“When was that, sir? On what day and at what hour of the day, if you please?”
“Tuesday, at about three o’clock, I should say.”
“The box was locked by you? There is no doubt about that fact?”
“None in the least.”
“Where were you standing at the time?”
“In front of the vault door. I had taken out the box myself as I am in the habit of doing, and had stepped there to put it back.”
“Was anyone near you then?”
“Yes. The cashier was at his desk and the teller had occasion to go to the safe while I stood there. I do not remember seeing anyone else in my immediate vicinity.”
“Do you remember ever going to the vaults and not finding someone near you at the time or at least in full view of your movements?”
“No.”
“I have informed Mr. Gryce,” interposed Mr. Sylvester, with a ring in his deep voice that made Mr. Stuyvesant start, “that our chief desire at present is to have his judgment upon the all important question, as to whether this theft was committed by a stranger, or one in the employ and consequently in the confidence of the bank.”
Mr. Stuyvesant bowed, every wrinkle in his face manifesting itself with startling distinctness as he slowly moved his eyes and fixed them on the inscrutable countenance of the detective.
“You agree then with these gentlemen,” continued the latter, who had a way of seeming more interested in everything and everybody present