away that was nestling up against his knee.
“You have not told me what you have discovered,” said he.
“Well, sir, only this.” And he took from his pocket a small roll of paper which he unfolded and held out in his hand. It contained a gold toothpick somewhat bent and distorted.
A flush dark and ominous crept over Mr. Sylvester’s cheek. He glanced sternly at the trembling janitor, and uttered a short, “Well?”
“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,