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"Yes," he said.
"Can I see you," I asked, "alone?" I didn't want to say "alone" again, but without this word the question seemed useless.
The manager looked at me with some anxiety. He felt that I had a terrible secret to tell.
"Come in here," he said, and led the way to a private room. He turned the key in the lock.
"We are safe from interruption here," he said. "Sit down."
We both sat down and looked at each other. I found no voice to speak.
"You are one of Pinkerton's detectives, I suppose," he said.
My mysterious manner had made him think that I was a detective. I knew what he was thinking, and it made me worse.
"No, not from Pinkerton's," I said, seeming to mean that I was from a rival agency.
"To tell the truth," I went on, as if someone had urged me to tell lies about it, "I am not a detective at all. I have come to open an account. I intend to keep all my money in this bank."
The manager looked relieved but still serious; he felt sure now that I was a very rich man, perhaps a son of Baron Roth's child.
"A large account, I suppose," he said.
