It was deserted.
Cutts, the strange woman, and the two young fellows who held her down had alike disappeared.
There was nothing to be seen save the dark outlines of Trinity Church, the old burial ground about it, and the white flakes of the ever falling snow.
And the heart of Frank Mansfield sank within him as the full meaning of his perilous position burst upon his bewildered brain.
The bank robbed—Cutts and his companions gone.
Who would believe his story, now that he had been caught almost in front of the rifled vault?
"Now look here, young fellow," said the detective, "you might just as well own up and tell the truth. Where are your pals? Who are you? What's your name?"
"My name is Frank Mansfield. I'm assistant cashier of the bank."
There was nothing to be gained by attempting to conceal his identity; Frank saw that at a glance.
"I thought as much," replied the detective grimly, "and I'm a little behind time, I see. But you don't answer my other question. Where are your pals?"