thief in the bank he can be found; if the robbery was committed by an outsider, he may still be discovered. If he is not, if the mystery rests forever unexplained, you have your character, Bertram, a character as spotless as that of any of your fellows, whom we regard as above suspicion. A man is not going to be condemned by such a judge of human nature as Mr. Stuyvesant, just because a mysterious crime has been committed, to which the circumstances of his position alone render it possible for him to be party. You might as well say that Jessup and Folger and Watson—yes, or myself, would in that case lose his confidence. They are in the bank, and are constantly in the habit of going to the vaults.”
“None of those gentlemen want to marry his daughter,” murmured Bertram. “It is not the director I fear, but the father. I have so little to bring her. Only my character and my devotion.”
“Well, well, pluck up courage, my boy. I have hopes yet that the whole matter can be referred to some mistake easily explainable when once it is discovered. Mistakes, even amongst the honest and the judicious, are not so uncommon as one is apt to imagine. I, myself, have known of one which if providence had not interfered, might have led to doubts seemingly as inconsistent as yours. Tomorrow we will consider the question at length. Tonight—Well, Bertram, what is it?”
The young man started and dropped his eyes, which during the last words of his uncle had been fixed upon his face with strange and penetrating inquiry. “Nothing,” said he, “that is, nothing more;” and rose as if to leave.
But Mr. Sylvester put out his hand and stopped him. “There is something,” said he. “I have seen it in your face ever since you entered this room. What is it?”
The young man drew a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. Mr. Sylvester watched him with growing pallor. “You are right,” murmured