Two more weeks passed. Wallace's hope that Hanvey would depart proved ill-founded. The big, awkward man was there at eight o'clock every morning, and there he remained until the books were closed at night. He spoke to nobody save in the most casual way. Every other employe of the bank came to take him for granted. They were interested in him at first, but later accepted him as they accepted the marble pillars which stubbed the lobby. He was big and lumbering and uncouth, and gradually they forgot his reputation as a bank detective.
But Clifford Wallace did not forget. In his eyes there had been born a hunted, haunted look. Hanvey's flabby, rather coarse face had a hypnotic effect upon him. He found himself wondering what obliquitous course this man was pursuing, what method there might be in his madness of inactivity. He felt like an ill man who finds himself daily in the room with a coffin. Hanvey's stolid demeanor generated an association of ideas that was irresistibly horrible.
It was obvious that Hanvey suspected something, some one; equally plain that he did not suspect any one else in that bank. It must be, then, that he did suspect Cliff. And then he commenced visiting Cliff's Cage.
He did it only a few times. His manner was friendly, almost apologetic. But he had a mean insinuating way of appearing at the cage door and rattling the knob. Cliff would whirl and find those dull inhuman eyes blinking slowly at him.
“Can I come in, Mr. Wallace?” And then once inside the cage: “Jest wanted to pass the time of day with you.”
Invariably, then, the same formula. A browsing around the tiny cage. A peeping into the money stocked vault of the paying teller. “Gosh! That's a heap of money.”
“Yes.” Cliff found himself on edge when Hanvey was in his cage.
“Never knew there was that much money in the world.”
Damn the man! Always obvious in his speech.
“Didn't you?”
“Nope. Sure didn't.”
Hanvey never mentioned the robbery. His indifference must be studied; all part of a net-spreading process. Cliff was frightened. He recalled the adage that a detective can err a thousand times and yet win; the criminal cannot afford to slip once. He regulated his daily life scrupulously. At the end of another month he again deposited his regular amount of savings. He saw to it that Phyllis did the same. But the strain was telling on him. His appetite had gone, dark circles appeared under his eyes. He wished daily that he'd be summoned into Warren's office to face the thing out with Jim Hanvey. He knew they couldn’t convict, that they didn’t have a thing against him. Even the box in which reposed their hundred thousand dollars stood in the name of Mrs. Harriet Dare, Phyllis' dead sister. Before her death Phyllis had been authorized in writing to be permitted to the box. Cliff had taken care that the box remained in the name of the estimable and defunct lady.
He became moody and depressed, obsessed with speculation as to what was happening behind the bovinely expressionless face of the detective. The man's countenance was blank, but Cliff was no fool—he knew that it masked an alert mind. True, he'd seen no indication of that alertness, but he knew that it must be so. And Hanvey’s inactivity was telltale. Hanvey knew that he had done it, and was waiting with oxlike patience to discover how.
Sooner or later he'd learn. How, Cliff didn’t know. But no scheme is so perfect that it can stand the test of unflagging and unceasing surveillance. And when he did learn—Cliff shuddered. He knew full well what they did to crooked bank employes. Robert Warren would be hard in such a situation—very hard, merciless.
Then came another big pay-roll day, and Phyllis' weekly visit with the modest check from her firm. This time Hanvey fell into line behind her. Cliff saw him coming, and his face blanched. Phyllis. noticing his pallor turned and stared into the expressionless countenance of the big unkempt detective. The color receded from her cheeks, too, and her hand trembled visibly as she shoved her satchel through the little window of Cliff's cage.
His fingers were trembling as he counted the money. He chatted with Phyllis, the effort being visible and unnatural.
The girl moved away and Hanvey looked after her trim blue-suited figure. Then he turned his froglike eyes back to Cliff Wallace and blinked in that maddening way of his.
“Durned pretty girl.”
“Yes.” He was short, nerves ajangle.
“Friend of yours?”
“Yes.”
“Awful pretty girl.”
Hanvey moved away. Cliff staring after his waddling figure restrained with difficulty an impulse to scream. And when he left the bank that day he did something he had seldom done before in his life—he took a drink of whisky. Then he went to see Phyllis. He was but a nervous shell of himself when he took her riding that night. He was a victim to nerves. Insomnia had gripped him—insomnia interrupted by a Succession of nightmares in which he was hounded by a pair of glassy eyes which blinked slowly, interminably.
“It's all off, Phyllis.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hanvey knows I did it. Sooner or later he'll figure out how.”
“I thought—to-day—when he hung over the counter——”
“I’m afraid he's about worked it out. We’re near the ragged edge.”
She commenced to cry. “Cliff——”
“Don’t weep. It isn't going to do us a bit of good. The man is driving me crazy. I tell you there's only one thing to do.
“And that is——”
“Confess.”
“Oh-h-h!”
He laughed bitterly. “Don’t worry. They'll never know you had anything to do with it. You get the money out in the morning. Bring it to me just as it stands—wrapped in brown paper. I’ll carry it to old man Warren. I’ll offer to solve the mystery and see that the money is returned in exchange for a promise of immunity.”
“Will he keep his promise?”
“Absolutely. He's that sort. He’d not prosecute anyway. It would injure the bank's reputation. A bank always prefers to hush up this sort of thing. They prosecute only when it’s been very flagrant or when they have to secure a conviction so that the bonding company will be responsible for their loss. So, to-morrow——”
She rested her head briefly against his shoulder. You're right, Cliff. And I’ll be glad when it's all over. So very, very glad. I’ve been afraid, dear.”
She delivered the money to him at eleven o’clock the following morning. It was Saturday; the bank closed at twelve. He saw the eyes of Jim Hanvey blinking accusingly at him through the morning, and found himself trembling. Suppose Hanvey should accuse him at this moment, when he was on the verge of confession?
Noon. The great doors of the bank were closed. Cliff locked his cage, tucked the brown paper package under his arm and closeted himself with the president. During the walk across the lobby he had felt the horrible knowing eyes of the detective fastened upon him, leechlike.
The scene with Robert Warren developed just as he had anticipated. The president readily promised immunity, the cash was produced and counted. Warren was shocked and genuinely grieved. He was considerate enough to refrain from questioning as to the identity of the accomplice, although Cliff felt that the man knew.
Of course, he said, Cliff could consider himself discharged. The matter would never become known; the bank sought no such notoriety. Mr. Warren trusted that this would be a lesson to Cliff; he was sure that conscience had wrung this confession from the young man. Cliff acted his part adequately.
But