Evidently the officers of the Webster Bank had relied upon the solidity of their vault doors for protection, and upon the fact that with plate glass windows upon two sides, facing Rector street and Broadway, the policeman on the beat could see the entire front of the vault as plainly as though it had been standing in the street itself, by the light of the gas-burner, kept burning the entire night directly in front of the combination lock.
And, after all, no better protection could be devised than this, providing always, the policeman of the beat is true to his trust.
And yet the deed had been done, and, stranger still the officer in whose charge this portion of Broadway lay had put in no appearance yet.
Crowbar and jimmy, powder-can and fuse, and the shattered door itself, told with startling plainness the methods by which the bank-robbers had attained their end.
Detective Hook examined each point with close attention.
Nothing of value remained in the vault.
It might have contained millions—it might have contained cents—the bank officers alone could tell.
"There is something altogether out of the usual order in this affair," he muttered to himself, as he stood musing before the rifled vault.
"The strange hints received by me from Cutts have proved both true and false. Instead of this clerk and a gang of desperate burglars, I find the vault already robbed and this young man with his strange story, involving Cutts himself, standing here alone.
"I don't like the look of it. I believe this boy is as innocent as I am, Caleb Hook; there is something else at the bottom of all this. If I don't greatly mistake——