“I believe I have already made it plain to you that I have no intentions of interfering with your action in this matter,” quoth Mr. Sylvester, turning slowly toward the door. “If you are determined to send your statement, it must go, only—” And here he turned upon the bitterly disappointed man with an aspect whose nobility the other was but little calculated to appreciate—“only when you do so, be particular to state that the person whose story you thus forward to a director of the Madison Bank, is not Bertram Sylvester, the cashier, but Edward Sylvester, his uncle, and the bank’s president.”
And the stately head bowed and the tall form was about to withdraw, when Holt with an excited tremble that affected even his words, advanced and seized Mr. Sylvester by the arm.
“His uncle!” cried he, “why that is what you—Great heaven!” he exclaimed, falling back with an expression not unmixed with awe, “you are the man and you have denounced yourself!” Then quickly, “Speak again; let me hear your voice.”
And Mr. Sylvester with a sad smile, repeated in a slow and meaning tone, “It is but one little fuss more!” then as the other cringed, added a dignified, “Good evening, Mr. Holt,” and passed swiftly across the room towards the door.
What was it that stopped him halfway, and made him look back with such a startled glance at the man he had left behind him? A smell of smoke in the air, the faint yet unmistakable odor of burning wood, as though the house were on fire, or—
Ha! the man himself has discerned it, is on his feet, is at the window, has seen what? His cry of mingled terror and dismay does not reveal. Mr. Sylvester hastens to his side.
The sight which met his eyes, did not for the moment seem sufficient to account for the degree of emotion expressed by the other. To be sure,