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 backbone.”
“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.”