Standing a little back from the street rises the mighty spire of this, New York's most famous house of worship, surrounded on three sides by the crumbling head-stones of a century ago, and marking the last resting-place of many a famous citizen of the days gone by.
Rising above these stones, the many dingy tombs scattered among them, clusters of noble trees raise their spreading branches toward the sky above, overshadowing this time-honored burial place of the dead.
Brick and mortar everywhere, gigantic structures upon every hand, the old Trinity church-yard has remained untouched by the hand of Time—remained the one green spot in lower New York, even as it was in the days when the great city was young.
It was upon this sight that Frank Mansfield daily looked forth, for his desk in the bank commanded a full view of the church-yard from the Rector street side.
It was by the side of the wall that, with his companion, he now stands, contemplating an act, which, if not criminal, is a breach of the implicit trust placed in him by the officers of the Webster National Bank, at least.
And now the old church-yard is robed in white, the snow flakes bearing downward the branches of the spreading trees, covering the tombs and graves of the dead—we doubt very much if the souls of many who lie beneath are as white as the ground above their moldering bones.
Detective Cutts turned the corner of Rector street, and moved silently along the church-yard wall.
It was now twelve o'clock and after—in fact, the bell of Old Trinity had rung out the midnight hour before they passed the corner of Fulton street and Broadway.
The storm had increased as the night advanced, Broadway was deserted, and not a soul could be seen moving on Rector street from end to end.
For the evil-doer no better night could be found than this—even the policemen had sought shelter in friendly doorways from the pitiless storm.