“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.