“I found it on the floor of the bank just after you went out the other morning,” the other pursued well-nigh inaudibly. “It was lying near the safe. As it was not there when you went in, I took it for granted it was yours. Am I right, sir?” The anxious tone in which this last question was uttered, the studied way in which the janitor kept his eyes upon the floor could not have been unnoticed by Mr. Sylvester, but he simply said, “I have lost mine, that may very possibly be it.” The janitor held it towards him; his eyes did not leave the floor. “The responsibility of my position here is sometimes felt by me to be very heavy,” muttered the man in a low, unmodulated tone. It was his duty in those days previous to the Manhattan Bank robbery, to open the vault in the morning, procure the books that were needed, and lay them about on the various desks in readiness for the clerks upon their arrival. He had also the charge of the boxes of the various customers of the bank who chose to entrust their valuables to its safe keeping; which boxes were kept, together with the books, in that portion of the vault to which he had access. “I should regret my comfortable situation here, but if it was necessary, I would go without a murmur, trusting that God would take care of my poor little lamb.” “Hopgood, what do you mean?” asked Mr. Sylvester somewhat sternly. “Who talks about dismissing you?” “No one,” responded the other, turning aside to attend to some trivial matter. “But if ever you think a younger or a fresher man would be preferable in my place, do not hesitate to make the change your own necessities or that of the Bank may seem to require.” Mr. Sylvester’s eye which was fixed upon the janitor’s face, slowly darkened. “There is something underlying all this,” said he, “what is it?” At once and as if he had taken his resolution, the janitor turned. “I beg your pardon,” said he, “I ought to have told you in the first place. When I opened the vaults as usual on the morning of which I speak, I found the boxes displaced; that was nothing if you had been to them, sir; but what did alarm me and make me feel as if I had held my position too long was to find that one of them was unlocked.” Mr. Sylvester fell back a step. “It was Mr. Stuyvesant’s box, sir, and I remember distinctly seeing him lock it the previous afternoon before putting it back on the shelf.” The arms which Mr. Sylvester had crossed upon his breast tightened spasmodically. “And it has been in that condition ever since?” asked he.