Mr. Gryce at once took up his hat. “If the charge implied in my opinion strikes you, gentlemen, as serious, you must at least acknowledge that your own judgment does not greatly differ from mine, or why such unnecessary agitation in regard to a loss so petty, by a gentleman worth as we are told his millions.” And with this passing shot, to which neither of his auditors responded, he made his final obeisance and calmly left the room.
Mr. Sylvester and Mr. Stuyvesant slowly confronted one another.
“The man speaks the truth,” said the former. “You at least suspect some one in the bank, Mr. Stuyvesant?”
“I have no wish to,” hastily returned the other, “but facts—”
“Would facts of this nature have any weight with you against the unspotted character of a man never known by you to meditate, much less commit a dishonest action?”
“No; yet facts are facts, and if it is proved that some one in our employ has perpetrated a theft, the mind will unconsciously ask who, and remain uneasy till it is satisfied.”
“And if it never is?”
“It will always ask who, I suppose.”
Mr. Sylvester drew back. “The matter shall be pushed,” said he; “you shall be satisfied. Surveillance over each man employed in this institution ought sooner or later to elicit the truth. The police shall take it in charge.”
Mr. Stuyvesant looked uneasy. “I suppose it is only justice,” murmured he, “but it is a scandal I would have been glad to avoid.”