“And I, but circumstances admit of no other course. The innocent must not suffer for the guilty, even so far as an unfounded suspicion would lead.”
“No, no, of course not.” And the director bustled about after his overcoat and hat.
Mr. Sylvester watched him with growing sadness. “Mr. Stuyvesant,” said he, as the latter stood before him ready for the street, “we have always been on terms of friendship, and nothing but the most pleasant relations have ever existed between us. Will you pardon me if I ask you to give me your hand in good-day?”
The director paused, looked a trifle astonished, but held out his hand not only with cordiality but very evident affection.
“Good day,” cried he, “good-day.”
Mr. Sylvester pressed that hand, and then with a dignified bow, allowed the director to depart. It was his last effort at composure. When the door closed, his head sank on his hands, and life with all its hopes and honors, love and happiness, seemed to die within him.
He was interrupted at length by Bertram. “Well, uncle?” asked the young man with unrestrained emotion.
“The theft has been committed by some one in this bank; so the detective gives out, and so we are called upon to believe. Who the man is who has caused us all this misery, neither he, nor you, nor I, nor any one, is likely to very soon determine. Meantime—”
“Well?” cried Bertram anxiously, after a moment of suspense.
“Meantime, courage!” his uncle resumed with forced cheerfulness.