"Hold on! hold on!" exclaimed Sturgis, smiling; "one thing at a time. We shall perhaps come to that soon. For the present, if you will come back to your private office, I shall endeavor to piece together the scraps of evidence which I have been able to collect. There, sit down in your own armchair, if you will, while I fit these bits of paper together; and in less than ten minutes I shall probably be ready to proceed with my story." Dunlap was still nervous and impatient; but all trace of amusement and skepticism had vanished from his face, as he took the proffered armchair and watched Sturgis patiently piece together the tiny fragments of paper he had so carefully gathered. When this work was accomplished, the reporter went to the typewriter and wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper. He next proceeded to examine under the microscope the minute fragments and particles which he had collected in his search. When he had finished this operation, he leaned back in his chair and looked up into space for what seemed to Dunlap an interminable length of time. Then at last he glanced over at the banker, who could hardly contain his growing impatience. "I am ready to go on now," said Sturgis, reaching for a sheet of paper, upon which he began to draw with ruler and pencil. "At last!" sighed the banker. "Yes; but my first, as the charades say, is a question." "Another!" gasped Dunlap; "when is my turn to come?" "Just a few more," replied Sturgis, "and then your turn will come for good." "Well, out with your questions then, if you must," said Dunlap, settling himself resignedly in his chair. CHAPTER X. PIECING THE EVIDENCE. Sturgis was still busy with his diagram. He spoke without looking up from his work. "Who besides yourself has a key to the drawer in which this revolver is kept?" "The cashier has one and the head bookkeeper has another." "You mean the bookkeeper who sits at the desk at the extreme right in the bookkeepers' department?" "Yes," replied Dunlap, "that is Mr. Arbogast's desk. Do you know him?" "No. What did you say the gentleman's name is?" The reporter looked up and prepared to make a note of it. "John W. Arbogast." "A man something over fifty years of age, quite bald, with a fringe of gray hair; wears a heavy moustache and side-whiskers; and had on yesterday afternoon, when you last saw him, a pepper-and-salt business suit," said Sturgis, writing down the name in his note book. Dunlap stared at the reporter in amazement. Sturgis smiled slightly. "I met the gentleman yesterday afternoon," he explained. "Oh! that accounts for it," exclaimed the banker. "I see----but----but then, how comes it that you did not know his name?" "He did not tell me his name," said Sturgis gravely, "and I did not know until just now that he was employed in the Knickerbocker bank. How long has he been with you?"