Putting the drawer back in its place, he relocked it, when, gathering the boxes from the floor, he turned to leave the vault. At that instant a shadow obscured the light admitted by the open door.
Gerald started forward with a sudden and terrible heart-throb. His face flushed hotly, then paled to the hue of marble as he was confronted by John Hubbard, who was standing upon the threshold, a sardonic grin distorting his sinister countenance.
“Aha! my young burglar,” the man exclaimed, in a tone of fiendish triumph, “is this the way you are in the habit of spending your Sundays?”
The sound of the expert’s voice at once restored Gerald’s composure, although every nerve in his body was tingling with anger at his manner of addressing him.
“I am no burglar, Mr. Hubbard, and you know it,” he coldly returned. “I am not in the habit of coming here—I have never been in the bank on Sunday before this; but——”
“What have you there?” sternly interposed his companion, and indicating by a gesture the boxes in Gerald’s hands.
“Some things belonging to Mr. Brewster.”
“So I judged. How came you here?”
“By his orders,” the young man briefly replied, and then wondered at the almost satanic leer which swept over the features of the man before him.