“Whose orders?”
“My employer’s, Mr. Brewster’s,” and Gerald proceeded to give him a brief account of the facts of the case, though he said nothing about the secret vault.
“That sounds all straight and right,” said the policeman, as he gravely turned to Mr. Hubbard.
“Yes; he tells a very plausible story,” was the sneering response, “but it is perfectly absurd, when you come to think of it, that Mr. Brewster should intrust such a commission to a mere boy, when I have been his attorney, and have conducted his affairs for years; and on Sunday, with so much secrecy, too! That was not Adam Brewster’s way of doing business; it is far more likely that he would have sent for what he wanted, openly and aboveboard, and on some day during regular banking hours. No, sir; he can’t pull the wool over my eyes; and as I feel bound to protect the interests of my late client, I shall expect you to do your duty, and take the fellow in charge,” he concluded authoritatively.
“Well, I suppose I must,” the man responded, with evident reluctance, adding, as he drew from a capacious pocket a pair of steel bracelets, “hold out your hands, my young man.”
Gerald shrank back a step.
“Oh! not that!” he said, with pale lips; “I beg you will not handcuff me. I will go with you peaceably.”
“Well, maybe you would. I’m inclined to believe you; but it’s my rule to make sure of my birds, and I don’t make any exceptions,” said the man, as he dexterously slipped the shackles upon the wrists of his prisoner; but with an air that betrayed he did not very much relish the business in hand.
“The keys, Mr. Officer; I must have the keys,” John Hubbard interposed, as they were about to leave the vault.