“Bertram!” sprang from Mr. Sylvester’s white lips.
But the young man raised his hand with almost a commanding gesture. “Hush,” said he, “no sympathy or surprise. Facts like these have to be met with silent endurance, as we walk up to the mouth of the cannon we cannot evade, or bare our breast to the thrust of the bayonet gleaming before our eyes.—I would not have you think,” he somewhat hurriedly pursued, “that Mr. Stuyvesant insinuated anything of the kind, but his daughter was not present in the parlor, and—” A sigh, almost a gasp finished the sentence.
“Bertram!” again exclaimed his uncle, this time with some authority in his voice. “The shock of this discovery has unnerved you. You act like a man capable of being suspected. That is simply preposterous. One half hour’s conversation with Mr. Stuyvesant on my part will convince him, if he needs convincing, which I do not believe, that whoever is unworthy of trust in our bank, you are not the man.”
Bertram raised his head with a gleam of hope, but instantly dropped it again with a despairing gesture that made his uncle frown.
“I did not know that you were inclined to be so pusillanimous,” cried Mr. Sylvester; “and in presence of a foe so unsubstantial as this you have conjured up almost out of nothing. If the bank has been robbed, it cannot be difficult to find the thief. I will order in detectives tomorrow. We will hold a board of inquiry, and the culprit shall be unmasked; that is, if he is one of the employees of the bank, which it is very hard to believe.”
“Very, and which, if true, would make it unadvisable in us to give the alarm that any public measures taken could not fail to do.”
“The inquiry shall be private, and the detectives, men who can be trusted to keep their business secret.”