It was a busy morning and in the rush of various matters Bertram forgot the entire occurrence. But it was presently recalled to him by hearing some one remark, “Mr. Sylvester is late to-day,” and looking up from some papers he was considering, he found it was a full hour after the time at which his uncle was in the habit of appearing. Just then he caught still another sight of the protruding eyes of Hopgood staring in upon him from the half-opened door at the end of the bank.
“The fellow’s getting impatient,” thought he, and experienced a vague feeling of uneasiness.
Another half hour passed. “What can have detained Mr. Sylvester?” cried Mr. Wheelock the cashier, hastily approaching Bertram.
“There is to be an important meeting of the Directors to-day, and some of the gentlemen are already coming in. Mr. Sylvester is not accustomed to keep us waiting.”
“I don’t know, I am sure,” returned Bertram, remembering with an accession of uneasiness, the abruptness with which his uncle had left the entertainment the evening before.
“Shall I telegraph to the house?”
“No, that is not necessary. Besides Folger says he passed him on Broadway this morning.”
“Going down street with a valise in his hand,” that gentlemen quietly put in. Folger was the teller. “He was looking very pale and didn’t see me when I nodded.”
“What time was that?” asked Bertram.
“About twelve; when I went out to lunch.”