Bertram observing it, subdued the rapid beatings of his heart and spoke with like distinctness. “I have been in the bank the same length of time as my uncle,” said he, “and most heartily endorse his good opinion of the various persons in our employ.”
“And Mr. Stuyvesant?” the immovable glance seemed to say.
“Men are honest in my opinion till they are proved otherwise,” came in short stern accents from the director’s lips.
The detective drew back in his chair as if he considered that point decided, and yet Bertram’s eye which had clouded at Mr. Stuyvesant’s too abrupt assertion, did not clear again as might have been expected.
“There is one more question I desire to settle,” continued the detective, “and that is, whether this robbery could have been perpetrated after business hours, by some one in collusion with the person who is here left in charge?”
“No;” again came from Mr. Sylvester, with impartial justice. “The watchman—who by the way has been in the bank for twelve years—could not help a man to find entrance to the vaults. His simple duty is to watch over the bank and give alarm in case of fire or burglary. It would necessitate a knowledge of the combination by which the vault doors are opened, to do what you suggest, and that is possessed by but three persons in the bank.”
“And those are?”
“The cashier, the janitor, and myself.”
He endeavored to speak calmly and without any betrayal of the effort it caused him to utter those simple words, but a detective’s ear is nice and it is doubtful if he perfectly succeeded.
Mr. Gryce however limited himself to a muttered, humph! and a long and thoughtful look at a spot on the green baize of the table before which he sat.