THE BANK ON SUNDAY MORNING.
Allison had come into the room where Gerald and her father were conversing so earnestly just in season to catch the words of commendation uttered by the latter.
“I am sure you have not, Gerald,” he had said; “I would stake my fortune upon your integrity and upon your unswerving faithfulness to my interests.”
She had noted, with the keen perception of a loving heart, the troubled look in Gerald’s eyes, the anxious expression upon his brow, and she instantly knew that something had gone amiss with him, in spite of the fact that he seemed in perfect health, and was handsomer and more manly than ever.
But in the excitement of greeting him—when she saw his face light up with joy in her presence, when she felt the warm, lingering clasp of his hand, and detected the old-time thrill in his voice—she forgot all about it, for the time, and thought only of the pleasures of this unexpected meeting.
When Gerald finally left the house it was with a very much lighter heart than when he entered. His employer’s hearty and unqualified assurance of confidence was like balm to his wounded spirit; while his little interview with Allison had set all his pulses vibrating afresh with his deep and abiding love for her.
He had not seen her for many months, and she seemed to have grown a hundredfold more lovely than when he had bidden her adieu on that bright Sunday morning so long ago.
He wondered if she had forgotten the evening previous—their interview upon the veranda, where, with the moonlight streaming upon them in its soft effulgence, they had been conscious only of each other’s presence and the happiness that had thrilled every fiber of their being. Did she remember their parting when the clock struck ten? That blissful moment when their lips met in that involuntary caress? That look into each other’s eyes, that low-breathed “Allison!” “Gerald!” which had expressed so much?
She seemed a trifle more mature; she had acquired a little air of dignity which, on the whole, he decided only added to her charms, although at first it had chilled him slightly—at least, until he found himself looking down into the expressive eyes.
He hoped he should see her again on the morrow, when he returned with the boxes which Mr. Brewster had commissioned him to get from the secret vault.
He smiled and uttered a sigh of content, as he passed his hand over the pocket which held the keys the banker had given to him, and realized that he never would have been entrusted with them if he had not possessed the entire confidence of the man.
He hurried back to his lodging, where, in this happy frame of mind, he settled down to the preparation of some lessons which were to be recited that evening to a certain professor with whom he had been studying for three years.
As we know, Gerald, at the time of his aunt’s death, had been in the second year of the high school, but for a time after that his studies were interrupted, as he found that his daily duties taxed his strength to the utmost.
But as he became accustomed to his work, he began to get hungry for his books again, and for a while attended evening school, although his progress was thus necessarily slow.
Then he made the acquaintance of a professor by the name of Emerson, who, becoming interested in the bright, ambitious lad, offered to help him perfect his education and arranged for Gerald to recite three times a week to him.
He was now in his twenty-first year, and expected by the coming June to complete the studies of the second year of a regular college course.
After partaking of a light supper, he repaired to the house of his friend, Professor Emerson, where he acquitted himself most creditably in his recitations.
The gentleman had become quite fond of his enterprising pupil, and it was a great delight to him to teach one who was so eager for knowledge and so quick to comprehend.
“By the way, Gerald, what do you intend to make of yourself when you get through with your course?” he inquired to-night, as he closed his book after the last recitation, and bent an inquiring look on the handsome face before him.
“I think—since I am so well started in the banking business, I shall stick to it, learn it thoroughly, and, if fortune favors me, perhaps become a banker myself, by and by,” he replied, but with a smile at his egotism in aspiring to a position such as Adam Brewster occupied.
Professor Emerson eyed him curiously for a moment, then remarked:
“You’ll achieve it, if you undertake it, and, rightly conducted, banking is a good business; still, I wish you might go a little higher, intellectually—you would make a fine lawyer, your mental grasp is so keen and accurate.”
“Thank you,” said Gerald, flushing at the compliment, “but it would take me several years to prepare for the bar, after completing my college course, and, since I have my own canoe to paddle, I think I will adhere to what I have begun. I wish, though,” he added gravely, as his mind suddenly reverted to John Hubbard, “I have time to become thoroughly posted in law, and could combine the two, for then I should always be sure of the faithfulness of my legal adviser.”
“Why, Winchester! I did not suppose you possessed so suspicious a nature!” said his friend, smiling, but with a note of surprise in his tones. “If every one was governed by such distrust I fear the lawyers would fare hard.”
“I am not naturally suspicious,” replied Gerald, reddening, “and my remark must seem narrow and intolerant to you; it was prompted by the fact that one lawyer whom I know is anything but an honest and conscientious man.”
“But, ‘one swallow does not make a summer,’ my boy,” retorted his friend, laughing.
“I know it, sir, and I have no business to be suspicious of all men because of one man’s failings. I will try to be more charitable toward lawyers in the future,” said the young man, as he rose to leave.
He felt half-ashamed of having allowed himself to be so swayed by his antipathy against John Hubbard, but all the way back to his lodgings he was haunted by the face of the man and the malignant scowl which had distorted it when he accused him of unfaithfulness and dishonesty in his work.
Even in his sleep during the night he could not divest himself of the consciousness of his vicious individuality—he seemed to be continually pursuing and persecuting him until his visions became so real that they finally drove him from his bed long before his usual hour for rising on Sunday morning.
It was not yet dawn when he arose on Sunday morning, and, upon looking from his window, Gerald saw that it was snowing.
He dressed himself with unusual care, for he hoped to see Allison again, and, loverlike, desired to make as good an appearance in her sight as possible. Then he hurried out for his morning meal, after which he wended his way to the bank, where he arrived about half-past eight.
The steps leading up to the door were covered with snow, and, strangely enough, as he mounted them, leaving a footprint upon every one, an uncomfortable sensation which was akin to guilt, began to creep over him, causing his errand to become suddenly repulsive to him, and making him long to go back to his room and remain there.
But, throwing back his head with an air of conscious rectitude—for was he not there at his employer’s command?—he quickly let himself into the building, removing the key and relocking the door on the inside to make sure that no one would follow him.
Passing through the inner door, he carefully wiped his feet upon the mat, and removed his overshoes lest they should leave tracks upon the floor—that same uncanny feeling which he had experienced outside still pursuing him.
The bank was so still every footfall echoed noisily through it, and sent a nervous shiver creeping down his spine.
“Good gracious!” he exclaimed, with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, “I am no thief stealing in here to rob the place! Why on earth should I feel like one? It is positively absurd!”
Proceeding directly to the vault, he drew the heavy bolts, unlocked and swung open the massive iron-plated door. The place was cold and gloomy, and again Gerald shivered with a nervous chill as he stepped within those solid walls which so securely guarded their hoarded treasure.
Proceeding directly to Mr. Brewster’s private drawer, the number of which he had long known, he unlocked and drew it out, setting it upon the floor.
It contained several packages of papers. But these held no interest for him; he merely gave them a passing glance, then began to look for the slot in the iron panel at the back of the aperture.
It required close searching to find it, but his efforts were finally rewarded, whereupon he inserted the last of his keys, turned it half-around, when the panel sprang outward, as Mr. Brewster had described.
It appeared to be swung upon hinges, and, lifting it up, Gerald could distinguish within the little vault thus disclosed a box of some description.
He drew it from its place of concealment.
It proved to be a beautiful Japanese affair, inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl in an intricate pattern. There was a tiny key in its lock, and for fear that it might drop out and be lost, Gerald removed it and transferred it to a pocket in his vest, without once thinking that he had it in his power to inspect the contents of the casket, if he chose to do so.
Putting it carefully down upon the floor, he looked for the other. He found it shoved away back in the secret vault. It was much larger than the other—a common, though strong, wooden receptacle—and it was also locked, while there was no key with it.
Gerald felt quite sure that the Japanese casket must contain the jewels of which Mr. Brewster had spoken, and which were to be given to Allison. Doubtless they were very valuable, and would be doubly precious to her because they had once belonged to and been worn by her mother.
He would probably see them upon her person some day; but, strange to say, he did not feel half so curious about them as he did regarding the contents of the larger box, for he had been impressed by Mr. Brewster’s manner and expression when he had said that it contained “nothing of special value to any one—except myself.”
However, he felt that it was no business of his what either held; his duty lay simply in conveying them safely to his employer.
Putting the drawer back in its place, he relocked it, when, gathering the boxes from the floor, he turned to leave the vault. At that instant a shadow obscured the light admitted by the open door.
Gerald started forward with a sudden and terrible heart-throb. His face flushed hotly, then paled to the hue of marble as he was confronted by John Hubbard, who was standing upon the threshold, a sardonic grin distorting his sinister countenance.
“Aha! my young burglar,” the man exclaimed, in a tone of fiendish triumph, “is this the way you are in the habit of spending your Sundays?”
The sound of the expert’s voice at once restored Gerald’s composure, although every nerve in his body was tingling with anger at his manner of addressing him.
“I am no burglar, Mr. Hubbard, and you know it,” he coldly returned. “I am not in the habit of coming here—I have never been in the bank on Sunday before this; but——”
“What have you there?” sternly interposed his companion, and indicating by a gesture the boxes in Gerald’s hands.
“Some things belonging to Mr. Brewster.”
“So I judged. How came you here?”
“By his orders,” the young man briefly replied, and then wondered at the almost satanic leer which swept over the features of the man before him.
“Indeed! but how did you pass all these barriers?” with a nod backward over his shoulder.
“Why, by means of these keys, which Mr. Brewster himself gave to me, when he asked me to perform this errand for him,” the young man responded, as he held up the bunch by the ring, and which Mr. Hubbard instantly recognized as belonging to the banker.
“When did you see Mr. Brewster?” he questioned, a look of perplexity flashing over his face.
“Yesterday afternoon—he sent for me to go to him,” Gerald explained.
“H’m!” ejaculated the expert, with a frown. Then, after a moment of thought, he added: “What is in those boxes?”
Again Gerald flushed. Then he threw back his handsome head haughtily.
“Excuse me,” he said freezingly, “but that is a question which Mr. Brewster alone is qualified to answer.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed his companion, but with so weird a note in the sound, which echoed and re-echoed mockingly through the vault, that Gerald’s blood almost seemed to congeal in his veins. “You are very non-committal, my fine fellow,” he continued, with a snarl, “but do you dare to tell me that you don’t know what either of those boxes contains?”
“I must decline to discuss the matter with you, Mr. Hubbard,” was the terse reply.
“Indeed!” sneered his companion. Then he observed, served, authoritatively, as he went a step nearer Gerald. “Very well, we won’t discuss it; but since I am Mr. Brewster’s attorney, I will relieve you of all further care of them. Give them to me.”
“No, sir!” said Gerald resolutely, and retreating from him.
“Give them to me, I tell you!” commanded the man angrily.
“I cannot do that, Mr. Hubbard,” Gerald calmly returned. “Mr. Brewster requested me to come here for them, and then bring them directly to him. I shall deliver them to no other hands.”
Once more that strange laugh echoed through the dismal vault.
“You will have to go a long journey to do that, young man,” said John Hubbard, showing his white teeth in a horrible grin.
“How so?” queried Gerald, in surprise, but with a strange numbness stealing over him, “I—I do not understand you.”
“Adam Brewster is dead!” said John Hubbard.