hastily returned the other, “but facts—”
“Would facts of this nature have any weight with you against the unspotted character of a man never known by you to meditate, much less commit a dishonest action?”
“No; yet facts are facts, and if it is proved that someone in our employ has perpetrated a theft, the mind will unconsciously ask who, and remain uneasy till it is satisfied.”
“And if it never is?”
“It will always ask who, I suppose.”
Mr. Sylvester drew back. “The matter shall be pushed,” said he; “you shall be satisfied. Surveillance over each man employed in this institution ought sooner or later to elicit the truth. The police shall take it in charge.”
Mr. Stuyvesant looked uneasy. “I suppose it is only justice,” murmured he, “but it is a scandal I would have been glad to avoid.”
“And I, but circumstances admit of no other course. The innocent must not suffer for the guilty, even so far as an unfounded suspicion would lead.”
“No, no, of course not.” And the director bustled about after his overcoat and hat.
Mr. Sylvester watched him with growing sadness. “Mr. Stuyvesant,” said he, as the latter stood before him ready for the street, “we have always been on terms of friendship, and nothing but the most pleasant relations have ever existed between us. Will you pardon me if I ask you to give me your hand in good day?”
The director paused, looked a trifle astonished, but held out his hand not only with cordiality but very evident affection.
“Good day,” cried he, “good day.”
Mr. Sylvester pressed that hand, and then with a dignified bow, allowed the director to depart. It was his last effort at composure. When the door closed, his head sank on his hands, and life with all its hopes and honors, love and happiness, seemed to die within him.
He was interrupted at length by Bertram. “Well, uncle?” asked the young man with unrestrained emotion.
“The theft has been committed by someone in this bank; so the detective gives out, and so we are called upon to believe. Who the man is who has caused us all this misery, neither he, nor you, nor I, nor anyone, is likely to very soon determine. Meantime—”
“Well?” cried Bertram anxiously, after a moment of suspense.
“Meantime, courage!” his uncle resumed with forced cheerfulness.
But
