Mr. Sylvester and Mr. Stuyvesant slowly confronted one another.
“The man speaks the truth,” said the former. “You at least suspect someone in the bank, Mr. Stuyvesant?”
“I have no wish to,” hastily returned the other, “but facts—”
“Would facts of this nature have any weight with you against the unspotted character of a man never known by you to meditate, much less commit a dishonest action?”
“No; yet facts are facts, and if it is proved that someone in our employ has perpetrated a theft, the mind will unconsciously ask who, and remain uneasy till it is satisfied.”
“And if it never is?”
“It will always ask who, I suppose.”
Mr. Sylvester drew back. “The matter shall be pushed,” said he; “you shall be satisfied. Surveillance over each man employed in this institution ought sooner or later to elicit the truth. The police shall take it in charge.”
Mr. Stuyvesant looked uneasy. “I suppose it is only justice,” murmured he, “but it is a scandal I would have been glad to avoid.”
“And I, but circumstances admit of no other course. The innocent must not suffer for the guilty, even so far as an unfounded suspicion would lead.”
“No, no, of course not.” And the director bustled about after his overcoat and hat.
Mr. Sylvester watched him with growing sadness. “ Mr. Stuyvesant,” said he, as the latter stood before him ready for the street, “we have