Hung up all around were costumes of various ages, and of characters from knights and harlequins, to monks and fairy dancers.
But none of these attracted Larry just then, for with startling suddenness he beheld, in the middle of one room, a man standing, a man whom the young reporter knew at once to be Witherby, the bank clerk!
And Witherby held in his hand a black moustache—a false moustache—as if, at the time of the explosion, he had been about to adjust it, but had been startled by the blowing out of the windows.
“By Jove!” ejaculated Larry.
“What—what is it? Some one hurt?” gasped Miss Potter, at his side.
“No, but——”
Larry hesitated, and had made up his mind he would not call the attention of the millionaire’s daughter to the strange sight. But it was too late. She had seen Witherby, and had caught sight of the false moustache in his hand.
“Oh! Oh!” she gasped. “What—what does that mean, Larry?”
Before he could answer there came another explosion, and hoarse shouts of fear and warning.
“This is getting too much for me!” thought Larry. “I’m between two fires. I’ve just got to get after this new clew to the bank mystery, and yet I can’t leave this fire and explosion uncovered. What shall I do? I wonder what game Witherby is up to now? I’ll wager he’s getting ready to skip out with the million dollars! I must get word to Mr. Bentfield at once. I guess it’s time to cause an arrest!