The janitor colored to the roots of his hair in an agony of shame Mr. Sylvester may or may not have appreciated, but replied with the straightforward earnestness of a man driven to bay, “I should have been obliged to tell him the truth sir; that whereas I had no personal knowledge of anyone but myself, having been to the vaults since the evening before, I was called upon early that morning to open the outside door to you, sir, and that you came into the bank,” (he did not say looking very pale, agitated and unnatural, but he could not help remembering it) “and finding no one on duty but myself—the watchman having gone upstairs to take his usual cup of coffee before going home for the day—you sent me out of the room on an errand, which delayed me some little time, and that when I came back I found you gone, and everything as I had left it except that small pick lying on the floor.”
The last words were nearly inaudible but they must have been heard by Mr. Sylvester, for immediately upon their utterance, the hand which unconsciously had kept its hold upon the toothpick, opened and with an uncontrollable gesture flung the miserable telltale into the stove near by.
“Hopgood,” said the stately gentleman, coming nearer and holding him with his eyes till the poor man turned pale and cold as a stone, “has Mr. Stuyvesant had occasion to open his box since you locked it?”
“Yes sir, he called for it yesterday afternoon.”
“And who gave it to him?”
“I sir.”
“Did he appear to miss anything from it?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you believe, Hopgood, that there was anything missing from it?”