together as though he were enjoying a
tit-bit with much satisfaction.

"Half-an-hour ago, sir, Mr. George Barrington brought it in, and wanted
smaller change."

George Barrington! The members of the little party looked at one another
in amazement, and Cleek noticed for a moment that young Wilson's tense
face relaxed. Mr. George Barrington, eh? The curious little one-sided
smile travelled up Cleek's cheek and was gone. The party continued their
way downstairs, somewhat silenced by this new development.

A narrow, dark corridor led to the vault itself, which was by no means a
large chamber, but remarkable for the extreme solidity of its building.
It was concrete, as most vaults are, and lit only by a single electric
light, which, when switched on, shone dully against the gray stone
walls. The only ventilation it boasted was provided by means of a row of
small holes, about an inch in diameter, across one wall--that nearest to
the passage--and exactly facing the safe. So small were they that it
seemed almost as if not even a mouse could get through one of them,
should a mouse be so minded. These holes were placed so low down that it
was physically impossible to see through them, and though Cleek's eyes
noted their appearance there in the vault, he said nothing and seemed to
pay them little attention.

A speedy glance round the room gave him all the details of it! The safe
against the wall, the figure of the old bank servant beside it, sleeping
his last sleep, and guarding the vault in death as he had not been able
to do in life. Cleek crossed toward him, and then stopped suddenly,
peering down at what seemed a little twist of paper.

"Hullo!" he said. "Surely you don't allow smoking in the vault, Mr.
Brent? Not that it could do much harm but--"

"Certainly not, Mr. Headland," returned the manager warmly. "That is
strictly against orders." He glared at young Wilson, who, nervous as he
had been before, became obviously more flustered than ever.

"I don't smoke, sir," he stammered in answer to that managerial look of
accusation.

"Glad to hear it." Cleek stroked his cigarette case lovingly inside his
pocket as though in apology for the libel. "But it's my mistake; not a
cigarette end at all, just a twist of paper. Of no account anyway." He
stooped to pick it up, and then giving his hand a flirt, appeared to
have tossed it away. Only Mr. Narkom, used to the ways of his famous
associate, saw that he had "palmed" it into