"What the deuce was that?" whispered Callister, drawing back in alarm. For the space of a minute all three stood motionless, Billy Cutts at the top of the steps, Callister and Cutts the elder at the foot. The street was utterly deserted. Nor was this strange. Lower New York is always deserted at night, and the hour of twelve had already passed. Before them rose the grim stone walls of the Custom House on William street--that upon which the Lispenard bank is situated--from Wall to Beaver, as far as the eye could reach, not a living thing could be seen. "Come on; it's only a blasted bat!" whispered Billy Cutts, from the top of the steps. "We have no time to fool away, I tell you. First thing we know a cop will be along. The goose is ready for the plucking, and we want to be about it. It's blame strange Rube didn't show up!" "Oh, never mind him!" answered Callister, hastily. "Probably he's off on some other lay. Open the door, Billy, and we are with you. We must and shall put this job through successfully. There's enough in that vault to make us all independent for life!" "Go on--go on, you make too much talk," whispered Sam Cutts, leading the way up the steps. "Lead on there, Billy, if the door is open. We've nothing to fear." Billy Cutts opened the door softly without reply. Followed by his companions, he entered the bank. "Hey, Mike!" he whispered, hoarsely. It was the bank watchman he called who, faithless to his trust, had been bribed to assist them in their work. There was no reply. Within the bank all was dark; by the feeble rays of the street lamp without the outlines of the desks could be just discerned. "Hey, Mike! Mike!" whispered Billy Cutts again, stealthily advancing. The words had scarcely left his lips, than through the interior of the Lispenard Bank there shot out a blaze of light. "Throw up your hands, there!" cried a stern voice before them. "Up with them, or you are dead men!" With a low cry, Elijah Callister sprang toward the door. Before them, in the full blaze of the lighted gas, stood Frank Mansfield and five policemen at his side, with glittering revolvers in their outstretched hands, aimed directly at the burglars' heads. "Halt, there!" Behind them, entering by the door through which Callister had turned to flee, a second posse of police was seen, headed by the pale determined figure of Detective Hook, while following close behind were three ragged street boys, easily recognized as our old friends Barney, the bootblack, Sandy and Garibaldi the Bats in the Wall. "Those are your men, officers!" cried Frank, in clear, ringing tones. "That's Callister--the tall one by the door--that's the head of the gang who robbed the Webster bank, and sought to throw the crime on me!" * * * * * Morning dawned upon the city of New York with clearer skies so far as Frank Mansfield was concerned, than he had known for months. The end had come.