The tone in which this was uttered made Bertram look up. “You agree with me, then, that Hopgood is absolutely to be relied upon?”
“Absolutely.” A faint flush on Mr. Sylvester’s face lent force to this statement.
“He could not be beguiled or forced by another man to reveal the combination, or to relax his watch over the vaults entrusted to his keeping?”
“No.”
“He is alone with the vaults where the boxes are kept for an hour or two in the early morning!”
“Yes, and has been for three years. Hopgood is honesty itself.”
“And so are Folger and Jessup and Watson,” exclaimed Bertram emphatically.
“Yes,” his uncle admitted, with equal emphasis.
“It is a mystery,” Bertram declared; “and one I fear that will undo me.”
“Nonsense!” broke forth somewhat impatiently from Mr. Sylvester’s lips; “there is no reason at this time for any such conclusion. If there is a thief in the bank he can be found; if the robbery was committed by an outsider, he may still be discovered. If he is not, if the mystery rests forever unexplained, you have your character, Bertram, a character as spotless as that of any of your fellows, whom we regard as above suspicion. A man is not going to be condemned by such a judge of human nature as Mr. Stuyvesant, just because a mysterious crime has been committed, to which the circumstances of his position alone render it possible for him to be party. You might as well say that Jessup and Folger and Watson—yes, or myself, would in that case lose his confidence. They are in the bank, and are constantly in the habit of going to the vaults.”