Chapter XII: The Bookkeeper's Confession

Late that same evening, Sturgis returned to his lodgings, after a busy day spent in working upon the Knickerbocker bank case. He was tired and he was perplexed; for, with all his unflagging energy, his quick intelligence and his plodding perseverance, he had come to a standstill in his investigation. The _Evening Tempest_ had appeared with no further mention of the Quinlan case, and with only a perfunctory report of the Cab Mystery, no attempt having been made to connect the two, for Sturgis would not consent to publish his evidence until he was sure of complete success in his undertaking.

As he approached the house, the reporter saw a light in his window, and inferred that a visitor was awaiting his coming. It was Mr. Dunlap, who, pale and care-worn, was striding nervously back and forth in the room, with his hands behind his back and his head bent forward upon his breast.

"Ah, there you are at last!" exclaimed the banker eagerly; "I have been waiting for you for over an hour."

"Has something new turned up?" asked Sturgis.

"Yes; read that."

At the same time Dunlap handed the reporter a letter.

"Let me tell you about it first. After leaving you this morning, I went to the morgue and saw the body. You were right; it is Arbogast's. I had been only half convinced by your evidence; but I now saw that you were probably right in all your other inductions, and I became anxious to learn something definite concerning the amount of Arbogast's defalcation. As I could not reach the books for some time, I called upon Mrs. Arbogast, thinking I might be able to learn something from her. You had not been to see her, had you?"

"No," answered Sturgis gravely, "I did not think it likely she knew as much about this matter as we do, and I shrank from the ordeal of revealing to her the fact of her husband's crime and tragic death. I wished, at any rate, to exhaust all other means of obtaining information before resorting to this one."

"Of course, of course," said Dunlap somewhat impatiently; "the woman is naturally to be pitied; but I could not allow any sentimental consideration to stand in the way of the discharge of my duty to our depositors."

"What did you learn from her?" asked the reporter.

"When I reached the house the maid told me that Mrs. Arbogast had spent the previous evening at her sister's house in the country and had not yet come back. I was about to leave, intending to return later in the evening, when the lady herself arrived. Upon learning who I was she seemed somewhat surprised but invited me in. As we passed into the parlor the maid handed her mistress a letter, stating that it had come by the morning's mail. Mrs. Arbogast glanced at the envelope but did not open it. At my first cautious questions she seemed to be very much surprised. Arbogast had announced to her by telegram the previous day that he would be obliged to go out of town for a few days on business. He allowed her to infer that he would soon return, and that his business was connected with the affairs of the bank. She could not understand how it happened that I knew nothing of this trip. 'But,' said she, 'I have just received a letter from him, which will, doubtless, explain matters.' She evidently knew nothing of her husband's peculation. Thereupon, she opened the envelope and took out this letter. I observed her closely. At the first words I saw her cheeks blanch and a look of agony pass over her features as she instinctively pressed her hand to her heart. I knew then that the letter contained some important revelation, and I became anxious to obtain possession of it. When she had done I could see that she was laboring under a strong emotion; but she controlled herself, replaced the letter in its envelope, and said merely: 'This does not tell me my husband's whereabouts; but I shall doubtless have further news of him in the course of a few days.' I saw that she was attempting to shield him in the supposition that he was still alive. I therefore broke the news of his death to her as gently as I could. The first shock seemed to utterly unnerve her; but after awhile she became somewhat calmer. 'After all, it is better so,' she said, at last. Then she handed me this letter. There was no further reason for withholding it. Read it now."

"It is postmarked at the general post-office at five o'clock," said Sturgis; "it was therefore mailed before or during Chatham's visit to the bank. It may have been mailed by Arbogast before the scrubbing was done, or perhaps by the chorewoman when she left the bank."

The reporter drew the letter from its envelope and read:

"THE KNICKERBOCKER BANK,

"NEW YORK, December 31, 1896.

"MY DARLING WIFE,

"When you receive this letter I shall be far away--a disgraced
criminal--and you will be worse than a widow.

"I dare not ask your forgiveness for the trouble I am bringing
upon you; for I realize all too clearly the extent of the wrong
I have done you. But I feel irresistibly impelled to lay before
you in all their nakedness, as I do before my own conscience, the
circumstances which have led to my downfall. A knowledge of these
may perhaps enable you to understand, in a measure, the temptation
to which I have succumbed; although I find it hard myself, now
that all is over, to realize how I came to yield to it.

"Perhaps you may remember the celebration of my fiftieth
anniversary. We were having a most enjoyable evening in the
company of the friends whom you had invited to participate in the
festivities, when a caller was announced. I was obliged to leave
our guests in order to receive him in the library. This man lost
no time in stating the nature of his business with me. His name
was Thomas Chatham; he was an expert accountant, who had been
employed at the Knickerbocker bank to examine the books, and he
coolly informed me that he had just discovered a serious error in
my books--one that had enabled a depositor to overdraw his account
by a large amount. At first I refused to believe him, although he
submitted copies from the books showing exactly how the blunder had
been made. When he intimated that it only rested with me whether
the error should be reported to the bank, I indignantly refused
to listen to him. He remained perfectly unruffled during our
interview and left me at last with the statement that he would wait
twenty-four hours before handing in his report to the president.

"My first step on reaching the bank the next day was to verify
Chatham's statements. Alas! they were only too true. There was the
terrible blunder staring me in the face. I could not understand
how I had come to make it; but there it was, and nothing could
explain it away. I had hoped against hope up to this time; now I
saw clearly that I was a ruined man.

"There was only one honorable course open to me--to frankly confess
my responsibility for the blunder and take the consequences,
whatever they might be. I hesitated, and I was lost.

"I hesitated because I felt that my position was at stake. Would
not my error appear inexcusable to the officers of the bank, since
I could find no palliation for it in my own eyes. I was fifty years
old. I shrank from the necessity of beginning again at the foot of
the ladder which I had so laboriously climbed after a lifetime of
conscientious plodding. It would be no easy matter for me to find
another position.

"The more I thought the matter over, the more I became convinced
that there might be another way out of my trouble. Was it not
probable that the depositor who had profited by my mistake, had
done so innocently? If so, would he not be willing to repay the
amount overdrawn? At the worst, if he should refuse to do this,
might it not be possible for me to scrape together and borrow
enough to make good the deficiency? In this way I could correct the
blunder and no one would be the wiser for it. But what of that man
Chatham? Would not his report betray me? I recalled his intimation
that the nature of his report depended upon myself. What did he
mean by that? Probably he would set a price upon his silence. This
would add considerably to the amount I should have to raise; but
would not this be better, after all, than the loss of my position.
At any rate, I should not be any the worse off for listening to his
proposal, whatever it might be.

"That afternoon, as soon as the bank had closed, I called at the
address Chatham had given me. He evidently expected me. With him
was a man whom he introduced as James Withers, the depositor in
whose favor my blunder had been made. Had I not been laboring under
great excitement, it is likely that my suspicions would have been
aroused by the strangeness of Withers' presence in Chatham's room.
The two men received me pleasantly, and the alleged Withers, even
before I could broach the subject, expressed his regret at hearing
of the error which had been committed, and assured me of his
willingness to re-imburse the bank; but----ah! there was an ominous
'but.' He was short of ready money just then; everything he had
was tied up in a promising enterprise which was bound to bring in
a magnificent profit in the course of a few days, if only he could
raise a few paltry hundreds to enable him to hold out a little
longer. If he failed to scrape together this small amount, all
would be lost. Insidiously and relentlessly they drove me toward
the trap they had prepared, and I was weak enough to fall into it.
Before the interview was over, I had consented to allow Withers to
still further overdraw his account, and I had received his solemn
promise to refund, before the end of the week, the entire amount he
owed the bank. Then Chatham suggested that it would be wiser to let
the second overdraft come from another account. Withers agreed with
him, and stated that the check could be made out in the name of
Henry Seymour, a relative of his, who had recently opened a small
account with the Knickerbocker bank. I strongly objected to sharing
the secret of my infamy with any others; but I finally allowed
myself to be overruled by the plausible scoundrels into whose
clutches I had fallen.

"The next day I took my first step in crime, by making such entries
as would insure the honoring of Seymour's check. After that I was
completely in the power of these two men. It was not long before
I discovered that I had been their dupe. Chatham's accomplice was
not the true Withers; for this man, a few days later, made a large
deposit, which more than covered his previous overdraft. The false
Withers was Henry Seymour himself.

"As soon as I had committed a felony, it became unnecessary for
Seymour to keep up any further pretense of a desire to refund the
money I had helped him steal. I was now in the meshes of crime as
deeply as my accomplices; and, from that time to this, they have
forced me to act as their catspaw. During this period of two years
the bank has been robbed in this way of over $250,000.00, every
cent of which has gone to Chatham and Seymour.

"You can perhaps imagine what a hell my life has been during that
time. With prison and disgrace staring me in the face; and with the
absolute conviction that exposure must inevitably come sooner or
later, I have suffered the tortures of the damned. At the bank, I
have been in a perpetual state of suspense. I have started at every
word spoken to me; I have seen suspicion in every glance which has
met mine; I have trembled and paled at every approach of one of the
officers of the bank. And yet I have not dared to absent myself
from my desk for an hour, lest an examination of my books during
my absence should reveal my crime. I have been the first to reach
the bank in the morning and the last to leave it at night; I have
not even taken the few minutes during the day which would have been
required to enable me to obtain a hurried meal. On one pretext or
another, during the last two years, I have had to forego my annual
vacation. I have dragged myself to my post when I was so ill that I
could hardly stand, because I could not afford to have any one take
charge of my books for even an hour. And all that time, with a full
realization of my degradation and infamy, I have been forced to
continue my frauds, knowing that each one brought me nearer to the
inevitable final exposure; but knowing equally well that a refusal
on my part to continue my stealings would result in an instant
betrayal by my accomplices.

"At last further concealment became impossible. A week ago the
yearly examination of the books took place. The expert accountant
employed was, as usual, Thomas Chatham, and of course, as usual,
his report was entirely satisfactory. It seemed, therefore, as
though discovery could be postponed a little longer; when suddenly,
this morning, we were informed that a change in the system of
bookkeeping would be adopted after the first of January. I saw at
once that all was over. The discovery of my crime is now a matter
of hours. I must be out of the way before the crash comes or I am
doomed. I can already see the felon's stripes upon my back; the
clang of the prison gates rings in my ears.

"I am too dazed to think; but I feel that my only escape is in
death. And yet I cling to life. I know that the happy days of the
past are gone forever; and yet I feel a sort of numb relief at the
thought that the worst is now certain to come, and to come at once.

"I have carefully prepared my flight, so that I shall have plenty
of time to reach a place of safety. Once there, I shall be free
from pursuit; but I shall be an exile, and I shall carry with me to
the grave the burden of my sin.

"The most bitter pang in my remorse is caused by the thought of
the great wrong I have done you, dear wife. You will now be forced
to face the world not only unprotected by the one whose duty and
whose desire it was to smooth the way for you; but, what is worse,
oppressed by the burden of his sin.

"What little money I have left in the savings bank I have
transferred to your name. You may use it all with a clear
conscience; for every dollar of it was honestly mine. I swear I
have never had a single cent of the money I have stolen. It has all
been drawn by Henry Seymour, and used I know not how.

"As soon as I am settled in the place to which I am going, I shall
try, as far as lies in my power, to redeem my past by a life of
honest labor; and I hope to be able to contribute to your support
in the near future.

"Oh! my wife! my darling wife! Would that the past could be blotted
out, and that I could once more place my hand in yours, an honest
man. Though you may find it hard to forgive me now, perhaps in
time you may be able to think gently of him who through all his
crime and degradation, has remained

"Your devoted husband,
"JOHN W. ARBOGAST.

"My safety depends upon your keeping the contents of this letter secret for at least three days. After that time, please send to Mr. Dunlap, president of the Knickerbocker bank, the inclosed papers, which will reveal to him the full extent of my defalcations.

"I do not hesitate to betray Chatham and Seymour; they did not scruple to ruin me. I have sent for Chatham, and I shall give him warning of my intended flight. If he sees fit, he can take such steps as he may choose to escape his own richly deserved punishment."

* * * * *

While Sturgis was reading Arbogast's letter, Dunlap, restlessly pacing the room, had observed him furtively.

"Well?" he now inquired, stopping before the reporter; "what do you think of that?"

"Poor woman!" exclaimed Sturgis feelingly; "it is terrible to think of the suffering brought upon her by her husband's guilt. I ought to be hardened to a situation like this; for it is the inevitable sequel of almost every crime that is ever committed. But I am moved every time by the pathetic expiation of the innocent for the guilty."

"Yes, yes; I know," said Dunlap indifferently; "that is not what I meant. Did you note the amount which this scoundrel confesses he and his accomplices have stolen from the bank?"

"Yes; it is a large sum."

"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars! Why, man, if that is true, it is enough to cripple the bank----No, no; I don't mean that, of course; the bank is rich and could stand the loss of four times that amount. But a quarter of a million is a round sum, for all that. It does not seem possible that, in spite of all our care, they can have succeeded in making away with so much money. But they did. There can be no doubt about that; for in the papers which Arbogast inclosed for me in his letter to his wife he explains just how the thing was done. It is simple enough when you know the trick; but it took fiendish cunning to devise it. I never would have thought that rascally bookkeeper intelligent enough to concoct such a scheme."

"If the scheme is a work of genius," said Sturgis, "you may rest assured that 'X'--who may very well be Henry Seymour--was the author of it."

"Well, at any rate," observed Dunlap, "there is one thing that must be done at once; and that is to find both Chatham and Seymour. It is not possible that in two years these men have spent a quarter of a million dollars between them."

"It is at all events possible that they may not have done so," replied Sturgis, "for my investigations show that both Arbogast and Chatham have been men of regular and exemplary habits in their private lives. They do not appear to have been living much, if at all, beyond their means. There does not seem to have been, in the case of either man, any room for a double existence, which might otherwise have explained the situation. Neither was a spendthrift nor a gambler, and neither was dissipated."

"Then you have not the faintest idea of the present whereabouts of Chatham or of his mysterious accomplice?"

"Let me tell you exactly what I have done up to the present time; and then you will be able to judge for yourself. And I, too, shall see more clearly where we stand; for the necessity of putting one's thoughts into words is an aid to clear thinking."