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“No offense, officer,” Gladwin hurried on. “I’m sure you’re onto your job. No one could look at you and doubt that––but I’ll give you five hundred dollars if you’ll lend me your uniform for awhile.”
“Fi––fi––uni––say, what kind of a game are youse up to?”
Two big events in Phelan’s life had blazed their films upon his memory in a blinding flash. First there was Rose, and then there was that nightmare of a Coroner’s case, when he had fled hatless and coatless down the stairs of a reeking east side tenement, pursued by the yells of a shrieking “corpse.”
“It’s no game––it’s a joke,” replied Gladwin.
Whitney Barnes, who had been listening eagerly and had sensed Gladwin’s inspiration, chimed in:
“Yes, officer; it’s a joke.”
“Yez are offering me five hundred dollars for a joke?” said the flabbergasted Phelan.
“That’s it,” returned Gladwin. “I want to take your place; I want to become”––stepping forward to read the number on Phelan’s shield––“Officer 666 for a little while.”
Phelan couldn’t believe his ears. Stepping to one side he said behind his hand to Barnes:
“This feller’s off his dip. Don’t he know that if I lent him me uniform it’d be me finish.”
“That’s all right,” spoke up Gladwin. “I’ll guarantee to protect you. No one will ever know about it. You’ll never make five hundred so easy again.”
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“S-s-say,” stammered Phelan, “what’s this all about?”
“Well, I’ve found out that a thief is going to break in here to-night.”
“A thief!” gasped the policeman.
“Yes, just for a joke, you know.”
“A thief going to break in here for a joke!” yelled Phelan. “Now I know you’re batty.”
“Not a regular thief,” the young man corrected hastily. “He’s a friend of mine––and I want to be waiting in your uniform when he comes. I want to nab him. The joke will be on him, then, you know.”
“All very simple, you see,” added Barnes.
“Simple as––no, I don’t see,” snarled Phelan. “The two of yez is bugs.”
“But you will see,” went on Gladwin, “if you’ll let me explain. In order to be a policeman I’ve got to have a uniform, haven’t I?”
“Of course he has,” urged Barnes.
“And yez are offering me five hundred dollars for a joke?”
Phelan dropped his arms limply at his side and permitted his eyes to bulgead lib.
“That’s it,” cried Gladwin. “I assure you it is nothing serious or criminal. I just want your uniform long enough to catch my friend and I’ll give you five hundred dollars for lending it to me.”
“It’s too big a risk,” panted Phelan, producing an elaborate bandana and mopping his brow. “I won’t do it.”
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It was manifest that Officer 666 was sorely tempted. To goad him further Travers Gladwin produced a little roll of yellow-backed bills from his pocket. Fluttering the bills deftly he stripped off one engraved with an “M” in one corner and “500” in the other. He turned it about several ways so that Phelan could study it from all angles. Then he fluttered it before Whitney Barnes and said:
“Say, Barnes, there’s something really handsome about these yellow-backs, isn’t there? Notice how that five and those two naughts are engraved? And it’s amazing how much a slip of paper like this will buy.”
This was too much for Phelan. He reached for the bill and grabbed it, stuffed it into his trousers pocket and began unbuttoning his coat. Suddenly he stopped.
“Say,” he sputtered. “S’pose there should be a robbery on my beat?”
“That would be fine,” said Gladwin. “I’d be a credit to you.”
“Or a murder?”
“Better still.”
“Oh, the risk is awful,” groaned Phelan. He started to button up his coat again when Rose’s taunt came back to him. This time the tempter delivered a vital blow and he tore off his uniform coat and passed it to the young man. Gladwin slipped it on over his other clothes. It fitted snugly. It just happened that the suit he wore was dark blue and his trousers matched accurately.
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“Now the bonnet,” he said, reaching for the uniform cap and removing it from Phelan’s head.
“And now officer, your sword.” He grasped the proffered belt and buckled it on with a flourish, making as natty a figure of a cub policeman as one would want to meet.
Phelan stood looking on dumbly, his face a study in conflicting emotions. Barnes’s admiration of his friend’s nerve was beyond power of words. When Gladwin started for the doorway, however, he called after him:
“Hey there, Travers, where are you going?”
“On duty,” he responded cheerily. “And by the way, Whitney, give Mr. Phelan that tray and decanter and see that he goes down into the kitchen and stays there until my return. You remain on guard up here. I’ll look after the outside. So long, mates.”
“Hold on,” Phelan called out feebly. “I’d like to know what the divvil it all means. I’m fair hypnotized.”
“It means,” said Gladwin, pausing and turning his head, “that I’m going outside to wait for myself––and if I find myself, I’ll arrest myself––if both myself and I have to go to jail for it. Now, do you get me?”
“No, I’ll be damned if I do!” gurgled Phelan, but the words had scarcely passed his lips when the departmental guise of Officer 666 vanished from sight and the front door slammed with a bang.
133CHAPTER XXII.A MILLIONAIRE POLICEMAN ON PATROL.
Travers Gladwin went bounding down the steps of his own pretentious marble dwelling with an airy buoyancy that would have caused Sergt. McGinnis to turn mental back handsprings had he happened to be going by on his rounds. But, fortunately, McGinnis had passed on his inspection tour shortly before Michael Phelan had been summoned by Bateato. For three hours at least Officer 666 would be supreme on his beat.
While the McGinnis contingency had never entered young Gladwin’s mind it did suddenly occur to him as he strolled jauntily along that he had neglected to ask Phelan to define the circumscribed limits of his post. What if he should happen to butt into another patrolman? Certain exposure and all his plans would go flui! Then there was the danger of being recognized by some of his neighbors and friends. Ah! it came to him in a twinkling. A disguise!
“Here goes,” he said aloud. “I’ll jump a taxi and see if I can hunt up a hair store!”
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The time was 7 P. M., with the inky darkness of night blanketing the city so far as inky darkness can blanket a metropolis.
The thoroughfare on which the young man stood was a long lane of dazzle, wherefore the nocturnal shadows offered no concealment. He cast his eyes up and down the avenue in search of a tramp motor-hack cruising in search of a fare. He had only a moment or two to wait before one of the bright yellow variety came racketing along. He stuck up his hand and waved his baton at the driver. There was a crunching of brakes and the taxi hove to and warped into the curb. The chauffeur had the countenance of a pirate, but his grin was rather reassuring.
“Say, me friend,” began the young man, in an effort to assume Michael Phelan’s brogue, “do you know the way to a hair store?”
“A what?” the chauffeur shot back, while his grin went inside.
“A hair store––I want a bit of a disguise fer my features––whiskers, false hair or the like.”
“Did ye stop me to kid me?” snarled the chauffeur. “Ye don’t need to think ’cause you got on a bull’s uniform ye can hurl the harpoon into me. Or if it’s a drink ye’re wantin’ reach in under the seat an’ there’s a flask. If ye meant hair oil why didn’t ye say it?”
“Thanks, but ’tis no drink I’m afther,” said the young man. “’Tis a ride to a hair store, an’ here’s a tin-spot fer yer trouble.”
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It was the way Travers Gladwin handled the skirts of his coat in getting at his money that convinced the wise chauffeur that he had no real policeman to deal with. His grin came back and looped up behind at either ear.
“I getcher, Steve,” he broke out, reaching for the bill. “If it’s disguises ye’re after hop inside an’ I’ll tool youse over to Mme. Flynn’s on Avenue A.”
To demonstrate to his uniformed fare that speed laws in the greater city of New York fail to impose any manner of hamper upon the charioteering of the motor-driven hack, the chauffeur of this canary-colored taxi scampered across town at a forty-mile-an-hour clip, during which Patrolman Gladwin failed to familiarize himself with the quality of the cab’s cushions. But it was not a long ride and there was some breath left in him when the cab came to a crashing stop.
The young man was on the point of opening the door when a voice stopped him.
“Kape inside, ye boob, an’ pull the blinds down. There’s coppers on every corner. Now, what is it ye want in the way o’ whiskers or hair? Ye can slip me the change through the crack.”
“What’s the prevailin’ style?” asked Gladwin, with a laugh. “Are they wearin’ brown beards?”
“They are not,” mumbled the chauffeur. “I guess a wee bit mustache an’ a black wig will do ye, an’ if ye want I’ll get ye a pair of furry eyebrows.”
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“Fine,” cried the young man, poking a $20 bill out through the crack in the door, “and don’t be long.” The door slammed and a great stillness clapped down, broken only by the running of the taximeter, which seemed to be equipped with a motor of its own.
The millionaire cop sat back luxuriously and inhaled a deep breath.
“Gad!” he exclaimed to himself, “I’m really beginning to live. Nothing but thrills for four hours and more and larger ones coming.”
Presently the chauffeur returned, opened the door a few inches and shoved in a small package.
“Ye’ll have to paste ’em on in the dark,” he said. “Or ye can light a match. Ye’ll find a wee mirror in the bundle. Now where’ll I drive yez?”
“Back to me fixed post,” said Gladwin, “only take it easy while I put me face on straight.”
“If ye don’t git it on straighter nor your brogue,” chuckled the chauffeur, “it’ll not decave a blind man.”
In another instant the return journey was under way at reduced speed.
Travers Gladwin first tried on the wig. It was three sizes too large and he had to discard it. Next he had some trouble in deciding which was the mustache and which the eyebrows. He had burned his fingers pretty badly before he made the selection and likewise he had singed one of the eyebrows.
But he managed to plaster them all on before the cab stopped and after one glance in the little mirror he was confident the disguise would answer.
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When he stepped out of the taxi, at almost the very spot where he had boarded it, he felt that a big weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
“How do you like me?” he asked the chauffeur, gayly. “Is it an improvement?”
“I wouldn’t say yis nor no to that,” said the chauffeur, “but ’tiz a disguise, an’ that’s what ye were wantin’. Thim eyebrows is grand.”
“Thanks,” laughed Officer 666, “an’ here’s a wan hundred dollar bill which asks ye to forget me uniform, me number an’ me face.”
“’Tiz done,” agreed the chauffeur, tucking away the bill, “on’y take a tip from a wise gink an’ keep deep in the shadders. An’ whin ye pinch your frind don’t let him holler too loud.”
The yellow taxi was gone with a rush, leaving Gladwin to wonder at the amazingly shrewd guess of its pilot.
“When I pinch me frind,” he murmured. “’Twas just what I said to Phelan. Why”–––
He was gazing after the taxicab when from the opposite direction there suddenly rolled into view a vast touring car with a familiar figure at the wheel, and alongside the familiar figure a very pretty girl.
The car was barely rolling along, while its two occupants were talking earnestly, their heads as close together as was possible under the circumstances.
“Johnny Parkinson, as I’m alive!” uttered Travers Gladwin. “Me old college chum, and as per138usual––making love. Yis, me grinning chauffeur frind, here’s where we make a pinch an’ test Mme. Flynn’s eyebrows. Officer, do your duty!”
Out he stepped into the roadway and raised his nightstick.
The big car came to a sudden stop and the two occupants stared angrily at the cause of the interruption.
“I arrest yez in the name o’ the law,” cried Patrolman Gladwin, scowling so fiercely that one of the eyebrows was in danger.
“What’s that?” snorted the young aristocrat.
“You’re me pris’ner,” said Gladwin, easily. “I arrest ye fer breaking the speed laws––racin’ on the aven-oo.”
“It’s an outrage!” cried the pretty passenger. “We were scarcely crawling, Johnny.”
“You must be joking, officer,” said Johnny Parkinson, not very belligerently, for he had a bad record for speeding and wasn’t sure that some earlier offense was not involved.
“I’m not jokin’,” replied Gladwin, walking to the door of the tonneau and opening it, “and ye’ll oblige me by drivin’ to the police station.” He got in and lolled back cozily in the cushions.
Johnny Parkinson let in the clutch and rolled northward. This was the strangest “pinch” of his experience and he didn’t know just what to make of it. After he had gone a few blocks he turned on his captor-passenger and said:
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“Which station shall I drive to?––I’m sure there must be some mistake.”
“There’s no mistake,” responded Gladwin, fairly screaming with joy inside at the bewildered and frightened look of his friend. “As for police stations, take your pick. I ain’t particular. Drive round the block a couple o’ times an’ make up your mind.”
Johnny Parkinson turned the first corner and then turned again into Madison avenue. Gladwin could hear the couple on the front seat whispering excitedly, the girl almost in hysterics.
“You’ve simply got to do something, Johnny,” she was saying. “You know if we get our names in the paper father will be furious. Remember what he said about the last time you were arrested for speeding.”
Running along Madison avenue, Johnny Parkinson slowed down, turned again to the uniform in the back seat and said tremulously:
“Can’t we compromise this, Officer? I”–––
“Not on the aven-oo, Mr. Parkinson. You’ve got too bad a record. But if ye’ll run the machine over into Central Park where there ain’t so many sergeants roamin’ round we might effict a sittlemint.”
A smile of great gladness illuminated the features of Johnny Parkinson. He let in the clutch with a bang and it was only a matter of seconds before the ninety horsepower car glided in through the Seventy-second street entrance to Central Park and swung into140the dark reaches of the East Drive. Slowing down again the young man at the wheel turned and said anxiously:
“The smallest I’ve got is a century and I really need some of that.”
“That’s aisy,” rejoined Gladwin. “Sure’n I change hundred dollar bills ivry day. Slip me the paper an’ here’s a fifty, which is lettin’ ye off aisy, seein’ ye’re an ould offinder.”
The transfer of bills was made swiftly, whereupon Gladwin commanded:
“Now run me back to me peg post an’ drop me off, on’y take it slow an’ gradual or I might have to pinch yez again.”
A few minutes later Gladwin heard the young girl say passionately:
“Oh, Johnny, how could you give him the money? He’s no better than a thief. I hope you’ve taken his number.”
“It wouldn’t do any good, dearest,” said Johnny, sadly. “They’re all in together and I’d only get the worst of it. But did you notice, Phyllis, that he looks a lot like Travers Gladwin?”
“Impossible!” retorted the girl. “Travers Gladwin is good looking, and this man’s nothing but an Irish monster.”
The girl was about to speak again when she was sure she heard muffled laughter behind her. Then the car sped on into the avenue and just missed colliding141with a Fifth avenue motor ’bus. Officer 666 was put down a block from his own home and resumed the patrolling of the immediate precincts of the Gladwin mansion. His only parting salute from Johnny Parkinson’s car was a flashing glance of contempt from the girl, whose identity he strove in vain to place.
142CHAPTER XXIII.OLD GRIM BARNES GETS A THRILL.
The precipitate departure of Travers Gladwin left Whitney Barnes and the shirt-sleeved Michael Phelan staring blankly at each other. The unfrocked policeman was anything but an imposing figure and the contortions of distress in his rubicund countenance were grotesque enough to kindle the sense of humor in a far less volatile mind than that of Whitney Barnes. His smile came to the surface and spread out in full blossom. But it failed to find reflection in the features of Mrs. Phelan’s son.
“What the divvil are ye grinnin’ at?” snarled Phelan. “Ye wouldn’t see no fun in it if it mint your job an’ your pension an’ your silf-respect. Now, what is it all about?”
“There you have me, officer,” responded the young man, lightly. “The riddle is dark on all four sides. You and I are in the same boat––guardians of the castle against the mysterious foe. While you guard the moat from the kitchen I will operate the portcullis.”
“Talk sinse, will yez?” hissed Phelan. “What in blazes has moats an’ portcollars to do with it?”
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“Only in a way of speaking,” laughed Barnes. “But calm yourself, Mr. Phelan, my friend is both wise and discreet. He will do no dishonor to your cloth, and together we will see that you suffer no material damage in this life. I am unable to explain further without uttering more confusion, so kindly take yonder tray down into the kitchen. That little door on the extreme right I believe opens the way to the lower regions. I am sure Bateato left the lights on.”
“May the blessed saints presairve ye if it’s a trap ye’re riggin’ fer Michael Phelan,” breathed that gentleman, shaking his head dubiously. “’Tis not a step I’ll go down into that kitchen till yez lead me the way, and if there’s any more ravin’ maniacs down in them quarters I warn ye it’s shootin’ I’ll be after doin’.”
And Phelan patted the bulge in his hip pocket as he swung around.
Barnes led the way through the long, narrow corridor to the rear of the house, while Phelan followed, muttering and grumbling every inch of the way. There was no further conversation between them while they investigated the elaborate quarters below stairs, and at last Phelan ceased his mutterings and accepted from Barnes an armful of cook books with which to regale himself until he was summoned to resume his uniform.
Returning to the big silent rooms above, Whitney144Barnes was utterly at a loss how to occupy himself. The thundering stillness got on his nerves and he found himself thinking of a dozen different things at once. But as idea pursued idea the image of the shy and winsome Sadie persisted in intervening.
So he dropped Travers Gladwin, or rather the two Travers Gladwins, Helen, Phelan and all the others from his mind and gave himself up to the beatific contemplation of the picture that was most soothing to his spirits.
For a while he lolled back in one of the great chairs, shut his eyes and revolved pleasant visions. Suddenly he thought of his father and sprang to his feet.
“By Jove! I’ll break the news to the pater,” he cried. “There’s a telephone somewhere in this house, and I’ll call him up at his club.”
He fairly danced out into the hallway, switching on lights wherever he could find a button to press. Presently he located the phone in a secluded alcove and slumped down on a divan with the instrument in his lap.
As a matter of fixed routine, it happened that this particular hour found Joshua Barnes, mustard magnate, settled down to his cigar and coffee, in which he found immense comfort after a hearty meal. To be disturbed at this most luxurious moment of the day was, to a man of his temperament, about as pleasant a sensation as being stung by a rattlesnake.
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He sent the club attendant back to the phone with a savage growl and the message to his son to call him up in an hour or to come to the club in person. The attendant crept back with the report that Barnes junior insisted that there could be no delay––that he had a vastly important matter to report on.
Old Grim Barnes flung down his cigar, gulped his coffee till he choked and stamped off to the telephone booth.
“Well?” he bellowed.
––That you, pater––sorry to disturb you, but––
––Of course it’s important and no damn nonsense about it, I–––
––No, I haven’t been arrested and am not in a police station.
––Then what the devil–––
––No devil, nothing of the sort. On the contrary, quite the opposite! I’ve called you up to report progress–––
––You know better than that, dad. I’ve only had two drinks.
––I’d better take four more and sober up? Now, Father Barnes, will you oblige me by cooling off for an instant? You recall that this afternoon you gave me a year within which to find a wife. Well, I’ve found one already.
––Now you know I’m intoxicated? Was my voice ever soberer––now listen.
––You won’t listen? But you must. This is all146up to you. You commanded. I obeyed. Say, dad, she’s an angel. I’m madly in love with her.
––Who is she? Well, er, I really don’t know––that is, her first name is Sadie. I–––
––Sadie what? Sadie Omaha––I mean she lives in Omaha.
––What is her last name and who are her people? To tell you the truth I haven’t found that out yet. I–––
––I’m an ass?––a blankety, blank ass? Just wait till you see her! I met her up at Travers Gladwin’s, and–––
––Travers is in Egypt! No, yes, of course he is, but–––
The final outburst of paternal expletive fairly hurled Whitney Barnes from the phone.
“There, by thunder! He’s rung off in a rage.”
“There’s the ungrateful parent for you!” he muttered as he made his way back to Gladwin’s drawing room. “Here I’ve gone and broken my neck to fall in love for him and that’s all the thanks I get for it. Well, I’ll marry her in spite of him, if he doesn’t leave me a dollar. I could starve in a garret with her, and if I got too dreadfully hungry I could eat her. Hi, ho! but, say, Mr. Whitney Barnes, you had better switch off some of these lights. This house isn’t supposed to be occupied.”
He left just one heavily shaded bronze lamp abeam. Then he carefully drew all the curtains across the windows147and tiptoed about the room with the air of a sinister conspirator. He stopped in front of the great, mysterious-looking chest to one side of the entrance to the hallway, lifted the heavy lid and looked in.
“Here’s where we will put our dead,” he said, with a lugubrious grin, let down the lid softly and crossed abruptly to the roomiest and coziest chair beside the curtained window. After another sweeping glance about the room he stretched his arms and yawned.
“Reckon I better sleep off that jag the pater presented me over the wire,” he chuckled, and down he slid into the soft upholstery, raising his long legs upon another chair and sighing with deep contentment. His eyes roved about the room for a moment, when he smiled suddenly and quoted:
Why, let the stricken deer go weep;The hart ungalled play,For some must watch, while some must sleep:So runs the world away.
And upon the suggestion of the immortal bard he chose the sleeper’s end of it and passed away.
148CHAPTER XXIV.AUNTIE TAKES THE TRAIL.
“Mix a tablespoonful of corn starch with a quarter of a cupful of water. Stir this into a cupful of boiling water, and boil for two minutes; then add the juice and rind of a lemon and a cupful of sugar, and cook three minutes longer. Beat an egg very light, and pour the boiling mixture over it. Return to the fire and cook a minute longer, stirring all the while––a most tasty lemon sauce”–––
“T’ ’ell wit’ these limon sauces!” exploded Michael Phelan, hurling the book across the room and bounding from his chair. “Sure ’n I’ll niver be able to look a limon in the face agin. Limon, limon, limon––these blame books are filled wit’ ’em. ’Tis a limon I am mesilf an’ all fer a limon colored bill. But I’ll not stand it a minute longer, shut down into this tomb wit’ nothin’ but mice fer comp’ny. Wurra! Wurra! Rose O’Neil, but your blue eyes an’ your black hair an’ your divilish smiles have spelled me finish.”
Phelan wrung his hands and took a turn around the room. Now and again he stopped and shook149his fist at the ceiling, and at last, beside himself, he made a rush for the door that led to the stairway. Opening a crack, he listened. Nothing but heavy silence beat down on him from above and he shivered. He looked back into the kitchen and his eye fell on the pile of cookbooks. With a muttered oath he flung himself through the doorway and crept upstairs.
He had to feel his way through the narrow slit of a corridor above, and it was with an immense sigh of relief that he opened the door and stepped into the great drawing room he had left. In the dim light of the one glowing lamp he made out Whitney Barnes deep in the embrace of a great chair and sonorously asleep.
“So that’s the way he’s kapin’ watch!” hissed Phelan through his teeth, as he fairly pounced across the room. First he seized the young man’s feet and threw them from their resting place to the floor, exclaiming as he did so:
“Here you––wake up!”
“Yes, dear,” mumbled the young man in his sleep, “I could abide with you always.”
“Don’t yez be afther dearin’ me,” snarled Phelan. “Wake up!”
Barnes opened his eyes and asked thickly:
“Wassa masser.”
“What are yez doin’ there?” cried Phelan.
“What am I doing here,” rejoined Barnes, now150wide-awake and getting on his feet. “Why, I’m keeping watch at the window––on guard as it were.”
“On guard, is it?” snorted Phelan. “On guard an’ snorin’ like a bazoo. ’Tis a fine night watchman ye’d make. But, say, hain’t ye seen nothin’ o’ Mr. Gladwin since?”
“Now, I told you, Officer,” returned Barnes severely, “that I would let you know just as soon as he returned. I have been keeping guard here, and no one could enter the house without my knowing it. You will kindly return to the kitchen and wait.”
“An’ you got no word from him?” asked Phelan, in manifest distress.
“No,” with emphasis.
“Oh, my! oh, my!” complained Phelan bitterly. “Sure this is the worst muddle I ever got mesilf into! The sergeant will find him in that uniform, sure. It’ll cost me me job, that’s what it will! How late is it now?”
Barnes consulted his watch.
“Five minutes past ten.”
“Howly Moses! If I ever get out of this scrape I pity the mon that offers me money fer the lind o’ me uniform agin. I’ll grab him by the”–––
A sharp ring at the doorbell cut him short and wrote another chapter of tragedy in his countenance.
“Hello! there’s some one at the door,” spoke up Barnes. “You’d better go and see who it is, Officer.”
“Me!” gurgled Phelan. “Me! an’ walk into the151arms o’ Sergeant McGinnis. Let ’em stay out, whoever it is, or yez go yersilf.”
“All right,” said Barnes, “and in case it should be your friend McGinnis you better go and hide in the kitchen, like a brave officer. I’ll let you know when it’s time to come out.”
Phelan did not budge as Barnes left the room, but stood muttering to himself: “How the divvil did I iver let mesilf in fer this thing––I dunno! That’s what love does to yez––a plague on all women! If”–––
“Helen, Helen, where are you?” cried a shrill feminine voice that seemed to clutch the very heart of Michael Phelan with a grip of ice.
“Howly murther! What’s that?” he breathed, backing away from the door.
“Help! Murder! Police!” was borne in on him in even more agonized tones, and before he could move another step Mrs. Elvira Burton burst into the room––flushed and wild-eyed––in the throes of one of her famous fits of hysterics.
Phelan took a backward leap as she came toward him, and she yelled:
“Stop! stop! Where’s my niece?”
With his eyes almost out on his cheeks Phelan managed to articulate:
“What, ma’am?”
“You know what I mean––don’t deny it!” Mrs. Burton shrilled.
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“I don’t know what yez’re talkin’ about,” protested Phelan, backing toward the doorway that led to the kitchen.
The hysterical woman stopped, struggling for breath. When she could speak again she said fiercely:
“Who are you?”
“I––I”––– Phelan began.
“Tell me who you are or I’ll have you arrested––I’ll call the police.”
“Oh, for the love of hiven, don’t call the police!” begged Phelan, still backing toward the door.
“Then tell me what you are doing here.”
“I’ll answer no questions,” cried Phelan. With a desperate backward leap he gained the narrow doorway behind and vanished. He pulled the door shut and clung to the knob, hearing the muffled demand hurled at him:
“Here! Come back here! Helen! Helen! I want my niece! Oh, Helen, come to auntie!”
Then Barnes and the other pretty ward of the distraught Mrs. Burton entered the room. The young man had stopped Sadie in the hallway to ask a few questions and endeavored to soothe the frightened girl. He had taken possession of her hand again and still held it as he led her to the door of the drawing room.
They did not attempt to enter until after the precipitate disappearance of Michael Phelan. As Mrs. Burton stood looking helplessly at the closed door,153her ample bosom heaving and her breath coming in short hysterical gasps, Barnes was whispering to Sadie:
“Ah, Miss Sadie, I can’t tell you how overjoyed I am at seeing you again. And so that’s your auntie––fancy that chap refusing to meet her! Why”–––
That was as far as he got. Auntie suddenly wheeled round and caught sight of him.
“Ah! Gladwin!” she screamed and made a rush for him.
With all his characteristic aplomb and insouciance Whitney Barnes was unable to face such a rush with any degree of calmness.
“No! no! a mistake!” he retorted and sought to sidestep.
Mrs. Burton was too quick for him and seized his arm in an iron grip.
“Where is Helen? What have you done with her?” she demanded in the same wild tones.
“I-I-I d-d-don’t know,” stammered Barnes.
“You have hidden her somewhere and you must give her up,” stormed the woman. “You’re a scoundrel––you’re a kidnapper––you’re a wretch.”
She flung Barnes from her with all her strength and he slammed against the wall. She was about to charge upon him again when Sadie rushed between them.
“Oh, auntie,” she cried. “This is not Mr. Gladwin.”
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“Of course he isn’t,” chimed in Barnes, trying to shake himself together again. “He isn’t Mr. Gladwin at all.”
“Then who are you?” cried Mrs. Burton.
“Oh, he’s some one else,” Sadie assured her.
“Yes, you bet I am,” continued Barnes, striving his best to appear his usual jaunty self. “I’m some one else entirely different––I-I’m not Gladwin in the least.”
“What are you doing here?” shot out Mrs. Burton.
“Ah, that’s it,” he responded. “I’m on guard––keeping watch!”
“I knew it! I knew it!” and the shrill voice rose to a plangent pitch again. “You have hidden her away. Helen! Helen!”
“Now, now, now––my dear lady,” broke in Barnes, soothingly.
“I’m not your dear lady,” she flashed on him.
“My dear auntie”––Mrs. Burton’s hysteria was becoming contagious––“I beg your pardon,” he added hastily, “your niece, Miss Helen, is not here. I’ve been watching for hours, and she’s not here––no one is here.”
“That shirt-sleeved man is here––and you’re here!”
“But, auntie, he’s a friend of Mr. Gladwin’s,” interposed Sadie.
“Ah, ha! I knew it!” screamed Mrs. Burton. “He’s in the plot.” And again she plunged for him,155crying, “You’re his friend––you’re helping him to steal my niece. But you shan’t––I’ll prevent it––I’ll search the house. Come, Sadie!”
Barnes dodged skilfully and permitted Mrs. Burton to pass out into the hallway. Sadie was about to follow when the young man stopped her.
“But I must go with auntie,” Sadie objected.
“Never mind auntie now. I want to tell you about your cousin.”
“Then you’ve seen her?”
“No.”
“But you know where she is?”
“No.”
“Then what can you tell me about her?”
“Everything! Sit down, please. Remember you asked me to help you and I promised to do so.”
Mrs. Burton had managed to switch on the lights in the big reception room back of the hallway and was searching behind curtains, under books, behind pictures and in innumerable other places, after the manner of hysterical women.
“I said I would help you, you know,” ran on Barnes.
“Yes,” and Sadie looked up into his eyes confidently.
“Do you know why I promised?”
“No. Why did you?”
Barnes bent down toward her and said with all the ardor he could command:
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“Because from the moment I saw you I became your slave. When I saw how distressed you were about your cousin this evening my heart went out to you––the instant you left I decided to act and I’ve been acting ever since.”
“Oh, how kind––what have you done?”
“I’ve watched.”
“Watched?”
“Yes, watched. You don’t understand that, but it’s a very serious matter. If you only knew how serious this whole thing is you’d realize how I am trying to help you, and the risk I am taking.”
“Oh, how noble of you! How brave you are!” and if Mrs. Burton had waited another moment before returning to the room she would have had another case for hysterics on her hands entirely separate and independent of Helen’s elopement.
“I can’t find her––I don’t believe she’s in the house,” wailed Mrs. Burton.
Barnes regarded her dumbly for a moment and then said slowly and ponderously:
“My dear lady, I assure you that she is not in the house. If you’ll only listen a moment”–––
“I won’t listen,” Mrs. Burton snapped him up.
Sadie jumped to her feet and rallied to Barnes’s defense:
“But, auntie, this gentleman has been doing everything he can to help us––everything. He’s been watching.”
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“Watching? Watching what?” demanded auntie, suspiciously.
“Ah, that’s it! What? What haven’t I been watching––for hours?” cried Barnes.
“But what have you been watching for?” Mrs. Burton shrilled.
“For hours”–––
“What?”
“I mean for yours––and Miss Sadie’s sake, and now if you’ll wait here and watch with me”–––
“Now I see it all,” stormed Mrs. Burton, shaking her hand at Barnes wrathfully. “You want to keep us here. Helen and that scoundrel have gone and you want to prevent our following them.”
“No, auntie, he’s trying to help us,” sobbed Sadie.
“He’s lying to you, child,” said Mrs. Burton, shooting vindictive glances at Barnes. “Don’t you know he’s a friend of that wretch Gladwin? But they can’t hoodwink me. I know what to do now! Helen is not of age––I’ll swear out a warrant––I’ll have him arrested for abduction, a State prison offense.”
“No, no, no,” implored Barnes, in real alarm, “you must not do that. That will make the whole thing public, and that is just what Gladwin is trying to avoid.”
“Don’t you suppose I know that,” sneered Mrs. Burton. “He’s probably a bigamist. He may have a dozen wives living––the beast!”
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“But won’t you understand,” insisted Barnes. “He’s trying to save her, privately.”
“Now, what are you talking about?”
Mrs. Burton regarded him as if she had suddenly realized he was a raving maniac. And by way of justifying her inspiration he stumbled on blindly:
“I don’t know––you see, it’s this way. Gladwin and I only found it out this afternoon––quite by accident. And we decided to save her.”
“That’s enough––stop!” cried Mrs. Burton. “You’re talking all this nonsense to detain us. But I won’t stay a minute longer. Come, Sadie, we will go to the police station. I’ll never rest until I have that monster in jail.”
And with another dagger glance at Barnes she swept her niece and herself out of the room and out of the house to the waiting automobile.
Barnes gripped his forehead in both hands to steady his reeling brain.
“Isn’t that just like a woman,” he complained. “After explaining explicitly she’s going to have him arrested. But, by Jove! I must find Travers and warn him that the police are on his track.”
Seizing his hat and stick he rushed out into the night, just in time to see Mrs. Burton’s––or rather Jabez Hogg’s––big car glide away from the curb and shoot down the avenue like a vast projectile.