“Why, yes, there seems to be,” he snapped. “Come in, Landis.” He opened the door of his private office and Martin followed him inside. He gave one long look into the face of the young man--"I’m going to tell you. Perhaps you can make things easier for us to adjust in case there’s anything wrong. An investigation has been ordered. One of our heaviest depositors seems to have some inside information that some one is spending the bank’s money for personal use.”
“Good guns! In this bank? A thief?” Horror was printed on the face of Martin.
The man opposite searched that face. “Yes--I might as well tell you--I feel like a brute to do so--if it’s false it’s a damnable trick, for such a thing is a fiendish calumny for an honest man to bear--you’re the man under suspicion.”
Martin sat up, his eyes wide in horror, then his chest collapsed and his neck felt limber. “Oh, my God,” he whispered, as though in appeal to the Infinite Father of Mercy and Justice, “what a thing to say about me! What a lie!”
“It’s a lie?” asked the older man tersely.
“Absolutely! I’ve never stolen anything since the days I wore short pants and climbed the neighbors’ trees for apples. Who says it?”
“Well, I can’t divulge that now. Perhaps later.”
Martin groaned. To be branded a thief was more than he could bear. His face went whiter.
“See here,” said the old man, “I almost shocked you to death, but I had a purpose in it. I couldn’t believe that of you and knew I’d be able to read your face. You know, I believe you! It’s all some infernal mistake or plot. You’re not a clever enough actor to feign such distress and innocence. Go out and get some air and come back to-morrow morning. I’ll stand for you in the meantime. I believe in you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Martin managed to blurt out between dry lips that seemed almost paralyzed. “I’ll be back in the morning. Hope you’ll find I’m telling the truth.”