Lower New York is always deserted at night, and the hour of twelve had already passed.
Before them rose the grim stone walls of the Custom House on William street—that upon which the Lispenard bank is situated—from Wall to Beaver, as far as the eye could reach, not a living thing could be seen.
"Come on; it's only a blasted bat!" whispered Billy Cutts, from the top of the steps. "We have no time to fool away, I tell you. First thing we know a cop will be along. The goose is ready for the plucking, and we want to be about it. It's blame strange Rube didn't show up!"
"Oh, never mind him!" answered Callister, hastily. "Probably he's off on some other lay. Open the door, Billy, and we are with you. We must and shall put this job through successfully. There's enough in that vault to make us all independent for life!"
"Go on—go on, you make too much talk," whispered Sam Cutts, leading the way up the steps. "Lead on there, Billy, if the door is open. We've nothing to fear."
Billy Cutts opened the door softly without reply.
Followed by his companions, he entered the bank.
"Hey, Mike!" he whispered, hoarsely.
It was the bank watchman he called who, faithless to his trust, had been bribed to assist them in their work.
There was no reply.