"That's as may be. But the devil isn't always as black as he is painted," responded Cleek. "I'd like to see this Wilson, Mr. Brent, unless he is so ill he hasn't been able to attend the office." "Oh, he's back at work to-day, and I'll have him here in a twinkling." And almost in a twinkling he arrived--a young, slim, pallid youngster, rather given to over-brightness in his choice of ties, and somewhat better dressed than is the lot of most bank clerks. Cleek noted the pearl pin, the well-cut suit he wore, and for a moment his face wore a strange look. Mr. Naylor-Brent's brisk voice broke the silence. "These gentlemen are from Scotland Yard, Wilson," he said, sharply, "and they want to know just what happened here on Tuesday night. Tell them all you know, please." Young Wilson's pale face went a queer drab shade like newly baked bread. He began to tremble visibly. "Happened, sir--happened?" he stammered. "How should I know what happened? I--I only got there just in time and----" "Yes, yes. We know just when you got there, Mr. Wilson," said Cleek, "but what we want to know is what induced you to go down into the vaults when you fetched the inspector? It seemed a rather unnecessary journey, to say the least of it." "I heard a cry--at least----" "Right through the closed door of a nine-inch concrete walled vault, Wilson?" struck in Mr. Brent, promptly. "Simmons had been shut in there by myself, Mr. Headland, and----" "Shut in, Mr. Brent? Shut in, did you say? Then how did Mr. Wilson here and the inspector enter?" Young Wilson stretched out his hand imploringly. "The door was open," he stammered. "I swear it on my honour. And the safe was open, and--and the notes were gone!" "What notes?" It was Mr. Brent's voice which broke the momentary silence, as he realized the significance of the admission. For answer the young man dropped his face into his shaking hands. "Oh, the notes--the £200,000! You may think what you like, sir, but I swear I am innocent! I never touched the money, nor did I touch my--Mr. Simmons. I swear it, I swear it!" "Don't swear too strongly, or you may have to 'un-swear' again," struck in Cleek, severely. "Mr. Narkom and I would like to have a look at the vault itself, and see the body, if you have no objection, Mr. Brent." "Certainly. Wilson, you had better come along with us. We might need you. This way, gentlemen." Speaking, the manager rose to his feet, opened the door of his private office, and proceeded downstairs by way of an equally private staircase, to the vaults below. Cleek, Mr. Narkom, and young Wilson--very much agitated at the coming ordeal--brought up the rear. As they passed the door leading into the bank, for the use of the clerks, old Calcott came out, and paused respectfully in front of the manager. "If you will excuse me, sir," he said, "I thought perhaps you might like to see this."