box of my own in a hurry that morning, and misled by the darkness and my own nervousness perhaps, took up his instead of my own. Not till I had opened it—with the toothpick, Hopgood, for I had been to a reception and did not have my keys with me—did I notice my mistake. I had intended to explain the matter to Mr. Stuyvesant, but you know what happened that day, and since then I have thought nothing of it.”
The janitor’s face cleared to its natural expression. “You are very kind, sir, to explain yourself to me,” said he; “it was not necessary.” But his lightened face spoke volumes. “I have been on the police force and I know how to hold my tongue when it is my duty, but it is very hard work when the duty is on the other side. Have you any commands for me?”
Mr. Sylvester shook his head, and his eye roamed over the humble furniture and scanty comforts of this poor man’s domicile. Hopgood thought he might be going to offer him some gift or guerdon, and in a low distressed tone spoke up: