Shortly after this, Edwards and Smyles took their leave. Wyeth missed them considerably, for he had grown very fond of them about the office. When they were far, far away, the mystery connected with their occupation was still unsolved. Then, one day while Sidney was folding up an old newspaper, his eye happened to fall upon an article of two paragraphs. It related to an incident that cleared up the whole thing, and was to the effect that, while doing some sleuthing on the ground floor, Smyles had, after refusing to explain the occasion of his mysterious action, been arrested and locked up for an hour, at the end of which the great detective had come forward and got him out.
"Well, I'll be blowed!" exclaimed Sidney, for it revealed that his two friends were detectives, in the employ of the noted chief, and hired, no doubt, to view the case from a "dark" angle. But the most extraordinary part of it all, was that their names were not Smyles nor Edwards either, but—I guess it doesn't matter.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Cause Nigga's 's Gittin' so Rich"
In the building to the furthest end from where Wyeth's office was now located, he observed a man one day. He was standing in front of the bank. He was a white man, and was tall and slender, while his complexion was sandy, his hair red and awry. His eyes were keen and piercing. "A collector," thought Sidney, for there were so many about the building, especially on Monday, and this was the day. He lurked in the entry on Tuesday, when Wyeth passed that way. "Must be a contractor, the way he is studying the inside of the bank," mumbled Wyeth, as he took the elevator upward.
Wednesday came, gray and gloomy, and then it rained. It was four o'clock and thirty minutes in the afternoon. Sidney passed through the entry to the elevator on his way to the office of Dickson, and again the man stood there. He had drawn no conclusion as to what was the occasion of this presence, when from behind came a sound. He did something else then. So did others about him.
"Throw up your hands, nigger, and get into that vault!" came a command.
It was from the man he had seen, and he was holding up the bank.
There was a silence, followed by a scuffle, then a lull, and a shot, and still later,—for the shot went wild, landing in the ceiling where it cracked the plastering, and made bits of it fall upon a score of frightened Negroes—a thud. This had not gone amiss. There was a groan and a dull sound, as some one sank to the floor. This part was witnessed by Wyeth and others. It was the teller, and the son of the bank's president. On the floor he lay bleeding, while the other was standing frightened over him. Then he looked up. Open-mouthed like dumb creatures, Negros of all shades, including the green, stood about. And then the man seemed to awaken to the emergency, and the danger.