“No;” again came from Mr. Sylvester, with impartial justice. “The watchman—who by the way has been in the bank for twelve years—could not help a man to find entrance to the vaults. His simple duty is to watch over the bank and give alarm in case of fire or burglary. It would necessitate a knowledge of the combination by which the vault doors are opened, to do what you suggest, and that is possessed by but three persons in the bank.” “And those are?” “The cashier, the janitor, and myself.” He endeavored to speak calmly and without any betrayal of the effort it caused him to utter those simple words, but a detective’s ear is nice and it is doubtful if he perfectly succeeded. Mr. Gryce however limited himself to a muttered, humph! and a long and thoughtful look at a spot on the green baize of the table before which he sat. “The janitor lives in the building, I suppose?” “Yes, and is, as I am sure Mr. Stuyvesant will second me in asserting, honesty to the back-bone.” “Janitors always are,” observed the detective; then shortly, “How long has _he_ been with you?” “Three years.” Another “humph!” and an increased interest in the ink spot. “That is not long, considering the responsibility of his position.” “He was on the police force before he came to us,” remarked Mr. Sylvester. Mr. Gryce looked as if that was not much of a recommendation. “As for the short time he has been with us,” resumed the other, “he came into the bank the same winter as my nephew and myself, and has found the time sufficient to earn the respect of all who know him.” The detective bowed, seemingly awed by the dignity with which the last statement had been uttered; but any one who knew him well, would have perceived that the film of uncertainty which had hitherto dimmed the brightness of his regard was gone, as if in the other’s impressive manner, if not in the suggestion his words had unconsciously offered, the detective had received an answer to some question which had been puzzling him, or laid his hand upon some clue which had till now eluded his grasp. The inquiries which he made haste to pursue, betrayed, however, but little of the tendency of his thoughts. “The janitor, you say, knows the combination by which the vault doors are opened?” “The _vault doors_,” emphasized Mr. Sylvester. “The safe is another matter; that stands inside the vault and is locked by a triple combination which as a whole is not known to any one man in this building, not even to myself.” “But the boxes are not kept in the safe?” “No, they are piled up with the books in the vaults at the side of the safe, as you can see for yourself, if you choose to join Mr. Folger.” “Not necessary. The janitor, then, is the only man besides yourselves, who under any circumstances or for any reason, could get at those boxes after business hours?” “He is.”