Mr. Leonard and his visitor proceeded together to the basement of the establishment. They were followed by Mr. Wilson.

The officer paused on reaching the foot of the stairs, and took a general view of the long room.

“You keep some valuable goods down here?” he asked.

“Not our most valuable.”

“Have any of these other cases been examined? Your visitors may not have confined their attention to the one line of goods.”

“No. They were all broken, and would not show tampering so easily. Had I better have them all examined?”

“That you’ll have to settle yourself,” said Mr. Fitler, smiling. “It might be best for your peace of mind not to know all you have lost.”

He was walking now down the room, his keen eyes wandering from side to side, noting every detail.

“Do those goods come in that rumpled condition?” he asked, stopping beside a case of light dress goods.

“They don’t look as smooth as they might, that’s a fact,” said Wilson, as he partly opened a roll of the stuff. It was somewhat creased and wrinkled.

They had fallen upon a portion of Will’s bed which he had rolled up again rather hastily.

“I think I will have these few cases recounted,” said Mr. Leonard. “They are new goods, and we can easily tell what sales have been made from them. Send Mr. Brown down here, and Will,” he called up the stairs.

While he was waiting for the appearance of these parties, and putting them to work, Mr. Fitler walked on, continuing his investigation. He examined the windows at the end of the room with the greatest care.

“The thieves did not enter by the windows, that’s clear,” said the officer. “What arrangements have you in front?”

“An elevator to lower goods down.”

“Opening on Market street?”

“Yes.”

“And how secured?”

“By iron doors, which are locked at night.”

“That could not be safely used,” said the officer, “even if left unlocked. Market street is too public, at any hour of the night, for heavy operations like these. The door at the head of the stairs is always locked at night?”

“I think so. Those are my orders,” said Mr. Leonard, joining them.

The officer had proceeded to the front of the store and was examining the elevator.

“No chance there,” he said.

“But, how then did they enter?” asked Mr. Leonard, anxiously. “They must have found some means of access from without.”

“They must have made entry into the store in some way, and then have worked down into the cellar.”

“We have examined the doors and windows. They do not seem to have been tampered with.”

“I will take a look at them,” said the officer. “Who opens the store in the morning?”

“Mr. Brown, the man you see at work there, usually.”

“And closes it at night, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Does anybody else carry the keys?”

“Occasionally. But Brown had them on the night of the robbery.”

“It’s a mighty odd business,” said the officer.

He walked back past where Mr. Brown and Will were busily engaged counting the goods. Mr. Fitler eyed the man closely. It was Will’s old enemy, but they were amicably engaged now. A nervous, quick-motioned, sharp-speaking person, whose worst fault was his temper.

“I think Brown is all right,” was the officer’s silent comment, after a long look at the man’s face.

“You have a cellar under this?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Mr. Wilson. “Devoted to coal, empty boxes, and rubbish generally. It has no entrance, except from here.”

“We will go down,” said the officer.

“It is rather dark there,” said Mr. Leonard. “We will need a light. Will, get a lamp, and follow us into the cellar.”

“All right,” said Will, dropping a piece of goods with a thump on the floor. “I’ll put you through.”

They proceeded to the sub-cellar, Will following down the stairs with a lighted lamp. It was a long, dark room, imperfectly lighted by two very narrow windows at the back. In front a coal vault extended under the pavement. This was empty now of coal, and its iron grating fastened from within.

As Mr. Wilson had said, the cellar was half-filled with rubbish. Its stone walls had been whitewashed, but were brown enough now, their mortar eaten with dampness. The earth floor was rather yielding, as if from dampness.

Mr. Fitler’s eyes noted everything, as he walked slowly back.

“Bring the light here,” he said, at length, as they came near the rear wall. He stooped and picked up something from the floor.

“Who made those footprints?” he asked, pointing to two very faint indentations in an unusually soft portion of the floor.

They all looked down with interest, Will holding the light close. The shape of a foot could be plainly made out.

“That’s a reg’lar Robinson Crusoe find,” said Will. “If we was only on a desert island now we might look for Injuns, or sich customers.”

“Here we can look for rogues,” said the officer. “It is a small foot,” he continued, examining with great care.

“About the size of the boy’s shoe,” said Wilson, looking sharply at Will’s feet. “Set your foot here.”

“Oh, you dry up,” said Will, angrily. “I ain’t measuring feet now. Maybe I made it. I was down here yesterday. So was more of the men.”

“No impudence, Will,” said Mr. Leonard, reprovingly.

“Can’t help it,” said Will, defiantly. “Imperdence was born in me, and it will work loose. Can’t keep it down.”

He turned away with a vexed shrug, and walked toward where something had attracted his attention.

“Who dropped this?” asked the officer, displaying the object he had picked up.

It was a small copper token, about the size of a nickel cent.

“That’s mine,” said Will, returning.

“Then you were down here,” said Wilson. “And those are your footprints.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t,” said Will, indifferently.

“Then why do you object to measuring?”

“’Cause that would look too much as if I was taking my measure for a thief. That’s a game I ain’t playing. S’pose I mought have made the steps, ’cause I was down here.”

Mr. Fitler was closely examining the remainder of the cellar.

“Everything seems right here,” he said. “A rat could hardly get into this place. What’s that you have?” he asked, addressing Will.

“A bit of paper I found while you was talkin’ here. Picked it up from under the box.”

It was a strip of writing paper which Will handed the officer, seemingly a fragment of a letter.

The latter examined it by the light of the lamp. It contained a few lines of writing.

His countenance changed as he slowly read the faintly-written correspondence.

“Read it,” said the officer, handing it to Mr. Leonard.

“—— Monday, at sharp 8. Black-eyed Joe’s mill the crib. The swag is safe, and samples put out. They are fighting shy. Now’s our time to shove, before the scent gets hot. J. P.”

“I didn’t ask you to read it aloud,” said Mr. Fitler. “Such information had best not get to too many ears.”

“Information?” repeated Mr. Leonard. “A riddle, I should call it.”

“It is a riddle with an easy key,” said the officer, dryly. “I wish I knew who Black-eyed Joe was. I never heard of that gentleman before. Where did you get this, Will?”

“Just under the edge of the dry-goods box there.”

Mr. Fitler examined the spot carefully. There were no other suspicious indications.

“It is deuced queer,” he said, reflectively, “for that piece of letter to be down here. I’ve been of the notion that burglars got into the upper part of your store and worked their way down to the basement. But what did they want down here? This adds a new mystery to a queer case.”

“Under the supposition of a confederate in the store, might he not have dropped it by accident when down here on his regular business?” asked Mr. Leonard.

“Yes,” said the officer, abstractedly.

He took the paper again, and attentively read it.

“What does it mean? It is all Greek to me,” said Mr. Leonard.

“It means that an appointment for a meeting of the gentlemen who have been visiting you has been made. The Monday night has passed, or it might be next Monday. The meeting is fixed for Black-eyed Joe’s, wherever that is. ‘The swag is safe.’ That is your silk, which they are trying to dispose of by samples. ‘Fighting shy’ simply means that you are keeping the affair quiet, and it is their plan to sell the goods to some innocent buyer, before the robbery is made public. If I but knew who J. P. was, and where to find Black-eyed Joe, I would sleep easier.”

Will, who happened to overhear this remark, smiled intelligently to himself.

“Bet what you dare that I find him first,” he muttered. “Got a notion in my top-knot that I’ll ’tend that meetin’ next Monday.”