BOOK IV. (continued 2)

“None of those gentlemen want to marry his daughter,” murmured Bertram. “It is not the director I fear, but the father. I have so little to bring her. Only my character and my devotion.”

“Well, well, pluck up courage, my boy. I have hopes yet that the whole matter can be referred to some mistake easily explainable when once it is discovered. Mistakes, even amongst the honest and the judicious, are not so uncommon as one is apt to imagine. I, myself, have known of one which if providence had not interfered, might have led to doubts seemingly as inconsistent as yours. To-morrow we will consider the question at length. To-night—Well, Bertram, what is it?”

The young man started and dropped his eyes, which during the last words of his uncle had been fixed upon his face with strange and penetrating inquiry. “Nothing,” said he, “that is, nothing more;” and rose as if to leave.

But Mr. Sylvester put out his hand and stopped him. “There is something,” said he. “I have seen it in your face ever since you entered this room. What is it?”

The young man drew a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. Mr. Sylvester watched him with growing pallor. “You are right,” murmured his nephew at last; “there is something more, and it is only justice that you should hear it. I have had two adventures to-night; one quite apart from my conversation with Mr. Stuyvesant. Heaven that watches above us, has seen fit to accumulate difficulties in my path, and this last, perhaps, is the least explainable and the hardest to encounter.”

“What do you allude to?” cried his uncle, imperatively; “I have had an evening of too much agitation to endure suspense with equanimity. Explain yourself.”

“It will not take long,” said the other; “a few words will reveal to you the position in which I stand. Let me relate it in the form of a narrative. You know what a dark portion of the block that is in which Mr. Stuyvesant’s house is situated. A man might hide in any of the areas along there, without being observed by you unless he made some sound to attract your attention. I was, therefore, more alarmed than surprised when, shortly after leaving Mr. Stuyvesant’s dwelling, I felt a hand laid on my shoulder, and turning, beheld a dark figure at my side, of an appearance calculated to arouse any man’s apprehension. He was tall, unkempt, with profuse beard, and eyes that glared even in the darkness of his surroundings, with a feverish intensity. ‘You are Mr. Sylvester,’ said he, with a look of a wild animal ready to pounce upon his prey. ‘Yes,’ said I, involuntarily stepping back, ‘I am Mr. Sylvester.’ ‘I want to speak to you,’ exclaimed he, with a rush of words as though a stream had broken loose; ‘now, at once, on business that concerns you. Will you listen?’

“I thought of the only business that seemed to concern me then, and starting still farther back, surveyed him with surprise. ‘I don’t know you,’ said I; ‘what business can you have with me?’ ‘Will you step into some place where it is warm and find out?’ he asked, shivering in his thin cloak, but not abating a jot of his eagerness. ‘Go on before me,’ said I, ‘and we will see.’ He complied at once, and in this way we reached Beale’s Coffee-Room, where we went in. ‘Now,’ said I, ‘out with what you have to say and be quick about it. I have no time to listen to nonsense and no heart to attend to it.’ His eye brightened; he did not cast a glance at the smoking victuals about him, though I knew he was hungry as a dog. ‘It is no nonsense,’ said he, ‘that I have to communicate to you.’ And then I saw he had once been a gentleman. ‘For two years and a half have I been searching for you,’ he went on, ‘in order that I might recall to your mind a little incident. You remember the afternoon of February, the twenty-fifth, two years ago?’

“‘No,’ said I, in great surprise, for his whole countenance was flushed with expectancy. ‘What was there about that day that I should remember it?’ He smiled and bent his face nearer to mine. ‘Don’t you recollect a little conversation you had in a small eating-house in Dey Street, with a gentleman of a high-sounding voice to whom you were obliged continually to say ‘hush!’’” I stared at the man, as you may believe, with some notion of his being a wandering lunatic. ‘I have never taken a meal in any eating-house in Dey Street,’ I declared, motioning to a waiter to approach us. The man observing it, turned swiftly upon me. ‘Do you think I care for any such petty fuss as that?’ asked he, indicating the rather slightly built man I had called to my rescue, while he covertly studied my face to observe the effect of his words.

“I started. I could not help it; this use of an expression almost peculiar to myself, assured me that the man knew me better than I supposed. Involuntarily I waved the waiter back and turned upon the man with an inquiring look.

“‘I thought you might consider it worth your while to listen,’ said he, smiling with the air of one who has or thinks he has a grip upon you. Then suddenly, ‘You are a rich man, are you not? a proud man and an honored one. You hold a position of trust and are considered worthy of it; how would you like men to know that you once committed a mean and dirty trick; that those white hands that have the handling of such large funds at present, have in days gone by been known to dip into such funds a little too deeply; that, in short, you, Bertram Sylvester, cashier of the Madison Bank, and looking forward to no one knows what future honors and emoluments, have been in a position better suited to a felon’s cell than the trusted agent of a great and wealthy corporation?’

“I did not collar him; I was too dumb-stricken for any such display of indignation. I simply stared, feeling somewhat alarmed as I remembered my late interview with Mr. Stuyvesant, and considered the possibility of a plot being formed against me. He smiled again at the effect he had produced, and drew me into a corner of the room where we sat down. ‘I am going to tell you a story,’ said he, ‘just to show you what a good memory I have. One day, a year and more ago, I sauntered into an eating-house on Dey Street. I have not always been what you see me now, though to tell you the truth, I was but little better off at the time of which I speak, except that I did have a dime or so in my pocket, and could buy a meal of victuals—if I wished.’ And his eyes roamed for the first time to the tables stretching out before him down the room. ‘The proprietor was an acquaintance of mine, and finding I was sleepy as well as hungry, let me go into a certain dark pantry, where I curled up amid all sorts of old rubbish and went to sleep. I was awakened by the sound of voices talking very earnestly. The closet in which I was hidden was a temporary affair built up of loose boards, and the talk of a couple of men seated against it was easy enough to be heard. Do you want to know what that conversation was?’

“My curiosity was roused by this time and I said yes. If this was a plot to extort money from me, it was undeniably better for me to know upon just what foundations it rested. I thought the man looked surprised, but with an aplomb difficult to believe assumed, he went on to say, ‘The voices gave me my only means of judging of the age, character, or position of the men conversing, but I have a quick ear, and my memory is never at fault. From the slow, broken, nervously anxious tone of one of the men, I made up my mind that he was elderly, hard up, and not over scrupulous; the other voice was that of a gentleman, musical and yet pronounced, and not easily forgotten, as you see, sir. The first words I heard aroused me and convinced me it was worth while to listen. They were uttered by the gentleman.’ ‘You come to me with such a dirty piece of business! What right have you to suppose I would hearken to you for an instant!’ ‘The right,’ returned the other, ‘of knowing you have not been above doing dirty work in your life time.’ The partition creaked at that, as though one of the two had started forward, but I didn’t hear any reply made to this strange accusation. ‘Do you think,’ the same voice went on, ‘that I do not know where the five thousand dollars came from which you gave me for that first speculation? I knew it when I took it, and if I hadn’t been sure the operation would turn out fortunately, you would never have been the man you are to-day. It came out of funds entrusted to you, and was not the gift of a relative as you would have made me believe.’ ‘Good heaven!’ exclaimed the other, after a silence that was very expressive just then and there, ‘and you let me—’ ‘Oh we won’t go into that,’ interrupted the less cultivated voice. ‘All you wanted was a start, to make you the successful man you have since become. I never worried much about morals, and I don’t worry about them now, only when you say you won’t do a thing likely to make my fortune, just because it is not entirely free from reproach, I say, remember what I know about you, and don’t talk virtue to me.’

“‘I am rightly punished,’ came from the other, in a tone that proved him to be a man more ready to do a wrong thing than to face the accusation of it. ‘If I ever did what you suppose, the repentance that has embittered all my success, and the position in which you have this day placed me, is surely an ample atonement.’ ‘Will you do what I request?’ inquired the other, giving little heed to this expression of misery, of which I on the contrary took special heed. ‘No,’ was the energetic reply; ‘because I am not spotless it is no sign that I will wade into filth. I will give you money as I have done scores of times before, but I will lend my hand to no scheme which is likely to throw discredit on me or mine. Were you not connected to me in the way in which you are—’ ‘You would pursue the scheme,’ interrupted the other; ‘it is because you know that I cannot talk, that you dare repudiate it. Well I will go to one—’ ‘You shall not,’ came in short quick tones, just such tones as you used to me, sir, when we first entered this room. ‘You shall leave the country before you do anything more, or say anything more, to compromise me or yourself. I may have done wrong in my day, but that is no reason why I should suffer for it at your hands, tempter of youth, and deceiver of your own flesh and blood! You shall never bring back those days to me again; they are buried, and have been stamped out of sight by many an honest dealing since, and many as I trust before God, good and sterling action. I have long since begun a new life; a life of honor, and pure, if successful, dealing. Not only my own happiness, but that of one who should be considered by you, depends upon my maintaining that life to the end, unshadowed by unholy remembrances, and unharrassed by any such proffers as you have presumed to make to me here to-day. If you want a few thousand dollars to leave the country, say so, but never again presume to offend my ears, or those of any one else we may know, with any such words as you have made use of to-day.’ And the spiritless creature subsided, sir, and said no more to that rich, honored, and successful man who was so sensitive to even the imputation of guilt.

“But I am not spiritless and just where he dropped the affair, I took it up. ‘Here is a chance for me to turn an honest penny,’ thought I, and with a deliberation little to be expected of me, perhaps, set myself to spot that man and make the most out of the matter I could. Unfortunately I lost the opportunity of seeing his face. I was too anxious to catch every word they uttered, to quit my place of concealment till their conversation was concluded, and then I was too late to be sure which of the many men leaving the building before me was the one I was after. The waiters were too busy to talk, and the proprietor himself had taken no notice. Happily as I have before said, I never forget voices; moreover one of the two speakers had made use of a phrase peculiar enough to serve as a clue to his identity. It was in answer to some parting threat of the older man, and will remind you of an expression uttered by yourself an hour or so ago. ‘Do you suppose I will let such a little fuss as that deter me?’ It was the cue to his speech, by which I intended to hunt out my man from amongst the rich, the trusted and the influential persons of this city, and when found, to hold him.’

“‘And you think you have done this?’ said I, too conscious of the possible net about my feet to be simply angry. ‘I know it,’ said he; ‘every word you have uttered since we have been here has made me more and more certain of the fact. I could swear to your voice, and as to your use of that tell-tale word, it was not till I thought to inquire of a certain wide-awake fellow down town, who amongst our business men were in the habit of using that expression, and was told Mr. Sylvester of the Madison Bank, that I was enabled to track you. I know I have got my hand on my man at last and—’ He looked down at his thread-bare coat and around at the tables with their smoking dishes, and left me to draw my own conclusion.

“Uncle, there are crises in life which no former experience teaches you how to meet. I had arrived at such a one. Perhaps you can understand me when I say I was well nigh appalled. Denial of what was imputed to me might be wisdom and might not. I felt the coil of a deadly serpent about me, and knew not whether it was best to struggle or to simply submit. The man noted the effect he had made and complacently folded his arms. He was of a nervous organization and possessed an eye like a hungry wolf, but he could wait. ‘This is a pretty story,’ said I at last, and I reject it altogether. ‘I am an honest man and have always been so; you will have to give up your hopes of making anything out of me.’ ‘Then you are willing,’ said he, ‘that I should repeat this story to one of the directors of your bank, whom I know?’

“I looked at him; he returned my gaze with a cold nonchalence more suggestive of a deep laid purpose, than even his previous glance of feverish determination. I immediately let my eye run over his scanty clothing and loose flowing hair and beard. ‘Yes,’ said I, with as much sarcasm as I knew how to assume, ‘if you dare risk the consequences, I think I may.’ He at once drew himself up. ‘You think,’ said he, ‘that you have a common-place adventurer to deal with; that my appearance is going to testify in your favor; that you have but to deny any accusation which such a hungry-looking, tattered wretch as I, may make, and that I shall be ignominiously kicked out of the presence into which I have forced myself; that in short I have been building my castle in the air. Mr. Sylvester, I am a poor devil but I am no fool. When I left Dey Street on the twenty-fifth of February two years ago, it was with a sealed paper in my pocket, in which was inscribed all that I had heard on that day. This I took to a lawyer’s office, and not being, as I have before said, quite as impecunious in those days as at present, succeeded in getting the lawyer, whom I took care should be a most respectable man, to draw up a paper to the effect that I had entrusted him with this statement—of whose contents he however knew nothing—on such a day and hour, to which paper a gentleman then present, consented at my respectful solicitation to affix his name as witness, which gentleman, strange to say, has since proved to be a director of the bank of which you are the present cashier, and consequently the very man of all others best adapted to open the paper whose seal you profess to be so willing to see broken.’

“‘His name!’ It was all that I could say. ‘Stuyvesant,’ cried the man, fixing me with his eye in which I in vain sought for some signs of secret doubt or unconscious wavering. I rose; the position in which I found myself was too overwhelming for instant decision. I needed time for reflection, possibly advice—from you. A resolution to brave the devil must be founded on something more solid than impulse, to hold its own unmoved. I only stopped to utter one final word and ask one leading question. ‘You are a smart man,’ said I, ‘and you are also a villain. Your smartness would give you food and drink, if you exercised it in a manner worthy of a man, but your villainy if persisted in, will eventually rob you of both, and bring you to the prison’s cell or the hangman’s gallows. As for myself, I persist in saying that I am now and always have been an honest man, whatever you may have overheard or find yourself capable of swearing to. Yet a lie is an inconvenient thing to have uttered against you at any time, and I may want to see you again; if I do, where shall I find you?’ He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out a small slip of folded paper, which he passed to me with a bow that Chesterfield would have admired. ‘You will find it written within,’ said he ‘I shall look for you any time to-morrow, up to seven o’clock. At that hour the lawyer of whom I have spoken, sends the statement which he has in his possession to Mr. Stuyvesant.’ I nodded my assent, and he moved slowly towards the door. As he did so, his eyes fell upon a roll of bread lying on a counter. I at once stepped forward and bought it. Vile as he was, and deadly as was the snare he contemplated drawing about me, I could not see that wolfish look of hunger, and not offer him something to ease it. He took the loaf from my hands and bit greedily into it but suddenly paused, and shook his head with a look like self-reproach, and thrusting the loaf under his arm, turned towards the door with the quick action of one escaping. Instantly, and before he was out of sight or hearing, I drew the attention of the proprietor to him. ‘Do you see that man?’ I asked. ‘He has been attempting a system of blackmail upon me.’ And satisfied with thus having provided a witness able of identifying the man, in case of an emergency, I left the building.

“And now you know it all,” concluded he; and the silence that followed the utterance of those simple words, was a silence that could be felt.

“Bertram?”

The young man started from his fixed position, and his eyes slowly traversed toward his uncle.

“Have you that slip of paper which the man gave you before departing?”

“Yes,” said he.

“Let me have it, if you please.”

The young man with an agitated look, plunged his hand into his pocket, drew out the small note and laid it on the table between them. Mr. Sylvester let it lie, and again there was a silence.

“If this had happened at any other time,” Bertram pursued, “one could afford to let the man have his say; but now, just as this other mystery has come up—”

“I don’t believe in submitting to blackmail,” came from his uncle in short, quick tones.

Bertram gave a start. “You then advise me to leave him alone?” asked he, with unmistakable emotion.

His uncle dropped the hand which till now he had held before his face, and hastily confronted his nephew. “You will have enough to do to attend to the other matter without bestowing any time or attention upon this. The man that robbed Mr. Stuyvesant’s box, can be found and must. It is the one indispensable business to which I now delegate you. No amount of money and no amount of diligence is to be spared. I rely on you to carry the affair to a successful termination. Will you undertake the task?”

“Can you ask?” murmured the young man, with a shocked look at his uncle’s changed expression.

“As to this other matter, we will let it rest for to-night. To-morrow’s revelations may be more favorable than we expect. At all events let us try and get a little rest now; I am sure we are both in a condition to need it.”

Bertram rose. “I am at your command,” said he, and moved to go. Suddenly he turned, and the two men stood face to face. “I have no wish,” pursued he, “to be relieved of my burden at the expense of any one else. If it is to be borne by any one, let it be carried by him who is young and stalwart enough to sustain it.” And his hand went out involuntarily towards his uncle.

Mr. Sylvester took that hand and eyed his nephew long and earnestly. Bertram thought he was going to speak, and nerved himself to meet with fortitude whatever might be said. But the lips which Mr. Sylvester had opened, closed firmly, and contenting himself with a mere wring of his nephew’s hand, he allowed him to go. The slip of paper remained upon the table unopened.

That night as Paula lay slumbering on her pillow, a sound passed through the house. It was like a quick irrepressible cry of desolation, and the poor child hearing it, started, thinking her name had been called. But when she listened, all was still, and believing she had dreamed, she turned her face upon her pillow, and softly murmuring the name that was dearest to her in all the world, fell again into a peaceful sleep.

But he whose voice had uttered that cry in the dreary emptiness of the great parlors below, slept not.

XXXVI.

MORNING.

Cicely Stuyvesant waiting for her father at the foot of the stairs, on the morning after these occurrences, was a pretty and a touching spectacle. She had not slept very well the night before, and her brow showed signs of trouble and so did her trembling lips. She held in her hand a letter which she twirled about with very unsteady fingers. The morning was bright, but she did not seem to observe it; the air was fresh, but it did not seem to invigorate her. A rose-leaf of care lay on the tremulous waters of her soul, and her sensitive nature thrilled under it.

“Why does he not come?” she whispered, looking again at the letter’s inscription.

It was in Mr. Sylvester’s handwriting, and ought not to have occasioned her any uneasiness, but her father had intimated a wish the night before, that she should not come down into the parlor if Bertram called, and—Her thoughts paused there, but she was anxious about the letter and wished her father would hasten.

Let us look at the little lady. She had been so bright and lovesome yesterday at this time. Never a maiden in all this great city of ours had shown a sweeter or more etherial smile. At once radiant and reserved, she flashed on the eye and trembled from the grasp like some dainty tropical creature as yet unused to our stranger clime. Her father had surveyed her with satisfaction, and her lover—oh, that we were all young again to experience that leap of the heart with which youth meets and recognizes the sweet perfections of the woman it adores! But a mist had obscured the radiance of her aspect, and she looks very sad as she stands in her father’s hall this morning, leaning her cheek against the banister, and thinking of the night when three years ago, she lingered in that very spot, and watched the form of the young musician go by her and disappear in the darkness of the night, as she then thought forever. Joy had come to her by such slow steps and after such long waiting. Hope had burst upon her so brilliantly, and with such a speedy promise of culmination. She thrilled as she thought how short a time ago it was, since she leaned upon Bertram’s arm and dropped her eyes before his gaze.

The appearance of her father at length aroused her. Flushing slightly, she held the letter towards him.

“A letter for you, papa. I thought you might like to read it before you went out.”

Mr. Stuyvesant, who for an hour or more had been frowning over his morning paper with a steady pertinacity that left more than the usual amount of wrinkles upon his brow, started at the wistful tone of this announcement from his daughter’s lips, and taking the letter from her hand, stepped into the parlor to peruse it. It was, as the handwriting declared, from Mr. Sylvester, and ran thus:

“Dear Mr. Stuyvesant:

“I have heard of your loss and am astounded. Though the Bank is not liable for any accident to trusts of this nature, both Bertram and myself are determined to make every effort possible, to detect and punish the man who either through our negligence, or by means of the opportunities afforded him under our present system of management, has been able to commit this robbery upon your effects. We therefore request that you will meet us at the bank this morning at as early an hour as practicable, there to assist us in making such inquiries and instituting such measures, as may be considered necessary to the immediate attainment of the object desired.

“Respectfully yours,

“Edward Sylvester.”

“Is it anything serious?” asked his daughter, coming into the parlor and looking up into his face with a strange wistfulness he could not fail to remark.

Mr. Stuyvesant gave her a quick glance, shook his head with some nervousness and hastily pocketed the epistle. “Business,” mumbled he, “business.” And ignoring the sigh that escaped her lips, began to make his preparations for going at once down town.

He was always an awkward man at such matters, and it was her habit to afford him what assistance she could. This she now did, lending her hand to help him on with his overcoat, rising on tip-toe to tie his muffler, and bending her bright head to see that his galoshes were properly fastened; her charming face with its far-away look, shining strangely sweet in the dim hall, in contrast with his severe and antiquated countenance.

He watched her carefully but with seeming indifference till all was done and he stood ready to depart, then in an awkward enough way—he was not accustomed to bestow endearments—drew her to him and kissed her on the forehead; after which he turned about and departed without a word to season or explain this unwonted manifestation of tenderness.

A kiss was an unusual occurrence in that confiding but undemonstrative household, and the little maiden trembled. “Something is wrong,” she murmured half to herself, half to the dim vista of the lonely parlor, where but a night or so ago had stood the beloved form of him, who, bury the thought as she would, had become, if indeed he had not always been, the beginning and the ending of all her maidenly dreams: “what? what?” And her young heart swelled painfully as she realized like many a woman before her, that whatever might be her doubts, fears, anguish or suspense, nothing remained for her but silence and a tedious waiting for others to recognize her misery and speak.

Meanwhile how was it with her dearest friend and confident, Paula? The morning, as I have already declared, was bright and exceptionally beautiful. Sunshine filled the air and freshness invigorated the breeze. Cicely was blind to it all, but as Paula looked from her window preparatory to going below, a close observer might have perceived that the serenity of the cloudless sky was reflected in her beaming eyes, that peace brooded above her soul and ruled her tender spirit. She had held a long conversation with Miss Belinda, she had prayed, she had slept and she had risen with a confirmed love in her heart for the man who was at once the admiration of her eyes and the well-spring of her deepest thoughts and wildest longings. “I will show him so plainly what the angels have told me,” whispered she, “that he will have no need to ask.” And she wound her long locks into the coil that she knew he best liked and fixed a rose at her throat, and so with a smile on her lip went softly down stairs. O the timid eager step of maidenhood when drawing toward the shrine of all it adores! Could those halls and lofty corridors have whispered their secret, what a story they would have told of beating heart and tremulous glance, eager longings, and maidenly shrinkings, as the lovely form, swaying with a thousand hopes and fears, glided from landing to landing, carrying with it love and joy and peace. And trust! As she neared the bronze image that had always awakened such vague feelings of repugnance on her part, and found its terrors gone and its smile assuring, she realized that her breast held nothing but faith in him, who may have sinned in his youth, but who had repented in his manhood, and now stood clear and noble in her eyes. The assurance was too sweet, the flood of feeling too overwhelming. With a quick glance around her, she stopped and flung her arms about the hitherto repellant bronze, pressing her young breast against the cold metal with a fervor that ought to have hallowed its sensuous mould forever. Then she hurried down.

Her first glance into the dining-room brought her a disappointment. Mr. Sylvester had already breakfasted and gone; only Aunt Belinda sat at the table. With a slightly troubled brow, Paula advanced to her own place at the board.

“Mr. Sylvester has urgent business on hand to-day,” quoth her aunt. “I met him going out just as I came down.”

Her look lingered on Paula as she said this, and if it had not been for the servants, she would doubtless have given utterance to some further expression on the matter, for she had been greatly struck by Mr. Sylvester’s appearance and the sad, firm, almost lofty expression of his eye, as it met hers in their hurried conversation.

“He is a very busy man,” returned Paula simply, and was silent, struck by some secret dread she could not have explained. Suddenly she rose; she had found an envelope beneath her plate, addressed to herself. It was bulky and evidently contained a key. Hastening behind the curtains of the window, she opened it. The key was to that secret study of his at the top of the house, which no one but himself had ever been seen to enter, and the words that enwrapped it were these:

“If I send you no word to the contrary, and if I do not come back by seven o’clock this evening, go to the room of which this is the key, open my desk, and read what I have prepared for your eyes.

“E. S.”

XXXVII.

THE OPINION OF A CERTAIN NOTED DETECTIVE.

Meanwhile Mr. Stuyvesant hasted on his way down town and ere long made his appearance at the bank. He found Mr. Sylvester and Bertram seated in the directors’ room, with a portly smooth-faced man whose appearance was at once strange and vaguely familiar.

“A detective, sir,” explained Mr. Sylvester rising with forced composure; “a man upon whose judgment I have been told we may rely. Mr. Gryce, Mr. Stuyvesant.”

The latter gentleman nodded, cast a glance around the room, during which his eye rested for a moment on Bertram’s somewhat pale countenance, and nervously took a seat.

“A mysterious piece of business, this,” came from the detective’s lips in an easy tone, calculated to relieve the tension of embarrassment into which the entrance of Mr. Stuyvesant seemed to have thrown all parties. “What were the numbers of the bonds found missing, if you please?”

Mr. Stuyvesant told him.

“You are positively assured these bonds were all in the box when you last locked it?”

“I am.”

“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 any one 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 any one else in my immediate vicinity.”

“Do you remember ever going to the vaults and not finding some one 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 than the person he was addressing, “that it would be difficult if not impossible for any one unconnected with the bank, to approach the vaults during business hours and abstract anything from them without detection?”

“And do these gentleman both assert that?” queried Mr. Stuyvesant, with a sharp look from uncle to nephew.

“I believe they do,” replied the detective, as both the gentlemen bowed, Bertram with an uncontrollable quiver of his lip, and Mr. Sylvester with a deepening of the lines about his mouth, which may or may not have been noticed by this man who appeared to observe nothing.

“I should be loth to conclude that the robbery was committed by any one but a stranger,” remarked Mr. Stuyvesant; “but if these gentlemen concur in the statement you have just made, I am bound to acknowledge that I do not myself see how the theft could have been perpetrated by an outsider. Had the box itself been missing, it would be different. I remember my old friend Mr. A—, the president of the police department, telling me of a case where a box containing securities to the amount of two hundred thousand dollars, was abstracted in full daylight from the vaults of one of our largest banks; an act requiring such daring, the directors for a long time refused to believe it possible, until a detective one day showed them another box of theirs which he had succeeded in abstracting in the same way.[1] But the vaults in that instance were in a less conspicuous portion of the bank than ours, besides to approach an open vault, snatch a box from it and escape, is a much simpler matter than to remain long enough to open a box and choose from its contents such papers as appeared most marketable. If a regular thief could do such a thing, it does not seem probable that he would. Nevertheless the most acute judgment is often at fault in these matters, and I do not pretend to have formed an opinion.”

The detective who had listened to these words with marked attention, bowed his concurrence and asked if the bonds mentioned by Mr. Stuyvesant were all that had been found missing from the bank. If any of the other boxes had been opened, or if the contents of the safe itself had ever been tampered with.

“The contents of the safe are all correct,” came in deep tones from Mr. Sylvester. “Mr. Folger, my nephew and myself went through them this morning. As for the boxes I cannot say, many of them belong to persons travelling; some of them have been left here by trustees of estates, consequently often lie for weeks in the vaults untouched. If however any of them have been opened, we ought to be able to see it. Would you like an examination made of their condition?”

The detective nodded.

Mr. Sylvester at once turned to Mr. Stuyvesant. “May I ask you to mention what officer of the bank you would like to have go to the vaults?”

That gentleman started, looked uneasily about, but meeting Bertram’s eye, nervously dropped his own and muttered the name of Folger.

Mr. Sylvester suppressed a sigh, sent for the paying-teller, and informed him of their wishes. He at once proceeded to the vaults. While he was gone, Mr. Gryce took the opportunity to make the following remark.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “let us understand ourselves. What you want of me, is to tell you whether this robbery has been committed by a stranger or by some one in your employ. Now to decide this question it is necessary for me to ask first, whether you have ever had reason to doubt the honesty of any person connected with the bank?”

“No,” came from Mr. Sylvester with sharp and shrill distinctness. “Since I have had the honor of conducting the affairs of this institution, I have made it my business to observe and note the bearing and character of each and every man employed under me, and I believe them all to be honest.”

The glance of the detective while it did not perceptibly move from the large screen drawn across the room at the back of Mr. Sylvester, seemed to request the opinions of the other two gentlemen on this point.

Bertram observing it, subdued the rapid beatings of his heart and spoke with like distinctness. “I have been in the bank the same length of time as my uncle,” said he, “and most heartily endorse his good opinion of the various persons in our employ.”

“And Mr. Stuyvesant?” the immovable glance seemed to say.

“Men are honest in my opinion till they are proved otherwise,” came in short stern accents from the director’s lips.

The detective drew back in his chair as if he considered that point decided, and yet Bertram’s eye which had clouded at Mr. Stuyvesant’s too abrupt assertion, did not clear again as might have been expected.

“There is one more question I desire to settle,” continued the detective, “and that is, whether this robbery could have been perpetrated after business hours, by some one in collusion with the person who is here left in charge?”

“No;” again came from Mr. Sylvester, with impartial justice. “The watchman—who by the way has been in the bank for twelve years—could not help a man to find entrance to the vaults. His simple duty is to watch over the bank and give alarm in case of fire or burglary. It would necessitate a knowledge of the combination by which the vault doors are opened, to do what you suggest, and that is possessed by but three persons in the bank.”

“And those are?”

“The cashier, the janitor, and myself.”

He endeavored to speak calmly and without any betrayal of the effort it caused him to utter those simple words, but a detective’s ear is nice and it is doubtful if he perfectly succeeded.

Mr. Gryce however limited himself to a muttered, humph! and a long and thoughtful look at a spot on the green baize of the table before which he sat.

“The janitor lives in the building, I suppose?”

“Yes, and is, as I am sure Mr. Stuyvesant will second me in asserting, honesty to the back-bone.”

“Janitors always are,” observed the detective; then shortly, “How long has he been with you?”

“Three years.”

Another “humph!” and an increased interest in the ink spot.

“That is not long, considering the responsibility of his position.”

“He was on the police force before he came to us,” remarked Mr. Sylvester.

Mr. Gryce looked as if that was not much of a recommendation.

“As for the short time he has been with us,” resumed the other, “he came into the bank the same winter as my nephew and myself, and has found the time sufficient to earn the respect of all who know him.”

The detective bowed, seemingly awed by the dignity with which the last statement had been uttered; but any one who knew him well, would have perceived that the film of uncertainty which had hitherto dimmed the brightness of his regard was gone, as if in the other’s impressive manner, if not in the suggestion his words had unconsciously offered, the detective had received an answer to some question which had been puzzling him, or laid his hand upon some clue which had till now eluded his grasp. The inquiries which he made haste to pursue, betrayed, however, but little of the tendency of his thoughts.

“The janitor, you say, knows the combination by which the vault doors are opened?”

“The vault doors,” emphasized Mr. Sylvester. “The safe is another matter; that stands inside the vault and is locked by a triple combination which as a whole is not known to any one man in this building, not even to myself.”

“But the boxes are not kept in the safe?”

“No, they are piled up with the books in the vaults at the side of the safe, as you can see for yourself, if you choose to join Mr. Folger.”

“Not necessary. The janitor, then, is the only man besides yourselves, who under any circumstances or for any reason, could get at those boxes after business hours?”

“He is.”

“One question more. Who is the man to attend to those boxes? I mean to ask, which of the men in your employ is expected to procure a box out of the vaults when it is called for, and put it back in its place when its owner is through with it?”

“Hopgood usually does that business, the janitor of whom we have just been speaking. When he is upstairs or out of the way, any one else whom it may be convenient to call.”

“The janitor, then, has free access to the boxes at all times, night and day?”

“In one sense, yes, in another, no. Should he unlock the vaults at night, the watchman would report upon his proceedings.”

“But there must be time between the closing and opening of the bank, when the janitor is alone with the vaults?”

“There is a space of two hours after seven in the morning, when he is likely to be the sole one in charge. The watchman goes home, and Hopgood employs himself in sweeping out the bank and preparing it for the business of the day.”

“Are the watchman and the janitor on good terms with one another?”

“Very, I believe.”

The detective looked thoughtful. “I should like to see this Hopgood,” said he.

But just then the door opened and Mr. Folger came in, looking somewhat pale and disturbed. “We are in a difficulty,” cried he, stepping up to the table where they sat. “I have found two of the boxes unlocked; that belonging to Hicks, Saltzer and Co., and another with the name of Harrington upon it. The former has been wrenched apart, the latter opened with some sort of instrument. Would you like to see them, sir?” This to Mr. Sylvester.

With a start that gentleman rose, and as suddenly reseated himself. “Yes,” returned he, carefully avoiding his nephew’s eye; “bring them in.”

“Hicks, Saltzer and Co., is a foreign house,” remarked Mr. Stuyvesant to the detective, “and do not send for their box once a fortnight, as I have heard Mr. Sylvester declare. Mr. Harrington is on an exploring expedition and is at present in South America.” Then in lower tones, whose sternness was not unmixed with gloom, “The thief seems to have known what boxes to go to.”

Bertram flushed and made some passing rejoinder; Mr. Sylvester and the detective alone remained silent.

The boxes being brought in, Mr. Gryce opened them without ceremony. Several papers met his eye in both, but as no one but the owners could know their rightful contents, it was of course impossible for him to determine whether anything had been stolen from them or not.

“Send for the New York agent of Hicks, Saltzer and Co.,” came from Mr. Sylvester, in short, business-like command.

Bertram at once rose. “I will see to it,” said he. His agitation was too great for suppression, the expression of Mr. Stuyvesant’s eye, that in its restlessness wandered in every direction but his own, troubled him beyond endurance. With a hasty move he left the room. The cold eye of the detective followed him.

“Looks bad,” came in laconic tones from the paying teller.

“I had hoped the affair begun and ended with my individual loss,” muttered Mr. Stuyvesant under his breath.

The stately president and the inscrutable detective still maintained their silence.

Suddenly the latter moved. Turning towards Mr. Sylvester, he requested him to step with him to the window. “I want to have a look at your several employees,” whispered he, as they thus withdrew. “I want to see them without being seen by them. If you can manage to have them come in here one by one upon some pretext or other, I can so arrange that screen under the mantel-piece, that it shall not only hide me, but give me a very good view of their faces in the mirror overhead.”

“There will be no difficulty about summoning the men,” said Mr. Sylvester.

“And you consent to the scheme?”

“Certainly, if you think anything is to be gained by it.”

“I am sure that nothing will be lost. And sir, let the cashier be present if you please; and sir,” squeezing his watch chain with a complacent air, as the other dropped his eyes, “talk to them about anything that you please, only let it be of a nature that will necessitate a sentence or more in reply. I judge a man as much by his voice as his expression.”

Mr. Sylvester bowed, and without losing his self-command, though the short allusion to Bertram had greatly startled him, turned back to the table where Mr. Folger was still standing in conversation with the director.

“I will not detain you longer,” said he to the paying teller. “Your discretion will prevent you from speaking of this matter, I trust.” Then as the other bowed, added carelessly, “I have something to say to Jessup; will you see that he steps here for a moment?”

Mr. Folger again nodded and left the room. Instantly Mr. Gryce bustled forward, and pulling the screen into the position he thought best calculated to answer his requirements, slid rapidly behind it. Mr. Stuyvesant looked up in surprise.

“I am going to interview the clerks for Mr. Gryce’s benefit,” exclaimed Mr. Sylvester. “Will you in the meantime look over the morning paper?”

“Thank you,” returned the other, edging nervously to one side, “my note-book will do just as well,” and sitting down at the remote end of the table, he took out a book from his pocket, above which he bent with very well simulated preoccupation. Mr. Sylvester called in Bertram and then seated himself with a hopeless and unexpectant look, which he for the moment forgot would be reflected in the mirror before him, and so carried to the eye of the watchful detective. In another instant Jessup entered.

What was said in the short interview that followed, is unimportant. Mr. Jessup, the third teller, was one of those clear eyed, straightforward appearing men whose countenance is its own guarantee. It was not necessary to detain him or make him speak. The next man to come in was Watson, and after he had gone, two or three of the clerks, and later the receiving teller and one of the runners. All stopped long enough to insure Mr. Gryce a good view of their faces, and from each and all did Mr. Sylvester succeed in eliciting more or less conversation in response to the questions he chose to put.

With the disappearance of the last mentioned individual, Mr. Gryce peeped from behind the screen. “A set of as honest-looking men as I wish to see!” uttered he with a frank cordiality that was scarcely reflected in the anxious countenances about him. “No sly-boots among them; how about the janitor, Hopgood?”

“He shall be summoned at once, if you desire it,” said Mr. Sylvester, “I have only delayed calling him that I might have leisure to interrogate him with reference to his duties, and this very theft. That is if you judge it advisable in me to tamper with the subject unassisted?”

“Your nephew can help you if necessary,” replied the imperturbable detective. “I should like to hear what the man, Hopgood, has to say for himself,” and he glided back into his old position.

But Mr. Sylvester had scarcely reached out his hand to ring the bell by which he usually summoned the janitor, when the agent of Hicks, Saltzer & Co. came in. It was an interruption that demanded instant attention. Saluting the gentleman with his usual proud reserve, he drew his attention to the box lying upon the table.

“This is yours, I believe, sir,” said he. “It was found in our vaults this morning in the condition in which you now behold it, and we are anxious to know if its contents are all correct.”

“They have been handled,” returned the agent, after a careful survey of the various papers that filled the box, “but nothing appears to be missing.”

Three persons at least in that room breathed more easily.

“But the truth is,” the gentleman continued, with a half smile towards the silent President of the bank, “there was nothing in this box that would have been of much use to any other parties than ourselves. If there had been a bond or so here, I doubt if we should have come off so fortunately, eh? The lock has evidently been wrenched open, and that is certainly a pretty sure sign that something is not right hereabouts.”

“Something is decidedly wrong,” came from Mr. Sylvester sternly; “but through whose fault we do not as yet know.” And with a few words expressive of his relief at finding the other had sustained no material loss, he allowed the agent to depart.

He had no sooner left the room than Mr. Stuyvesant rose. “Are you going to question Hopgood now?” queried he, nervously pocketing his note-book.

“Yes sir, if you have no objections.”

The director fidgeted with his chair and finally moved towards the door.

“I think you will get along better with him alone,” said he. “He is a man who very easily gets embarrassed, and has a way of acting as if he were afraid of me. I will just step outside while you talk to him.”

But Mr. Sylvester with a sudden dark flush on his brow, hastily stopped him. “I beg you will not,” said he, with a quick realization of what Hopgood might be led to say in the forthcoming interview, if he were not restrained by the presence of the director. “Hopgood is not so afraid of you that he will not answer every question that is put to him with straightforward frankness.” And he pushed up a chair, with a smile that Mr. Stuyvesant evidently found himself unable to resist. The screen trembled slightly, but none of them noticed it; Mr. Sylvester at once rang for Hopgood.

He came in panting with his hurried descent from the fifth story, his face flushed and his eyes rolling, but without any of the secret perturbation Bertram had observed in them on a former occasion. “He cannot help us,” was the thought that darkened the young man’s brow as his eyes left the janitor, and faltering towards his uncle, fell upon the table before him.

Everything was reflected in the mirror.

“Well, Hopgood, I have a few questions to put to you this morning,” said Mr. Sylvester in a restrained, but not unkindly tone.

The worthy man bowed, bestowed a salutatory roll of his eyes on Mr. Stuyvesant, and stood deferentially waiting.

“No, he cannot help us,” was again Bertram’s thought, and again his eyes faltered to his uncle’s face, and again fell anxiously before him.

“It has not been my habit to trouble you with inquiries about your management of matters under your charge,” continued Mr. Sylvester, stopping till the janitor’s wandering eyes settled upon his own. “Your conduct has always been exemplary, and your attention to duty satisfactory; but I would like to ask you to-day if you have observed anything amiss with the vaults of late? anything wrong about the boxes kept there? anything in short, that excited your suspicion or caused you to ask yourself if everything was as it should be?”

The janitor’s ruddy face grew pale, and his eye fell with startled inquiry on Mr. Harrington’s box that still occupied the centre of the table. “No, sir,” he emphatically replied, “has anything—”

But Mr. Sylvester did not wait to be questioned. “You have attended to your duties as promptly and conscientiously as usual; you have allowed no one to go to the vaults day or night, who had no business there? You have not relaxed your accustomed vigilance, or left the bank alone at any time during the hours it is under your charge?”

“No sir, not for a minute, sir; that is—” He stopped and his eye wandered towards Mr. Stuyvesant. “Never for a minute, sir,” he went on, “without I knew some one was in the bank, who was capable of looking after it.”

“The watchman has been at his post every night up to the usual hour?”

“Yes sir.”

“There has been no carelessness in closing the vault doors after the departure of the clerks?”

“No sir.”

“And no trouble,” he continued, with a shade more of dignity, possibly because Hopgood’s tell-tale face was beginning to show signs of anxious confusion, “and no trouble in opening them at the proper time each morning?”

“No sir.”

“One question more—”

But here Bertram was called out, and in the momentary stir occasioned by his departure, Hopgood allowed himself to glance at the box before him more intently than he had hitherto presumed to do. He saw it was unlocked, and his hands began to tremble. Mr. Sylvester’s voice recalled him to himself.

“You are a faithful man,” said that gentleman, continuing his speech of a minute before, “and as such we are ready to acknowledge you; but the most conscientious amongst us are sometimes led into indiscretions. Now have you ever through carelessness or by means of any inadvertence, revealed to any one in or out of the bank, the particular combination by which the lock of the vault-door is at present opened?”

“No sir, indeed no; I am much too anxious, and feel my own responsibility entirely too much, not to preserve so important a secret with the utmost care and jealousy.”

Mr. Sylvester’s voice, careful as he was to modulate it, showed a secret discouragement. “The vaults then as far as you know, are safe when once they are closed for the night?”

“Yes sir.” The janitor’s face expressed a slight degree of wonder, but his voice was emphatic.

Mr. Sylvester’s eye travelled in the direction of the screen. “Very well,” said he; and paused to reflect.

In the interim the door opened for a second time. “A gentleman to see Mr. Stuyvesant,” said a voice.

With an air of relief the director hastily rose, and before Mr. Sylvester had realized his position, left the room and closed the door behind him. A knell seemed to ring its note in Mr. Sylvester’s breast. The janitor, released as he supposed from all constraint, stepped hastily forward.

“That box has been found unlocked,” he cried with a wave of his hand towards the table; “some one has been to the vaults, and I—Oh, sir,” he hurriedly exclaimed, disregarding in his agitation the stern and forbidding look which Mr. Sylvester in his secret despair had made haste to assume, “you did not want me to say anything about the time you came down so early in the morning, and I went out and left you alone in the bank, and you went to the vaults and opened Mr. Stuyvesant’s box by mistake, with a tooth-pick as you remember?”

The mirror that looked down upon that pair, showed one very white face at that moment, but the screen that had trembled a moment before, stood strangely still in the silence.

“No,” came at length from Mr. Sylvester, with a composure that astonished himself. “I was not questioning you about matters of a year agone. But you might have told that incident if you pleased; it was very easily explainable.”

“Yes sir, I know, and I beg pardon for alluding to it, but I was so taken aback, sir, by your questions; I wanted to tell the exact truth, and I did not want to say anything that would hurt you with Mr. Stuyvesant; that is if I could help it. I hope I did right, sir,” he blundered on, conscious he was uttering words he might better have kept to himself, but too embarrassed to know how to emerge from the difficulty into which his mingled zeal and anxiety had betrayed him. “I was never a good hand at answering questions, and if any thing really serious has happened, I shall wish you had taken me at my word and dismissed me immediately after that affair. Constantia Maria would have been a little worse off perhaps, but I should not be on hand to answer questions, and—”

“Hopgood!”

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 business-like assurance. “I think I am ready to say, that from the nature of the theft and the mysterious manner in which it has been perpetrated, suspicion undoubtedly points to some one connected with the bank. That is all that you require of me to-day?” he added, with a bow of some formality in the direction of Mr. Sylvester.

“Yes,” was the short reply. But in an instant a change passed over the stately form of the speaker. Advancing to Mr. Gryce, he confronted him with a countenance almost majestic in its severity, and somewhat severely remarked, “This is a serious charge to bring against men whose countenances you yourself have denominated as honest. Are we to believe you have fully considered the question, and realize the importance of what you say?”

“Mr. Sylvester,” replied the detective, with great self-possession and some dignity, “a man who is brought every day of his life into positions where the least turning of a hair will sink a man or save him, learns to weigh his words, before he speaks even in such informal inquiries as these.”

Mr. Sylvester bowed and turned towards Mr. Stuyvesant. “Is there any further action you would like to have taken in regard to this matter to-day?” he asked, without a tremble in his voice.

With a glance at the half open box of the absent Mr. Harrington, the agitated director slowly shook his head. “We must have time to think,” said he.

Mr. Gryce at once took up his hat. “If the charge implied in my opinion strikes you, gentlemen, as serious, you must at least acknowledge that your own judgment does not greatly differ from mine, or why such unnecessary agitation in regard to a loss so petty, by a gentleman worth as we are told his millions.” And with this passing shot, to which neither of his auditors responded, he made his final obeisance and calmly left the room.

Mr. Sylvester and Mr. Stuyvesant slowly confronted one another.

“The man speaks the truth,” said the former. “You at least suspect some one 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 some one 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 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 some one 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 any one, 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—”

“Hush! you will comfort me best by doing what I ask. May I rely upon you?”

“Always.”

“That is enough.”

And with just a final look, the two gentlemen parted, and the shadow which had rested all day upon the bank, deepened over Bertram’s head like a pall.

It was not lifted by the sight of Hopgood stealing a few minutes later towards the door by which his uncle had departed, his face pale, and his eyes fixed in a stare, that bespoke some deep and moving determination.

XXXVIII.

BLUE-BEARD’S CHAMBER.

Clarence Ensign was not surprised at the refusal he received from Paula. He had realized from the first that the love of this beautiful woman would be difficult to obtain, even if no rival with more powerful inducements than his own, should chance to cross his path. She was one who could be won to give friendship, consideration, and sympathy without stint; but from the very fact that she could so easily be induced to grant these, he foresaw the improbability, or at least the difficulty of enticing her to yield more. A woman whose hand warms towards the other sex in ready friendship, is the last to succumb to the entreaties of love. The circle of her sympathies is so large, the man must do well, who of all his sex, pierces to the sacred centre. The appearance of Mr. Sylvester on the scene, settled his fate, or so he believed; but he was too much in earnest to yield his hopes without another effort; so upon the afternoon of this eventful day, he called upon Paula.

The first glimpse he obtained of her countenance, convinced him that he was indeed too late. Not for him that anxious pallor, giving way to a rosy tinge at the least sound in the streets without. Not for him that wandering glance, burning with questions to which nothing seemed able to grant reply. The very smile with which she greeted him, was a blow; it was so forgetful of the motive that had brought him there.

“Miss Fairchild,” he stammered, with a generous impulse to save her unnecessary pain, “you have rejected my offer and settled my doom; but let me believe that I have not lost your regard, or that hold upon your friendship which it has hitherto been my pleasure to enjoy.”

She woke at once to a realization of his position. “Oh Mr. Ensign,” she murmured, “can you doubt my regard or the truth of my friendship? It is for me to doubt; I have caused you such pain, and as you may think, so ruthlessly and with such lack of consideration. I have been peculiarly placed,” she blushingly proceeded. “A woman does not always know her own heart, or if she does, sometimes hesitates to yield to its secret impulses. I have led you astray these last few weeks, but I first went astray myself. The real path in which I ought to tread, was only last night revealed to me. I can say no more, Mr. Ensign.”

“Nor is it necessary,” replied he. “You have chosen the better path, and the better man. May life abound in joys for you, Miss Fairchild.”

She drew herself up and her hand went involuntarily to her heart. “It is not joy I seek,” said she, “but—”

“What?” He looked at her face lit with that heavenly gleam that visited it in rare moments of deepest emotion, and wondered.

“Joy is in seeing the one you love happy,” cried she; “earth holds none that is sweeter or higher.”

“Then may that be yours,” he murmured, manfully subduing the jealous pang natural under the circumstances. And taking the hand she held out to him, he kissed it with greater reverence and truer affection than when, in the first joyous hours of their intercourse, he carried it so gallantly to his lips.

And she—oh, difference of time and feeling—did not remember as of yore, the noble days of chivalry, though he was in this moment, so much more than ever the true knight and the reproachless cavalier.

For Paula’s heart was heavy. Fears too unsubstantial to be met and vanquished, had haunted her steps all day. The short note which Mr. Sylvester had written her, lay like lead upon her bosom. She longed for the hours to fly, yet dreaded to hear the clock tick out the moments that possibly were destined to bring her untold suffering and disappointment. A revelation awaiting her in Mr. Sylvester’s desk up stairs? That meant separation and farewell; for words of promise and devotion can be spoken, and the heart that hopes, does not limit time to hours.

With Bertram’s entrance, her fears took absolute shape. Mr. Sylvester was not coming home to dinner. Thenceforward till seven o’clock, she sat with her hand on her heart, waiting. At the stroke of the clock, she rose, and procuring a candle from her room, went slowly up stairs. “Watch for me,” she had said to Aunt Belinda, “for I fear I shall need your care when I come down.”

What is there about a mystery however trivial, that thrills the heart with vague expectancy at the least lift of the concealing curtain! As Paula paused before the door, which never to her knowledge had opened to the passage of any other form than that of Mr. Sylvester, she was conscious of an agitation wholly distinct from that which had hitherto afflicted her. All the past curiosity of Ona concerning this room, together with her devices for satisfying that curiosity, recurred to Paula with startling distinctness. It was as if the white hand of that dead wife had thrust itself forth from the shadows to pull her back. The candle trembled in her grasp, and she unconsciously recoiled. But the next moment the thought of Mr. Sylvester struck warmth and determination through her being, and hastily thrusting the key into the lock, she pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold.

Her first movement was that of surprise. In all her dreams of the possible appearance of this room, she had never imagined it to be like this. Plain, rude and homely, its high walls unornamented, its floor uncovered, its furniture limited to a plain desk and two or three rather uncomfortable-looking chairs, it struck upon her fancy with the same sense of incongruity, as might the sight of a low-eaved cottage in the midst of stately palaces and lordly pleasure-grounds. Setting down her candle, she folded her hands to still their tremblings, and slowly looked around her. This was the spot, then, to which he was accustomed to flee when oppressed by any care or harassed by any difficulty; this cold, bare, uninviting apartment with its forbidding aspect unsoftened by the tokens of a woman’s care or presence! To this room, humbler than any in her aunt’s home in Grotewell, he had brought all his griefs, from the day his baby lay dead in the rooms below, to that awful hour which saw the wife and mother brought into his doors and laid a cold and pulseless form in the midst of his gorgeous parlors! Here he had met his own higher impulses face to face, and wrestled with them through the watches of the night! In this wilderness of seeming poverty, he had dreamed, perhaps, his first fond dream of her as a woman, and signed perhaps his final renunciation of her as the future companion of his life! What did it mean? Why a spot of so much desolation in the midst of so much that was lordly and luxurious? Her fears might give her a possible interpretation, but she would not listen to fears. Only his words should instruct her. Going to the desk, she opened it. A sealed envelope addressed to herself, immediately met her eyes. Taking it out with a slow and reverent touch, she began to read the long and closely written letter which it contained.

And the little candle burned on, shedding its rays over her bended head and upon the dismal walls about her, with a persistency that seemed to bring out, as in letters of fire, the hidden history of long ago, with its vanished days and its forgotten midnights.

XXXIX.

FROM A. TO Z.

“A naked human heart.”—Young.

“My Beloved Child:

“So may I call you in this the final hour of our separation, but never again, dear one, never again. When I said to you, just twenty-four hours ago, that my sin was buried and my future was clear, I spake as men speak who forget the justice of God and dream only of his mercy. An hour’s time convinced me that an evil deed once perpetrated by a man, is never buried so that its ghost will not rise. Do as we will, repent as we may, the shadowy phantom of a stained and unrighteous youth is never laid; nor is a man justified in believing it so, till death has closed his eyes, and fame written its epitaph upon his tomb.

“Paula, I am at this hour wandering in search of the being who holds the secret of my life and who will to-morrow blazon it before all the world. It is with no hope I seek him. God has not brought me to this pass, to release me at last, from shame and disgrace. Suffering and the loss of all my sad heart cherished, wait at my gates. Only one boon remains, and that is, your sympathy and the consolation of your regard. These, though bestowed as friends bestow them, are very precious to me; I cannot see them go, and that they may not, I tell you the full story of my life.

“My youth was happy—my early youth, I mean. Bertram’s father was a dear brother to me, and my mother a watchful guardian and a tender friend. At fifteen, I entered a bank, the small bank in Grotewell, which you ought to remember. From the lowest position in it, I gradually worked my way up till I occupied the cashier’s place; and was just congratulating myself upon my prospects, when Ona Delafield returned from boarding-school, a young lady.

“Paula, there is a fascination, which some men who have known nothing deeper and higher, call love. I, who in those days had cherished but few thoughts beyond the ordinary reach of a narrow and somewhat selfish business mind, imagined that the well-spring of all romance had bubbled up within me, when my eyes first fell upon this regal blonde, with her sleepy, inscrutable eyes and bewildering smile. Ulysses within sound of the siren’s voice, was nothing to it. He had been warned of his danger and had only his own curiosity to combat, while I was not even aware of my peril, and floated within reach of this woman’s power, without making an effort to escape. She was so subtle in her influence, Paula; so careless in the very exercise of her sovereignty. She never seemed to command; yet men and women obeyed her. Peculiarities which mar the matron, are often graces in a young, unmarried girl, whose thoughts are a mystery, and whose emotions an untried field. I believed I had found the queen of all beauty and when in an unguarded hour she betrayed her first appreciation of my devotion, I seemed to burst into a Paradise of delights, where every step I took, only the more intoxicated and bewildered me. My first realization of the sensuous and earthly character of my happiness came with the glimpse of your child-face on that never-to-be-forgotten day when we met beside the river. Like a star seen above the glare of a conflagration, the pure spirit that informed your glance, flashed on my burning soul, and for a moment I knew that in you budded the kind of woman-nature which it befitted a man to seek; that in the hands of such a one as you would make, should he trust his honor and bequeath his happiness. But when did a lover ever break the bonds that imprisoned his fancy, at the inspiration of a passing voice. I went back to Ona and forgot the child by the river.

“Paula, I have no time to utter regrets. This is a hard plain tale which I have to relate; but if you love me still—if, as I have sometimes imagined, you have always loved me—think what my life had been if I had heeded the warning which God vouchsafed me on that day, and contrast it with what it is, and what it must be.

“I went back to Ona, then, and the hold which she had upon me from the first, took form and shape. As well as she could love any one, she loved me, and though she had offers from one or two more advantageous sources, she finally decided that she would risk the future and accept me, if her father consented to the alliance. You who are the niece of the man of whom I must now speak, may or may not know what that meant. I doubt if you do; he left Grotewell while you were a child, and any gossip concerning him must ever fall short of the real truth. Enough, then, that it meant, if Jacob Delafield could see in my future any promises of success sufficient to warrant him in accepting me as his son-in-law, no woman living ought to hesitate to trust me with her hand. He was the Squire of the town, and as such entitled to respect, but he was also something more, as you will presently discover. His answer to my plea was:

“‘Well, how much money have you to show?’

“Now I had none. My salary as cashier of a small country bank was not large, and my brother’s prolonged sickness and subsequent death, together with my own somewhat luxurious habits, had utterly exhausted it. I told him so, but added that I had, somewhere up among the hills, an old maiden aunt who had promised me five thousand dollars at her death; and that as she was very ill at that time—hopelessly so, her neighbors thought—in a few weeks I should doubtless be able to satisfy him with the sight of a sum sufficient to start us in housekeeping, if no more.

“He nodded at this, but gave me no distinct reply. ‘Let us wait,’ said he.

“But youth is not inclined to wait. I considered my cause as good as won, and began to make all my preparations accordingly. With a feverish impatience which is no sign of true love, I watched the days go by, and waited for, if I did not anticipate, the death which I fondly imagined would make all clear. At last it came, and I went again into Mr. Delafield’s presence.

“‘My aunt has just died,’ I announced, and stood waiting for the short, concise,

“‘Go ahead, then, my boy!’ which I certainly expected.

“Instead of that, he gave me a queer inexplicable smile, and merely said, ‘I want to see the greenbacks, my lad. No color so good as green, not even the black upon white of ‘I promise to pay.’

“I went back to my desk in the bank, chagrined. Ona had told me a few days before that she was tired of waiting, that the young doctor from the next town was very assiduous in his attentions, and as there was no question as to his ability to support a wife, why—she did not finish her sentence, but the toss of her head and her careless tone at parting, were enough to inflame the jealousy of a less easily aroused nature than mine. I felt that I was in hourly danger of losing her, and all because I could not satisfy her father with a sight of the few thousands which were so soon to be mine.

“The reading of my aunt’s will, which confirmed my hopes, did not greatly improve matters. ‘I want to see the money,’ the old gentleman repeated; and I was forced to wait the action of the law and the settlement of the estate. It took longer than even he foresaw. Weeks went by and my poor little five thousand seemed as far from my control as on the day the will was read. There was some trouble, I was not told what, that made it seem improbable that I should reap the benefit of my legacy for some time. Meanwhile Ona accepted the attentions of the young doctor, and my chances of winning her, dwindled rapidly day by day. I became morbidly eager and insanely jealous. Instead of pursuing my advantage—for I undoubtedly possessed one in her own secret inclination towards me—I stood off, and let my rival work his way into her affections unhindered. I was too sore to interrupt his play, as I called it, and too afraid of myself to actually confront him in her presence. But the sight of them riding together one day, was more than I could endure even in my spirit of unresistance. ‘He shall not have her,’ I cried, and cast about in my mind how to bring my own matters into such shape as to satisfy her father and so win her own consent to my suit. My first thought was to borrow the money, but that was impracticable in a town where each man’s affairs are known to his neighbor. My next was to hurry up the settlement of the estate by appeal to my lawyer. The result of the latter course was a letter of many promises, in the midst of which a great temptation assailed me.

“Colonel Japha, of whose history you have heard more or less true accounts, was at that time living in the old mansion you took such pains to point out to me in that walk we took together in Grotewell. He had suffered a great anguish in the flight and degradation of his only daughter, and though the real facts connected with her departure were not known in the village, he was so overcome with shame, and so shattered in health, he lived in the utmost seclusion, opening his doors to but few visitors, among whom I, for some unexplained reason, was one. He used to say he liked me and saw in me the makings of a considerable man; and I, because he was Colonel Japha and a strong spirit, returned his appreciation, and spent many of my bitter and unhappy hours in his presence. It was upon one of these occasions the temptation came to which I have just alluded.

“I had been talking about his health and the advisability of his taking a journey, when he suddenly rose and said, ‘Come with me to my study.’

“I of course went. The first thing I saw upon entering was a trunk locked and strapped. ‘I am going to Europe to-morrow,’ said he, ‘to be gone six months.’

“I was astonished, for in that town no one presumed to do anything of importance without consulting his neighbors; but I merely bowed my congratulations, and waited for him to speak, for I saw he had something on his mind that he wished to say. At last it came out. He had a daughter, he said, a daughter who had disgraced him and whom he had forbidden his house. She was not worthy of his consideration, yet he could not help but remember her, and while he never desired to see her enter his doors, it was not his wish that she should suffer want. He had a little money which he had laid by and which he wished to put into my hands for her use, provided anything should happen to him during his absence. ‘She is a wanderer now,’ he cried, ‘but she may one day come back, and then if I am dead and gone, you may give it to her.’ I was not to enter it in the bank under his name, but regard it as a personal trust to be used only under such circumstances as he mentioned.

“The joy with which I listened to this proposal amounted almost to ecstacy when he went to his desk and brought out five one thousand dollar bills and laid them in my hand. ‘It is not much,’ said he, ‘but it will save her from worse degradation if she chooses to avail herself of it.’

“Not much; oh no, not much, but just the sum that would raise me out of the pit of despondency into which I had fallen, and give me my bride, a chance in the world, and last, but not least, revenge on the rival I had now learned to hate. I was obliged to give the colonel a paper acknowledging the trust, but that was no hindrance. I did not mean to use the money, only to show it; and long before the colonel could return, my own five thousand would be in my hands—and so, and so, and so, as the devil reasons and young infatuated ears listen.

“Colonel Japha thought I was an honest man, nor did I consider myself otherwise at that time. It was a chance for clever action; a bit of opportune luck that it would be madness to discard. On the day the vessel sailed which carried Colonel Japha out of the country, I went to Mr. Delafield and showed him the five crisp bank notes that represented as it were by proxy, the fortune I so speedily expected to inherit. ‘You have wanted to see five thousand dollars in my hand,’ said I; ‘there they are.’

“His look of amazement was peculiar and ought to have given me warning; but I was blinded by my infatuation and thought it no more than the natural surprise incident to the occasion. ‘I have been made to wait a long time for your consent to my suit,’ said I; ‘may I hope that you will now give me leave to press my claims upon your daughter?’

“He did not answer at once, but smiled, eying meanwhile the notes in my hand with a fascinated gaze which instinctively warned me to return them to my pocket. But I no sooner made a move indicative of that resolve, than he thrust out his cold slim hand and prevented me. ‘Let me see them,’ cried he.

“There was no reason for me to refuse so simple a request to one in Mr. Delafield’s position, and though I had rather he had not asked for the notes, I handed them over. He at once seemed to grow taller. ‘So this is your start off in life,’ exclaimed he.

“I bowed, and he let his eyes roam for a moment to my face. ‘Many a man would be glad of worse,’ smiled he; then suavely, ‘you shall have my daughter, sir.’

“I must have turned white in my relief, for he threw his head back and laughed in a low unmusical way that at any other time would have affected me unpleasantly. But my only thought then, was to get the money back and rush with my new hopes into the room from which came the low ceaseless hum of his daughter’s voice. But at the first movement of my hand towards him, he assumed a mysterious air, and closing his fingers over the notes, said:

“‘These are yours, to do what you wish with, I suppose?’

“I may have blushed, but if I did, he took no notice. ‘What I wish to do with them,’ returned I, ‘is to shut them up in the bank for the present, at least till Ona is my wife.’

“‘Oh no, no, no, you do not,’ came in easy, almost wheedling tones from the man before me. ‘You want to put them where they will double themselves in two months.’ And before I could realize to what he was tempting me, he had me down before his desk, showing me letters, documents, etc., of a certain scheme into which if a man should put a dollar to-day, it would ‘come out three and no mistake, before the year was out. It is a chance in a thousand,’ said he; ‘if I had half a million I would invest it in this enterprise to-day. If you will listen to me and put your money in there, you will be a rich man before ten years have passed over your head.’

“I was dazzled. I knew enough of such matters to see that it was neither a hoax nor a chimera. He did have a good thing, and if the five thousand dollars had been my own—But I soon came to consider the question without that conditional. He was so specious in his manner of putting the affair before me, so masterful in the way he held on to the money, he gave me no time to think. ‘Say the word,’ cried he, ‘and in two months I bring you back ten thousand for your five. Only two months,’ he repeated, and then slowly, ‘Ona was born for luxury.’

“Paula, you cannot realize what that temptation was. To amass wealth had never been my ambition before, but now everything seemed to urge it upon me. Dreams of unimagined luxury came to my mind as these words were uttered. A vision of Ona clad in garments worthy of her beauty floated before my eyes; the humble home I had hitherto pictured for myself, broadened and towered away into a palace; I beheld myself honored and accepted as the nabob of the town. I caught a glimpse of a new paradise, and hesitated to shut down the gate upon it. ‘I will think of it,’ said I, and went into the other room to speak to Ona.

“Ah, if some angel had met me on the threshold! If my mother’s spirit or the thought of your dear face could have risen before me then and stopped me! Dizzy, intoxicated with love and ambition, I crossed the room to where she sat reeling off a skein of blue silk with hands that were whiter than alabaster. Kneeling down by her side, I caught those fair hands in mine.

“‘Ona,’ I cried, ‘will you marry me? Your father has given his consent, and we shall be very happy.’

“She bestowed upon me a little pout, and half mockingly, half earnestly inquired, ‘What kind of a house are you going to put me in? I cannot live in a cottage.’

“‘I will put you in a palace,’ I whispered, ‘if you will only say that you will be mine.’

“‘A palace! Oh, I don’t expect palaces; a house like the Japhas’ would do. Not but what I should feel at home in a palace,’ she added, lifting her lordly head and looking beautiful enough to grace a sceptre. Then, archly for her, ‘And papa has given his consent?’

“‘Yes,’ I ardently cried.

“‘Then Dr. Burton might as well go,’ she answered. ‘I will trust my father’s judgment, and take the palace—when it comes.’

“After that, it was impossible to disappoint her.

“Paula, in stating all this, I have purposely confined myself to relating bare facts. You must see us as we were. The glamour which an unreasoning passion casts over even a dishonest act, if performed for the sake of winning a beautiful woman, is no excuse in my own soul for the evil to which I succumbed that day, nor shall it seem so to you. Bare, hard, stern, the fact confronts me from the past, that at the first call of temptation I fell; and with this blot on my character, you will have to consider me—unhappy being that I am!

“I did not realize then, however, all that I had done. The operation entered into by Mr. Delafield prospered, and in two months I had, as he predicted, ten thousand dollars instead of five, in my possession. Besides, I had just married Ona, and for awhile life was a dream of delight and luxury. But there came a day when I awoke to an insight of the peril I had escaped by a mere chance of the die. The money which I had expected from my aunt’s will, turned out to be amongst certain funds that had been risked in speculation by some agent during her sickness, and irrecoverably lost. The expression of her good-will was all that ever came to me of the legacy upon which I had so confidently relied.

“I was sitting with my young wife in the pretty parlor of our new home, when the letter came from my lawyer announcing this fact, and I never can make you understand what effect it had upon me. The very walls seemed to shrivel up into the dimensions of a prison’s cell; the face that only an hour before had possessed every conceivable charm for me, shone on my changed vision with the allurement, but also with the unreality of a will-o’-the-wisp. All that might have happened if the luck, instead of being in my favor, had turned against me, crushed like a thunderbolt upon my head, and I rose up and left the presence of my young wife, with the knowledge at my heart that I was no more nor less than a thief in the eyes of God, if not in that of my fellow-men; a base thief, who if he did not meet his fit punishment, was only saved from it by fortuitous circumstances and the ignorance of those he had been so near despoiling.