The man started, eyed Mr. Sylvester’s white but powerfully controlled countenance, seemed struck with something he saw there, and was silent.
“You make too much now, as you made too much then of a matter that having its sole ground in a mistake, is, as I say, easily explainable. This affair which has come up now, is not so clear. Three of the boxes have been opened, and from one certain valuables have been taken. Can you give me any information that will assist us in our search after the culprit?”
“No sir.” The tone was quite humble, Hopgood drew back unconsciously towards the door.
“As for the mistake of a year ago to which you have seen proper to allude, I shall myself take pains to inform Mr. Stuyvesant of it, since it has made such an impression upon you that it trammels your honesty and makes you consider it at all necessary to be anxious about it at this time.”
And Hopgood unused to sarcasm from those lips, drew himself together, and with one more agitated look at the box on the table, sidled awkwardly from the room. Mr. Sylvester at once advanced to the screen which he hastily pushed aside. “Well, sir,” said he, meeting the detective’s wavering eye and forcing him to return his look, “you have now seen the various employees of the bank and heard most of them converse. Is there anything more you would like to inquire into before giving us the opinion I requested?”
“No sir,” said the detective, coming forward, but very slowly and somewhat hesitatingly for him. “I think I am ready to say—”
Here the door opened, and Mr. Stuyvesant returned. The detective drew a breath of relief and repeated his words with a businesslike