“I did not know that you were inclined to be so pusillanimous,” cried Mr. Sylvester; “and in presence of a foe so unsubstantial as this you have conjured up almost out of nothing. If the bank has been robbed, it cannot be difficult to find the thief. I will order in detectives to-morrow. We will hold a board of inquiry, and the culprit shall be unmasked; that is, if he is one of the employees of the bank, which it is very hard to believe.” “Very, and which, if true, would make it unadvisable in us to give the alarm that any public measures taken could not fail to do.” “The inquiry shall be private, and the detectives, men who can be trusted to keep their business secret.” “How can any inquiry be private? Uncle, we are treading on delicate ground, and have a task before us requiring great tact and discretion. If the safe had only been assaulted, or there were any evidences of burglary to be seen! But we surely should have heard of it from some one of the men, if anything unusual had been observed. Hopgood would have spoken at least.” “Yes, Hopgood would have spoken.” The tone in which this was uttered made Bertram look up. “You agree with me, then, that Hopgood is absolutely to be relied upon?” “Absolutely.” A faint flush on Mr. Sylvester’s face lent force to this statement. “He could not be beguiled or forced by another man to reveal the combination, or to relax his watch over the vaults entrusted to his keeping?” “No.” “He is alone with the vaults where the boxes are kept for an hour or two in the early morning!” “Yes, and has been for three years. Hopgood is honesty itself.” “And so are Folger and Jessup and Watson,” exclaimed Bertram emphatically. “Yes,” his uncle admitted, with equal emphasis. “It is a mystery,” Bertram declared; “and one I fear that will undo me.” “Nonsense!” broke forth somewhat impatiently from Mr. Sylvester’s lips; “there is no reason at this time for any such conclusion. If there is a thief in the bank he can be found; if the robbery was committed by an outsider, he may still be discovered. If he is not, if the mystery rests forever unexplained, you have your character, Bertram, a character as spotless as that of any of your fellows, whom we regard as above suspicion. A man is not going to be condemned by such a judge of human nature as Mr. Stuyvesant, just because a mysterious crime has been committed, to which the circumstances of his position alone render it possible for him to be party. You might as well say that Jessup and Folger and Watson—yes, or myself, would in that case lose his confidence. They are in the bank, and are constantly in the habit of going to the vaults.” “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.”