Ephraim Judd was the victim of an insatiable curiosity with regard to the affairs of other people. To pry into the private business and personal histories of his fellow clerks, and of those with whom he was brought into contact in business, was with him a sort of mania. He had a special bunch of keys, procured it would be impossible to say how, which gave him access to nearly every drawer in the office; and many an evening when he stayed after the other clerks had gone, and was supposed to be busily at work, he was, in reality, engaged in prying into private correspondence, and other matters with which he had no manner of concern. It was not that the knowledge thus surreptitiously obtained was of any value to him, or was made use of to the detriment of those from whom it was stolen; it was simply hoarded up in his memory, where so much useless knowledge was stored up already, doubtless greatly to the satisfaction of his curiosity, which was the sole end he had in view. He was stopping to-night after John Brancker's departure because, in the course of the day, John had received a letter by post, the contents of which had seemed to puzzle him greatly, and Ephraim was hungering to know what the letter could possibly be about. After reading the letter two or three times, and wrinkling his brows over it, John had put it away in one of his drawers, and Ephraim was in the hopes of finding it there now.

John Brancker had not been gone more than ten minutes before Ephraim wiped his pen and laid it down. Then he sat perfectly still for a few moments, listening intently with those large, flexible ears of his. Nothing was to be heard save, now and then, the footsteps of someone passing in the street. With a hop and a skip, Ephraim was off his stool and at the door. Long practice had enabled him to turn the handle noiselessly. Holding the door half open, he waited and listened again. Sweet was probably downstairs getting his supper. A moment later Ephraim was on one knee against Mr. Hazeldine's door, and peering through the keyhole. In his india rubber overshoes he moved without a sound. He kept his eye to the keyhole for about a couple of minutes, and then he went back noiselessly to his own office.

"He doesn't seem to have much to do that need keep him so late," muttered Ephraim to himself. "I wonder what he's thinking about. He's got something on his mind, I'm positive he has. He's not the same man he was half a year ago."

While speaking thus he drew from one of his pockets a steel ring, on which were strung about a dozen keys. Selecting one of them, he inserted it into the lock of John Brancker's drawer, which it opened as easily as the proper key could have done. A crafty smile lighted up Ephraim's thin, sallow face as his fingers gripped the handle of the drawer. He pulled, but the drawer stuck and would only open to the extent of a few inches. A little patience would have remedied this, but Ephraim was in a hurry; Obed Sweet might come his rounds at any moment, so into the drawer went his long, lean fingers in search of the letter.

Now, John Brancker was in the habit of using a quill pen nearly as often as he used a steel one, and in his drawer was an office-knife, almost as sharp as a razor, which he used for the making and mending of the former. Ephraim never thought about the knife till his hand came in contact with the blade, a gash being the immediate result. He drew back his hand with an exclamation of pain, but not till the contents of the drawer had been sprinkled with sundry drops of blood. At this moment Sweet's premonitory cough was audible, and then the door was opened, and his head protruded into the room. Ephraim was obliged to stand still and let his wounded hand hang by his side.

"Not gone yet, sir?" said Sweet.

"No, but I'm just about done, and shall be off in a few minutes," answered Mr. Judd.

"All right, sir," responded Sweet. "The Guv'nor seems as if he was going to stick at it late to-night," he added. And with that he went on to talk of the weather, and lingered for fully five minutes before he finally went.

Looking down, Ephraim saw with dismay that there was quite a little pool of blood on the floor by this time. He had no means of cleaning it up, and was utterly at a loss what to do. He tied his handkerchief round his hand, and stood thinking for a minute or two. At length he decided that he would leave the floor as it was for to-night, and come to the Bank an hour earlier than usual in the morning, when the woman who cleaned the offices would be at work. He would give her sixpence, and with her soft soap and scrubbing-brush she would quickly efface the stains from the floor; or, if by chance any signs still remained, a little ink spilled carefully over the place would effectually hide them. Five minutes by daylight would suffice to so re-arrange the contents of the drawer, that John, who was the most unsuspicious of mortals, would never find out that they had been disturbed. Having thus decided on his plan, Ephraim proceeded to re-lock the drawer, then he put on his overcoat, muffler and hat, and took possession of his stick, after which he turned off the gas. At the door he paused to listen, but all was silent.

About half way along the main corridor, and nearly opposite the door of Mr. Hazeldine's office, was a spiral, iron staircase which gave access to certain upper rooms used as storerooms for old books and papers transferred from the offices below. Up this staircase mounted Ephraim Judd till he reached a certain height, and then he paused. Over Mr. Hazeldine's door was a fanlight which could be used as a ventilator if so required. From his perch on the stairs Ephraim could see through the fanlight into the interior of the office. He could see, too, as previous experience had taught him, Mr. Hazeldine's table as well as Mr. Hazeldine himself, if that gentleman happened to be seated at it. He was so seated now, and for a space of about a dozen seconds Ephraim's eyes seemed as though they would transfix him. "What can he be after? What is he going to do?" he muttered to himself in genuine surprise, and with somewhat of a scared look on his face.

But there was no time for further prying. He heard Sweet's footsteps ascending the stairs from the lower premises. Half a minute later, and he had opened one of the big outer doors and had let himself into the street. He set off homeward in a more thoughtful mood than ordinary. Twice he turned to look at the lighted windows of Mr. Hazeldine's office. With the exception of them and the fanlight over the main entrance, the building was in darkness; Sweet's rooms in the basement having windows that looked the opposite way.

His tea was waiting for him when he reached home. After he had partaken of it he sat awhile, puzzling himself over a chess problem in a magazine; then he decided that he would go for a walk. He had not gone far before John Brancker nearly ran against him at the corner of a street.

"Hallo! Mr. B., whoever thought of meeting you at this time of night?" cried Ephraim.

"I'm on my road to William Strong's," answered John. "I hear that he's ill, and I'm doubtful whether he will be able to attend to the organ next Sunday. That was a spot of rain. Now that I'm so near the Bank, I may as well step in and get my umbrella, which I forgot to bring away this evening. Sweet will hardly have shut up for the night yet."

Ephraim's heart sank within him. Should John light the gas in the office, he would infallibly discover the bloodstains on the floor, and his doing so would lead to inquiry; but all he said aloud was:

"I daresay you will find Mr. H. still in his office."

Then the two men bade each other good-night, and John turned off towards the Bank.

Ephraim turned off too, but only to take another road which led to the Bank a little further on. He strode along with his stick and overshoes, making no noise as he went. Coming to a dark corner within sight of the Bank, he halted there and was just in time to see John go in. Mr. Hazeldine's office was still lighted up. Ephraim stood and watched with a beating heart. Would John light the gas, or would he not? His anxiety was of short duration. In three minutes John was out of the Bank again with his umbrella in his hand. He had found it in the dark. Ephraim breathed a sigh of relief, and then slunk further into his corner till John's footsteps had died away. The clock of St. Mary's Church was chiming the half-hour past ten as he turned up the street again.

From ten o'clock at night till six o'clock in the morning it was Obed Sweet's duty to perambulate the Bank premises once an hour and satisfy himself that everything was safe. At six o'clock Mrs. Sweet rose and got her husband's breakfast ready, after which Sweet generally went to bed for four or five hours. At seven o'clock Peggy Lown, who assisted Mrs. Sweet to clean the offices, rang and was admitted.

John Brancker had not been gone more than three or four minutes after fetching his umbrella when Obed Sweet came slowly up from the lower regions with the intention of locking up the premises for the night. He had heard, as he fancied, the front door clash, and he never doubted that it was Mr. Hazeldine who had gone home at last. Mr. Brancker had let himself in with his pass-key, of which he and Mr. Hazeldine each possessed one, and Sweet had not heard him enter. Feeling sure that Mr. Hazeldine was no longer there, Obed opened the door of the private office without any preliminary knock. He was quite startled at finding the "Guv'nor" still there, and the latter was evidently just as much startled at being so suddenly intruded upon. He put something away hastily into a drawer, and turned an ashen face on the night-watchman.

"Ah, Sweet, I did not hear you knock," he said in a faint, weary voice, very unlike his usual decisive way of speaking.

"Beg pardon, sir," answered Sweet, in a flurry, "but I made sure that I heard you go out about five minutes since."

"I shall be about half an hour yet. I will let myself out when I am ready. I suppose everyone else has gone?"

"Yes, sir; some time ago."

"That will do. You need not trouble further."

Sweet retired and shut the door very gently. Then he stood on the mat for a few moments, rubbing his nose thoughtfully.

"I could a' sworn I heard somebody shut the front door," he muttered; "and yet Mr. Judd went away more than an hour ago. I suppose I'm getting old and stoopid."

He tried the front door and found it fast. Then he opened the door of the general office and peeped in, but all was darkness there. Satisfied that he must have been mistaken, Sweet made his way downstairs to his cosy little room and lighted his pipe. His wife had gone to bed by this time, and he sat for nearly an hour, smoking and sipping occasionally at his mug of beer, and listening for the sounds of Mr. Hazeldine's departure. But Sweet's listening was in vain; no sound broke the silence. By-and-bye he put his pipe down and finished his beer. The room was warm and the ale was old; Sweet's eyelids drooped, shut, opened and shut again: the night-watchman was asleep. This was no uncommon occurrence during his long, lonely vigils; but he had a happy knack of waking up, alert and fresh, at the end of about half an hour. So it was in the present instance. Sweet awoke with a start and a shiver. The fire had burned low, and the clock pointed to half-past eleven. "The Guv'nor must surely have gone by this time," he said to himself, as he got up and yawned. Then he lighted his lantern and went upstairs.

Placing his lantern on one of the chairs in the corridor, he went to the door of Mr. Hazeldine's room and knocked. He was not going to make a breach in his manners again. But there came no response. He waited a few seconds, and then he opened the door and looked in. Everything was in darkness, as he had expected it would be; both the gas and the fire were out. Sweet shut and locked the door, the key being outside. Then he bolted and barred the heavy front door, and after a final glance into the other offices, he locked them also. His last act was to extinguish the gas in the corridor, after which his duties were over for another hour.

Next morning, a few minutes before seven o'clock, Peggy Lown rang the bell and was duly admitted by Mrs. Sweet. It was Peggy's duty to clean the two general offices and the passage, while Mrs. Sweet herself looked after Mr. Hazeldine's and Mr. Avison's rooms. The first thing Peggy did was to draw up the blinds and let more daylight in through the heavily-barred windows. She had got her broom and her pail of water and was about to set to work, when her eye was caught by a splash of something dark on the floor. She stooped to examine it more closely. Was it nothing more than some red ink which had been spilled, or was it blood? Peggy shuddered involuntarily. At this moment she heard Mrs. Sweet's cough in the corridor, so she went and beckoned to her and brought her in and pointed out the stain on the floor without a word.

Mrs. Sweet stooped as Peggy had done. "It's blood!" she exclaimed next moment, and the two women looked at each other in mute questioning.

Peggy was the first to speak.

"Look at these red finger-marks on this drawer," she said.

"Why, that's Mr. Brancker's drawer! What can it all mean?" queried Mrs. Sweet.

Peggy shook her head.

"Perhaps the gentleman has only cut his finger," she ventured to suggest.

Mrs. Sweet brightened up.

"That must be it; it sent me all of a shake, though, when I set eyes on it," she said.

"I shall have some trouble in getting them stains out," remarked Peggy. "I should have thought such a particular gentleman as Mr. Brancker might have tied his handkercher round his finger."

But Mrs. Sweet had gone, being in a hurry to get on with her own share of the work.

Peggy drew back the fender and fire-irons, and was on the point of sweeping up the hearth, when she was startled by a piercing shriek. "Lord a' mercy! What's that?" she cried, as she let her brush fall and ran out into the corridor. The door of Mr. Hazeldine's room was open. She rushed in. Half way across the floor lay the body of Mrs. Sweet in a dead faint. A few yards further away lay another body, that of Mr. Hazeldine, cold and stark. Not far from it, gleaming brightly in the morning light, lay a long-bladed, murderous-looking knife.