“That's a—it is not.”
“It's in the box,” repeated Mortimer, firmly.
“We can soon settle that point,” declared the cashier, going hurriedly into the vault and reappearing instantly with the box in his hand.
He opened it and stared at the package of bills that rose up when freed from the pressure of the lid. With nervous fingers he counted the contents.
“I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed in a quick, jerky way. “The three thousand dollars is here, but these bills have been put in the box this morning; they were not there last night. It is not the money that was taken away, either. That was one bill, a thousand-dollar note; and here are”—he counted them again—“six one hundreds and eight fifties, besides the original two of one thousand. You put those notes back, Mr. Mortimer,” he said, tapping the desk with two fingers of the right hand.
“I did.”
“And you took the money yesterday or the day before?”
“I did not.”
“Ah!” Lane repeated in a drier, more severe tone than he had used before. This “Ah” of the cashier's, with its many gradations of tone, had been a most useful weapon in his innumerable financial battles. It could be made to mean anything—everything; flung out at haphazard it always caught his opponent off guard; it was a subtle thrust, and while one pondered over its possible meaning, Lane could formulate in his mind more decisive expressions.
“Ah,” he repeated, adding, “if you did not steal the money, who did? And if you did not take it, why did you put it back?”