"And making it a dashed sight blacker still, begging your pardon," returned Mr. Brent briskly.
"That's as may be. But the devil isn't always as black as he is painted," responded Cleek. "I'd like to see this Wilson, Mr. Brent, unless he is so ill he hasn't been able to attend the office."
"Oh he's back at work to-day, and I'll have him here in a twinkling."
And almost in a twinkling he arrived—a young, slim, pallid youngster, rather given to over-brightness in his choice of ties, and somewhat better dressed than is the lot of most bank clerks. Cleek noted the pearl pin, the well-cut suit he wore, and for a moment his face wore a strange look.
Mr. Naylor-Brent's brisk voice broke the silence.
"These gentlemen are from Scotland Yard, Wilson," he said sharply, "and they want to know just what happened here on Tuesday night. Tell them all you know, please."
Young Wilson's pale face went a queer drab shade like newly baked bread. He began to tremble visibly.
"Happened, sir—happened?" he stammered. "How should I know what happened? I—I only got there just in time and—"
"Yes, yes. We know just when you got there, Mr. Wilson," said Cleek, "but what we want to know is what induced you to go down into the vaults when you fetched the inspector? It seemed a rather unnecessary journey to say the least of it."
"I heard a cry—at least—"