always been on terms of friendship, and nothing but the most pleasant relations have ever existed between us. Will you pardon me if I ask you to give me your hand in good day?”
The director paused, looked a trifle astonished, but held out his hand not only with cordiality but very evident affection.
“Good day,” cried he, “good day.”
Mr. Sylvester pressed that hand, and then with a dignified bow, allowed the director to depart. It was his last effort at composure. When the door closed, his head sank on his hands, and life with all its hopes and honors, love and happiness, seemed to die within him.
He was interrupted at length by Bertram. “Well, uncle?” asked the young man with unrestrained emotion.
“The theft has been committed by someone in this bank; so the detective gives out, and so we are called upon to believe. Who the man is who has caused us all this misery, neither he, nor you, nor I, nor anyone, is likely to very soon determine. Meantime—”
“Well?” cried Bertram anxiously, after a moment of suspense.
“Meantime, courage!” his uncle resumed with forced cheerfulness.
But as he was leaving the bank he came up to Bertram, and laying his hand on his shoulder, quietly said:
“I want you to go immediately to my house upon leaving here. I may not be back till midnight, and Miss Fairchild may need the comfort of your presence. Will you do it, Bertram?”
“Uncle! I—”