“In front of the vault door. I had taken out the box myself as I am in the habit of doing, and had stepped there to put it back.”
“Was any one near you then?”
“Yes. The cashier was at his desk and the teller had occasion to go to the safe while I stood there. I do not remember seeing any one else in my immediate vicinity.”
“Do you remember ever going to the vaults and not finding some one near you at the time or at least in full view of your movements?”
“No.”
“I have informed Mr. Gryce,” interposed Mr. Sylvester, with a ring in his deep voice that made Mr. Stuyvesant start, “that our chief desire at present is to have his judgment upon the all important question, as to whether this theft was committed by a stranger, or one in the employ and consequently in the confidence of the bank.”
Mr. Stuyvesant bowed, every wrinkle in his face manifesting itself with startling distinctness as he slowly moved his eyes and fixed them on the inscrutable countenance of the detective.
“You agree then with these gentlemen,” continued the latter, who had a way of seeming more interested in everything and everybody present than the person he was addressing, “that it would be difficult if not impossible for any one unconnected with the bank, to approach the vaults during business hours and abstract anything from them without detection?”
“And do these gentleman both assert that?” queried Mr. Stuyvesant, with a sharp look from uncle to nephew.
“I believe they do,” replied the detective, as both the gentlemen bowed, Bertram with an uncontrollable quiver of his lip, and Mr. Sylvester with a deepening of the lines about his mouth, which may or may not have been noticed by this man who appeared to observe nothing.