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Title: Officer 666

Author: Barton Wood Currie
Augustin McHugh

Release date: October 10, 2009 [eBook #30228]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/30228

Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OFFICER 666
***

Officer 666

HIS GAZE HAD WANDERED TO THE GREAT CHEST, THE LID OF WHICH WAS
DISTINCTLY RISING.

OFFICER 666

BARTON W. CURRIE
&
AUGUSTIN McHUGH

NEW YORK
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

original decorative cover

Copyright, 1912, By
The H. K. Fly Company

CONTENTS

I. A Grapefruit Prelude. 9
II. Mr. Hogg Enters the Lists. 15
III. Whitney Barnes Under Fire. 21
IV. Smiles and Tears. 28
V. Whitney Barnes Telephones to the Ritz. 33
VI. Officer 666 on Patrol. 38
VII. The Little Brown Jap. 44
VIII. Art, Mystery and Love. 50
IX. The Curse of Millions. 56

X. The Heartbeats of Mr. Hogg. 61
XI. Gainsborough “Blue Boy.” 65
XII. Approaching a World of Mystery. 73
VIII. Travers Gladwin Gets a Thrill. 77
XIV. Thrill Begets Thrill. 83
XV. Heroism, Love and Something Else. 90
XVI. The Torment of Officer 666. 96
XVII. Travers Gladwin Is Considerably Jarred. 100
XVIII. Sadie Becomes a Conspirator. 106
XIX. Helen Leaves an Important Message. 112
XX. Michael Phelan to the Rescue. 118
XXI. Travers Gladwin Goes in Search of Himself. 127
XXII. A Millionaire Policeman on Patrol. 133
XXIII. Old Grim Barnes Gets a Thrill. 142
XXIV. Auntie Takes the Trail. 148
XXV. Phelan Meets His Uniform Again. 159
XXVI. Gladwin Meets Himself. 168
XXVII. Misadventures of Whitney Barnes. 179
XXVIII. An Instance of Epic Nerve. 187
XXIX. In Which the Hero Is Kept on the Hop. 192
XXX. Gladwin Comes out of His Shell. 202
XXXI. A Visit to the Exiled Phelan. 207
XXXII. In Which Bluff Is Trumps. 214
XXXIII. Bateato Summons Big Much Police. 222
XXXIV. Phelan Loses His Bribe. 228
XXXV. Bateato Keeps His Promise. 236
XXXVI. Repartee and a Revolver Muzzle. 247
XXXVII. Handcuffs and Love. 254
XXXVIII. Kearney Meets His Match. 262
XXXIX. Piling on Phelan’s Agony. 269
XL. Striking While the Iron Is Hot. 278
XLI. The Escape. 285
XLII. Michael Phelan’s Predicament. 291
XLIII. The Circumvention of Auntie. 298

XLIV. Miss Featherington’s Shattered Dream. 304

ILLUSTRATIONS

His gaze had wandered to the great chest, the lid of
which was distinctly rising. Frontispiece
“Now here’s a cunning little line”, he pursued. “That
shows something too.” 110
“Give me me uniform an’ let me git out of here.” 164
“He’s almost as madly in love with her as I am.” 282

The Publishers wish to acknowledge, with thanks, the permission to use some sketches of
the H. C. Miner Lithographing Company in illustrating this book.

9

Officer 666

CHAPTER I.
A GRAPEFRUIT PRELUDE.

Splash! The grapefruit hit her in the eye!
Splash! His psychic wave was dashed to smithereens!
“Oh! Oh!” the two girls screamed in unison.
“D–––!” the young man sitting near ejaculated.
For ten minutes there in the Oak Room of the Ritz-Carlton he had been
hurling across the narrow intervening space this mental command to the girl
facing him:
“Look here! Look at me! Let me see your eyes! Look here!”
For half that time she had been conscious of his insistent gaze and his
message. But with as much will power as he himself displayed she bent her
head over her plate and sent back along his telepathic transmission this
reply:
“I won’t! I won’t!”
But she was weakening.
“Sadie,” she said to her companion, “I do awfully want to look up. I want to
see who is looking at me so fiercely. I can just feel it all through me. Of
course it wouldn’t be proper, would it?”
“Well, that all depends on who is looking at you, dear, doesn’t it? If it were
10

some horrid old man”––
“No, it doesn’t feel a bit like that, Sadie. I don’t know just how to explain
it––really it isn’t unpleasant at all.”
“Why, Helen! And you engaged and going to elo”–––

“Hush, Sadie, you mustn’t say that in here. Somebody might––but I
positively cannot keep my eyes down another moment. I’m”–––
Then splash!
A vicious little jab of the spoon and there followed a disastrous geyser––a
grapefruit geyser.
With a smothered little cry of pain Helen’s eyes shut tight and she groped
for her napkin. And to make a good job of it the Fates dragged in at that
moment Helen’s guardian aunt, the tall and statuesque Mrs. Elvira Burton
of Omaha, Neb.
The young man who had failed so signally in what was perhaps his maiden
effort at hypnotism viciously seized all the change the waiter proffered on
the little silver tray, flung it back with a snarl, got up and stamped out of the
room.
He was a mighty good looking chap, smartly attired, and if you care for
details, he wore a heliotrope scarf in which there gleamed a superb black
pearl for which he had paid a superb price.
“Can you beat it!” he muttered as he climbed the stairs to the lobby and
mingled with the throng that stood about in stiff groups, idly chattering and
11

looking as if they bored one another to the verge of desperation.
“Can you beat it!” he exclaimed again, fairly biting off the words.
So vehemently occupied was he with his chagrin and annoyance that he
stamped heavily upon the pet corn of a retired rear admiral, rudely bumped
a Roumanian duchess, kicked the pink poodle of a famous prima donna and
brought up with a thud against the heroic brawn and muscle of the house
detective, who stood as solidly in the middle of the lobby as if he had taken
root somewhere down in the foundations.
“Can I beat what?” asked the house detective frigidly.
My, but he was an angry young man, and he fairly snarled at the
magnificent individual he had collided with:
“Beat a drum, beat an egg, beat around the bush––go as far as you like––
beat your grandmother if you prefer!”

The granite faced house detective was not used to that sort of treatment;
furthermore it distinctly galled him to be asked to beat his grandmother,
whom he recalled as an estimable old lady who made an odd noise when
she ate soup, owing to an absence of teeth.
“What’s that you said about my grandmother?” he said, bridling.
“Bother your grandmother,” shot back the insolent retort, whereat the lordly
12

house detective plucked the young man by the arm.
“Staggerin’ an’ loony talk don’t go in the Ritz,” he said under his breath.
“You’ve been havin’ too much.”
“Preposterous!” exclaimed the young man, vainly endeavoring to shake his
arm free.
“Are you a guest of the house?” demanded the immaculately garbed minion
of the Ritz.
“I am, so kindly remove the pair of pincers you are crushing my arm with.”
“What’s your name?”
“I don’t know––that is, I’ve forgotten.”
“Now I know you need lookin’ after. Come over here to the desk.”
The house detective had manifested no more outward passion than a block
of ice, and so adroit was he in marching the young man to the desk that not
an eye in the lobby was attracted to the little scene.
The young man was at first inclined to make a fuss about it and demand an
abject apology for this untoward treatment. The absurdity of his
predicament, however, stirred his sense of humor and he was meekly docile
when his captor arraigned him at the desk and addressed one of the clerks:
“Do you know this young man, Mr. Horton?”
“Why, yes, Reagan––this is Mr. Smith––why”––
“That’s it––Smith!” cried the young man. “How could I ever forget that
name? Thomas Smith, isn’t it, Mr. Horton, or is it James?”
“Thomas, of course; at least that’s the way you registered, Mr. Smith–– 13

Thomas Smith and valet.” The clerk’s eyebrows started straight up his head.

“Thomas Smith, exactly. Now are you satisfied, Mr. House Detective, or do
you want to go up and examine my luggage? Having convinced you that I
am a registered guest, how would you like to have me walk a chalk line and
convince you that I am sober?”
The house detective froze up tighter than ever, pivoted on his heel and
walked majestically away.
“What is the trouble, Mr. Smith?” asked the clerk deferentially, for he was a
better student of exteriors than John Reagan, twenty years a precinct
detective and retired to take up the haughtier rôle of plain-clothes man in
this most fastidious of metropolitan hostelries.
“No trouble at all, old chap,” laughed the young man. “I lost my little capri,
and then by accident I discovered a stray member of the herd belonging to
yonder Ajax. Some day he’s going to turn into solid marble from the dome
down, when you will have a most extraordinary piece of statuary on your
hands. By the way, have there been any telephone messages for me? I am
expecting a very important one.”
“I will see, Mr. Smith,” said the clerk briskly, and began searching through
the pigeonholes. “Yes, Mr. Whitney Barnes called up––left word he would
call up again at 2 sharp. Will you be in your room, sir?”
“Do you think I’ll be safe in my room?” asked the young man solemnly. 14
“Safe!” exclaimed the clerk. “Why, what do you mean, sir?”
“Oh, nothing, only Sir Ivory Ajax seems suspicious of me and might take it
into his head to come up and see if I hadn’t murdered my valet. That’s all.
I’m going to my room now to wait for Mr. Barnes’s telephone call. Kindly
be sure that he is connected with my room.”
“There is something strange about that young fellow,” murmured the clerk
as he watched the object of suspicion vanish into the lift. “Though if he is a
friend of Whitney Barnes,” the clerk added after a pause, “he ought to be all
right. I think I’ll look him up in the Social Register.”
Which he did––without enlightenment.

15

CHAPTER II.
MR. HOGG ENTERS THE LISTS.

Having arrived in the grill room of the Ritz coincident with a devastating
eruption of grapefruit, Mrs. Elvira Burton set out forthwith to demonstrate
that her unexpected advent was likewise somewhat in the nature of a lemon.
Even her smile was acid as she spread out her rich sable furs and sat down
at the table with her two pretty nieces.
“I have just received a letter from Mr. Hogg, Helen,” she began with a rush,
regardless of the anguish that was still evident in Helen’s lovely grapefruit
bespattered eyes.
A twinge of something more than mere physical pain twisted the young
girl’s features at the mention of the name––Hogg.
“Oh, auntie,” she almost sobbed, “can’t you leave Mr. Hogg out of my
luncheon. We had him last night for dinner and again this morning for
breakfast.”
“Helen!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton in accents of bitter reproach.
“I just won’t have him for luncheon, and with all this grapefruit in my eye,”
insisted Helen, hotly.
“It must hurt terribly,” sympathized Mrs. Burton’s other pretty charge, then
16

twisted her head and looked behind her.
“What are you looking at, Sadie?” demanded Mrs. Burton, suspiciously.
Sadie turned with a start and blushed furiously. She started to stammer a
reply when the less timid cousin came to her rescue.
“Some ridiculous man was trying to flirt with us and we were both awfully
nervous. I suppose Sadie looked to see if you had frightened him off.”
The blushing Sadie was amazed at her cousin’s resourcefulness, and stole a
glance from under the curling fuzz of her golden bang to note the effect

produced upon her august guardian and aunt. Mrs. Burton groped in her
mind for some subtlety that might have been contained in her niece’s
remark, failed at any plausible solution and then almost vindictively
returned to her original line of attack.
“Helen Burton, I must insist that you listen to me. I have broken an
engagement for the matinée with my friend, Mrs. Hobbs-Smathers of
Chicago, for the express purpose of communicating to you the contents of
Mr. Hogg’s letter. He informs me, Helen, that you are treating him
scandalously; that you do not pay the slightest attention to his letters or
even answer his telegrams.”
“Did he say he was getting thin––that would be charming,” teased the
incorrigible Helen.
Mrs. Burton gasped and the color surged into her cheeks in two flaming 17

danger signals. The glance she turned upon the mischievously laughing
eyes of her niece was intended to annihilate every vestige of frivolity. Her
ample bosom struggled in its purple velvet casement. Sadie Burton actually
shook in her tiny boots as she pictured her aunt in one of her hysterical
outbursts right there in the midst of a host of strangers who seemed to the
unsophisticated miss from Omaha to represent the very cream of New York
society.
Even Helen was sobered by the gathering storm warnings. The smile left
her curving red lips and the dimples vanished. All that lingered of her
playful humor showed in the impish lights that danced in her expressive
eyes.
But she was spared the storm. A tiny page, resplendant with myriad buttons,
appeared in the entrance to the Oak Room and lisped the name:
“Mith Helen Burthon.”
He bore in his arms a bouquet of magnificent orchids. Every eye in the
room focussed upon the tiny flower bearer, among them the wrathful pair of
Mrs. Elvira Burton.
“Mith Helen Burthon.”
The rage of the older woman had somewhat cooled. She managed to nod
her head haughtily to the boy. He came forward briskly with his precious

burden of blooms and laid them on the table, then right-about-faced with
18

military precision and marched away.
Now it was Helen Burton’s turn to blush and her agitation was as pretty to
see as anything those who continued to stare in her direction had ever
witnessed. Her dimples were positive hollows from which her blushes
seemed to fountain. She did not reach for the bouquet, though, because her
hand trembled so and there was actual fear in her eyes as she shrank back in
her seat and regarded her aunt.
Mrs. Burton was not loath to seize upon any leverage that might give her
sway over her rebellious niece. With a smile that was unequivocally
malicious she slowly raised the bunch of orchids and turned them over. The
bouquet was tied with a delicate mauve satin ribbon that perfectly matched
the gown worn by her niece.
Mrs. Burton looked at the ribbon and then at Helen’s dress. There was
accusation in the glance. Her eyes studied the orchids. They were of a
peculiar rich golden brown, matching the splendor of Miss Burton’s hair.
There was conviction in the second glance. She turned the bouquet over
several times, looking for a card.
There was none.
Now, here was a mystery! Could Miss Helen explain? Mrs. Burton inhaled
a deep breath, then said with exaggerated sweetness:
“Helen, dear, who could have sent you these beautiful flowers? They are
19

positively superb. He must certainly be an artist.”
Great as was her first panic, the young girl quickly rallied to her own
defense. She had only waited to be sure there was no card, no incriminating
mark of identification. She leaned forward on her elbows, sighed
rapturously and exclaimed:
“Aren’t they exquisite, Aunt El!”
“I asked you, Helen dear, who could have sent them?” There was something
distinctly feline in the purring tones as the question was repeated.
“Why, isn’t there any card, Aunt El?” fenced the girl.

“Come, come, my dear, why keep me in suspense? You can see there is no
card. Can it be one of the young men we met at the Grangers last night? I
hardly think so, for it is execrably bad form to send flowers to a public
dining room by a page in buttons.”
Helen shook her head and assumed an air of great perplexity. She stole a
glance across the table at Sadie, but that shy little cousin seemed on the
verge of tears. Mrs. Burton intercepted the wireless appeal and shifted her
cross-questioning to Sadie. She was determined to unravel the mystery. She
read Sadie’s panic as a symptom of guilty knowledge.
But Sadie was loyal to the cousin and chum she adored and proved
surprisingly game under fire. Indeed, she succeeded in breaking down her
aunt’s cross-examination and bringing the inquest to ruins by suddenly
20

clapping her hands and blurting:
“Maybe Mr. Hogg sent them by telegraph.”
The outrageous absurdity of the statement gave it cataclysmic force. Helen
embraced Sadie with her eyes and then added her own broadside:
“That really was splendid of him, Auntie El? Now you can tell me all about
his letter.”
“I will reserve that until later,” said Mrs. Burton, icily. “If you have finished
your luncheon, Helen, please pay the check and we shall go.”

21

CHAPTER III.
WHITNEY BARNES UNDER FIRE.

Joshua Barnes, sometimes referred to in the daily press as Old Grim Barnes,
the mustard millionaire, turned suddenly upon his son and pinioned him:
“Why don’t you get married?”
“That’s just it, pater––why don’t I?” replied the young man, blandly.
“Well, why don’t you, then?” stormed Joshua Barnes, banging his fist down
upon the mahogany table. “It’s time you did.”
Another bang lifted the red-headed office boy in the next room clear out of
Deep Blood Gulch just as Derringer Dick was rescuing the beautiful damsel
from the Apaches. Even Miss Featherington dropped “The Mystery of the
Purple Room” on the floor and made a wild onslaught on the keys of her
typewriter.
Whitney Barnes smiled benevolently upon his parent and nonchalantly
lighted a cigarette.
“As I’ve said before,” he parried easily between the puffing of smoke rings,
“I haven’t found the girl.”
“Dod rot the girl,” started Joshua Barnes, then stopped.
“Now, you know, my dear father, that I couldn’t treat my wife like that. The
22

trouble with you, pater, is that you reason from false premises.”
“Nothing of the sort,” choked out Barnes senior. “You know well enough
what I mean, young man. You have any number of––of––well, eligible
young ladies, to choose from. You go everywhere and meet everybody. And
you spend my money like water.”
“Somebody has got to spend it,” spoke up the sole heir to the mustard
millions, cheerfully. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, pater––you stop making it
and I’ll stop spending it. That’s a bargain. It’ll be a great lark for us both. It

keeps me awake nights figuring out how I’m going to spend it and it keeps
you awake nights puzzling over how you can make it––or, that is, make
more of it.”
“Stop!” thundered Joshua Barnes. “For once in my life, Whitney Barnes, I
am going to have a serious talk with you. If your poor mother had only
lived all this wouldn’t have been necessary. She’d have had you married off
and there’d be a houseful of grand-children by this time, and”–––
“Just a moment, pater––did triplets or that sort of thing ever run in our
family?”
“Certainly not! What are you driving at?”
“Nothing; nothing, my father. Only I was just wondering. We have a pretty
big house, you know.”
For a moment Joshua Barnes seemed on the verge of apoplexy, but he came
around quickly, and moreover with a twinkle in his eye. Even a life devoted
23

to mustard has its brighter side and Old Grim Barnes was not entirely
devoid of a sense of humor. He was his grim old self again, however, when
he resumed:
“Again I insist that you be serious. I intend that you shall be married within
a year. Otherwise I will put you to work on a salary of ten dollars a week
and compel you to live on it. If you persist in refusing to interest yourself in
my business, the business that my grandfather founded and that my father
and I built up, you can at least settle down and lead a respectable married
life.
“To be candid with you, Whitney,” and Joshua Barnes’s big voice suddenly
softened, “I want to see some little grand-children round me before I die. I
have some pride of blood, my boy, and I want to see our name perpetuated.
You have frivolled enough, Whitney. You are twenty-four. I can honestly
thank God that you’ve been nothing more than a fool. You are not vicious.”
“Thanks, awfully, pater. Being nothing more than a fool I suppose it is up to
me to get married. Very well, then, I will. Give me your hand, dad; it’s a
bargain.”
Whitney Barnes tossed away his cigarette and grasped his father’s hand in
both of his. He had become intensely serious. There was a depth of

affection in that handclasp that neither father nor son permitted to show
above the surface. Yet both felt it keenly within. Picking up his hat and
24

stick, the tall, slim, graceful young man said:
“You have no further commands on the subject, dad? Do you want to pick
the girl, or will you leave it to the taste and sometimes good judgment of a
fool?”
“Haven’t you any one in mind, son?” asked Joshua Barnes, anxiously.
“Absolutely not one, pater. You see, the trouble is that I can’t ever seem to
get real chummy with a girl but what her mother has to come and camp on
my trail and scare me into fits. You haven’t the least idea what a catch your
son is, Joshua Barnes. Why, a mother-in-law looks to me like something in
petticoats that comes creeping up with a catlike tread, carrying in one hand
a net and in the other a bale-hook. I can’t sit out two dances with a
debutante before this nightmare is looking over my shoulder, grinning like a
gargoyle and counting up the number of millions you are going to leave
me.”
“Oh, bosh!” ejaculated Joshua Barnes. “It’s all in your fool imagination.
Grow up and be a man, Whitney. You have given me your word and I
expect you to make good. And by the way, son, there is my old friend
Charley Calker’s girl, just out of college. I hear she’s a stunner.”
“Mary Calker is a stunner, dad, and then a trifle. But I regret to say that she
is too fresh from the cloistered halls of learning. You see I have been out 25of
college three years and have managed to forget such a jolly lot that I really
couldn’t talk to her. She’d want me to make love in Latin and correspond in
Greek. Worse than that, she understands Browning. No, poor Mary will
have to marry a prescription clerk, or a florist or something else out of the
classics. But, don’t lose heart, pater, I may be engaged before night. By-by.”
It was a vastly more solemn Whitney Barnes who strolled out of the office
of the mustard magnate and dragged his feet through the anteroom where
sat Marietta Featherington and Teddie O’Toole. The comely Miss
Featherington could scarcely believe what she saw from under her jutting
puffs.
This good looking, dandified young man, with his perpetual smile and
sparkling gray eyes had long been her conception of all that was noble and

cultured and aristocratic. He was her Viscount Reginald Vere de Vere,
speaking to her as from between yellow paper covers. He was her prince
incognito who fell in love with Lily, the Lovely Laundress. He had threaded
the mazes of more than one of her palpitating dreams, and in her innermost
heart of hearts she had cherished the fond belief that one day their orbs
would meet and their souls would rush together in such a head-on collision
as is sometimes referred to as love at first sight. But in Miss Featherington’s
hero worship gloom had no part. Her ideals never ceased to smile, whether
they slew or caressed, and perpetually they carried themselves with a jaunty26

swing or a dashing stride.
The fact that there had been storm mutterings within the awful cave of Old
Grim Barnes had never before had a depressing effect upon her hero. He
had always sallied forth with airy tread, humming a tune or laughing with
his eyes. What could have happened at this fateful meeting? Perhaps he had
been disinherited. Rapture of raptures, he had confessed his love for some
howling beauty of humble station, had been cut off with the inevitable
shilling and was now going forth to earn his bread.
Marietta Featherington’s heart came up and throbbed in her throat as
Whitney Barnes suddenly wheeled and confronted her. Leaning back upon
his cane, he looked at her––very, very solemnly.
“Miss Featherington,” he pronounced slowly, “I wish to ask you a question.
May I?”
Marietta was sure that her puffs were on fire, so fierce was the heat that
blazed under her fair skin. She concentrated all her mental forces in an
effort to summon an elegant reply. But all she could get out was a stifled:
“Sure thing.”
“Thank you, Miss Featherington,” said the young man. “My question is
this: Do you believe in soul mates? That is, do you, judging from what you
have observed and any experience you may have had, believe that true love
is controlled by the hand of Fate or that you yourself can take hold and27

guide your own footsteps in affairs of the heart?”
Teddie O’Toole had crammed “Deep Blood Gulch” into his hip pocket and
was grinning from ear to ear.

Miss Featherington was positive that her puffs were all ablaze. She could
almost smell them burning. She looked down and she looked up and she
drew a long, desperate sigh.
“I believe in Fate!” she said with emotion that would have done honor to
Sarah Bernhardt.
“Thank you, Miss Featherington,” said Whitney Barnes, with profound
respect, then turned on his heel and went out into the corridor of the great
office building.
Unconsciously he had dealt a ruthless blow and there is not a scintilla of
doubt but that he was responsible for the box on the ears that made Teddie
O’Toole’s head ring for the remainder of the day and thereby took all the
flavor from the thrills he had found in “Deep Blood Gulch.”

28

CHAPTER IV.
SMILES AND TEARS.

“Now there is no use in your arguing, Sadie––I love him and I have given
him my promise.”
The two cousins were alone again speeding up Fifth avenue in an
automobile, a long-bodied foreign car that had been put at the disposal of
Mrs. Burton by the New York agent of Mr. Hogg. The Omaha suitor for the
hand of the fair Helen had also thrown in a red-headed French chauffeur,
which is travelling a bit in the matter of chauffeurs. But as he understood
only automobile English it was a delightful arrangement for Helen and
Sadie, and permitted them absolute freedom of speech while riding behind
him.
“If I had only known him longer, or had been introduced to him
differently,” sighed Sadie.
“But haven’t I known all about him for years?” protested Helen Burton. “Of
course, we were only school girls when he made that wonderful rescue at
Narragansett Pier. Don’t you remember how we rushed down to the beach
to see him, but got there just too late? He had gone out to his yacht 29or
something. Oh, it was just splendid, Sadie. And he is so wonderfully modest
about it. Why, when I reminded him of his heroism he pretended to have
forgotten all about it. Just imagine Mr. Hogg forgetting a thing like that! Do
you know what Jabez Hogg would do under similar circumstances, Sadie
Burton? Well, I’ll tell you––he’d hire the biggest hall in Omaha and
reproduce the whole thing with moving pictures as an advertisement for his
beef canneries.”
The young girl had worked herself into a passion and was making savage
little gestures with her clenched fists.
“But what I can’t understand, Helen dear, is why a man like Travers
Gladwin should make such a mystery of himself and try to avoid

introducing you to his friends. I am sure,” persisted Sadie, despite the
gathering anger in her companion’s eyes, “that Aunt Elvira would not object
to him. You know she is just crazy to break into the swim here in New York,
and the Gladwins are the very best of people. I think it wouldn’t take much
to urge her even to throw over Mr. Hogg for Gladwin, if you’d only let her
take charge of the wedding.”
“Nothing of the sort,” denied Helen hotly. “Aunt Elvira is bound on her
solemn word of honor to Mr. Hogg. She will fight for him to the last ditch,
though she knows I hate him.”
“Don’t you think, Helen,” said the younger girl, more soberly, “that you are
30

simply trying to make yourself look at it that way? I know Mr. Hogg isn’t a
pretty man and he has an awful name, but”–––
“There is no but about it, Sadie Burton. I have given my word to Travers
Gladwin and I am going to elope with him to-night. I packed my trunk this
morning and gave the porter $10 to take it secretly to the Grand Central
Station. Travers told me just how to arrange it. Oh, there’s his house now,
Sadie; the big white one on the corner. It just thrills me to go by it. On our
way back from Riverside Drive we must stop there. I must leave word that
auntie insists on our going to the opera and that I won’t be able to get to
him at the time we agreed.”
“Oh, I do wish something would turn up and prevent it,” cried Sadie, almost
in tears.
“You horrid little thing!” retorted Helen. “It is dreadful of you to talk like
that when you know how much I care for him.”
“It isn’t that I don’t think you care for him,” returned Sadie with trembling
lip. “It’s something inside of me that warns me. All this secrecy frightens
me. I can’t understand why a man of Travers Gladwin’s wealth and social
position would want to do such a thing.”
“But we both have tried to tell you,” insisted Helen, “that there is an
important business reason for it.”
“He didn’t tell what that reason was,” persisted the tearfully stubborn
31

cousin. “You admitted he didn’t give you any definite reason at all.”

Helen Burton stamped her foot and bit her lip. By this time the big touring
car was gliding through the East Drive of Central Park with the swift,
noiseless motion that denotes the highest development of the modern motor
vehicle. Fully a mile of the curving roadway had slid under the wheels of
the car before Helen resumed the conversation with the sudden outburst:
“You don’t doubt for an instant, Sadie, that he is a gentleman!”
Sadie made no reply.
“His knowledge of painting and art is simply wonderful. At that art sale,
where we met, he knew every painting at a glance. He didn’t even have to
look for the signatures. You know, if it hadn’t been for him I would have
bought that awful imitation Fragonard and just thrown away two months of
my allowance. Sadie Burton, he is the cleverest man I ever met. He has
travelled everywhere and knows everything, and I love him, I love him, I
love him!” In proof of which the charming young woman burst into tears
and took refuge in her vast muff.
This sentimental explosion was too much for tender-hearted Sadie. She
gave way completely and swore not to breathe another word in opposition
to the elopement. And as she felt her beloved cousin’s body shaken with
sobs, she forced herself to go into ecstasies over Travers Gladwin’s manly32

beauty and god-like intellect. In her haste to soothe she went to extravagant
lengths and cried:
“And he must have looked heavenly in his bathing suit when he made that
wonderful rescue.”
Down fell Helen’s muff with as much of a crash as a muff could make and
she turned upon her companion the most profoundly shocked expression of
a bride-about-to-be.
“Sadie,” she reproved stiffly, “you have gone far enough.”
Whereupon it was Sadie’s turn to seek the sanctuary of tears.

33

CHAPTER V.
WHITNEY BARNES TELEPHONES TO THE RITZ.

Glancing up into the solemn face of an unusually good-looking young man
who wore his silk hat at a jaunty angle and whose every detail of attire
suggested that he was of that singularly blessed class who toil not neither do
they spin, Miss Mamie McCorkle, public telephone operator in the tallest-
but-one skyscraper below the Fulton street dead line, expected to be asked
to look up some number in the telephone book and be generously rewarded
for the trifling exertion. It wasn’t any wonder, then, that she broke the
connections of two captains of industry and one get-rich-quick millionaire
when this was what she got:
“Suppose, my dear young lady, that you had a premonition––a hunch, I
might say––that you were destined this current day of the calendar week to
meet your Kismet in petticoats, wouldn’t it make you feel a bit hollow
inside and justify you in taking your first drink before your customary hour
for absorbing the same?”
Usually a live wire at repartee, Mamie McCorkle was stumped. With a
captain of industry swearing in each ear and the get-rich-quick millionaire 34

trying to break in with his more artistic specialties in profanity, she was for
a moment frozen into silence. When she did come to the surface, she set the
captains of industry down where they belonged, retorted upon the get-rich-
quick millionaire that he was no gentleman and she hoped he would inform
the manager she said so and then raised her eyebrows at the interrogator
who leaned against her desk.
“If that’s an invitation to lunch, No! I’m already dated,” she said. “If you’re
trying to kid me, ring off, the line is busy.”
“All of which,” said the young man, in the same slow, sober voice, “is sage
counsel for the frivolous. I am not. As you look like a very sensible young
woman, I put a sensible question to you. Perhaps my language was vague.

What I meant to convey was: do you think I would be justified in taking a
drink at this early hour of the day to brace me for the ordeal of falling in
love with an unknown affinity?”
“If your language is personal,” replied Miss McCorkle, with a sarcastic
laugh, “my advice is to take six drinks. I’m in love with a chauffeur.”
“Good,” said the young man, brightly, “and may I ask if it was a sudden or
a swift affair?”
“Swift,” snapped Miss McCorkle. “He ran over my stepmother, then
brought her home. I let him in. We were engaged next day. Here’s the ring,
one and one-half carats, white!––now, what number do you want?”
“A thousand thanks––get me the Ritz-Carlton, please, and don’t break this
35

ten-dollar bill. I hate change, it spoils the set of one’s pockets.”
As Whitney Barnes squeezed himself into the booth, Miss McCorkle
squinted one eye at the crisp bill he had laid before her and smiled.
“There’s more than one way,” she thought, “of being asked not to listen to
dove talk, and I like this method best.”
The shrewd hello girl, however, had erred in the case of Whitney Barnes,
for this is the way his end of the conversation in booth No. 7 ran:
––This the Ritz? Yes. Kindly connect me with Mr. Smith.
––What Smith? Newest one you got. Forget the first name. Thomas Smith,
you say. Well, give me Tom.
––Hello, there, Trav––that is, Tom, or do you prefer Thomas?
––What’s that? Came in by way of Boston on a Cunarder? What’s all the
row? Read you were in Egypt, doing the pyramids.
––Can’t explain over the wire, eh. Hope it isn’t a divorce case; they’re
beastly.
––Ought to know you better than that. Say, what’s the matter with your little
angora?
––Be serious; it’s no joking matter. Well, if it wasn’t serious how could I
joke about it? You can’t joke about a joke.

––I’m a fool! I wonder where I heard that before. Oh, yes––a few minutes
36

ago. My paternal parent said the same thing.
––Can I meet you at your house? Where is it? I ought to know? I don’t see
why, you keep building it over all the time and then go way and leave it for
two years at a stretch. Then when you do come home you go and live under
the–––
––Cut that out! My glory, but there is a mystery here.
––Certainly, I don’t want to spoil everything.
––Have I an engagement? I should say I have. Just you call up Joshua
Barnes and ask for the dope on it––a whole flock of engagements bunched
into one large contract, the biggest I ever tackled.
––No, I guess it won’t prevent me from meeting you. Not unless I happen to
see her on the way uptown.
––Blessed if I know her any more than you. Wish I did, but whoever she is
she’s got to be pretty awful horrible nice.
––Have I been drinking? No; but you better have one ready for me. Seen
any of the chaps at the club? What’s that? You gave it a wide berth. This is
beginning to sound like a detective novel or a breach of promise case.
––You don’t tell me. Really, I’d never looked at myself in that light before.
Sure, I’m stuck on myself. Head over heels in love with myself. I’m a
classy little party, I am, and you better make the best of me while I’m here.
37

Where am I going? Nowhere in particular. Just going to merge my
individuality, bite a chunk out of an apple and get kicked out of the Garden
of Eden.
––Now you’re sure I’m piffled. No such luck. Trav––that is, Mr. Smith––
Mr. Thomas Smith! Shall I ask for Smith when I drop up at that little marble
palace of yours? No. Oh, Bateato will be there if you happen to be delayed.
How is the little son of Nippon? Oh, that’s good. Five sharp. Tata, Smitty,
old chap. By Jove, he’s rung off with a curse–––

38

CHAPTER VI.
OFFICER 666 ON PATROL.

Michael Phelan had been two years on the force and considered himself a
very fly young man. He had lost something of his romantic outline during
the six months he pounded the Third avenue pave past two breweries and
four saloons to a block, and it was at his own request, made through his
mother’s second cousin, District Leader McNaught, that he had been
provided with a saloonless beat on Fifth avenue.
A certain blue-eyed, raven-haired nursemaid, who fed a tiny millionaire
with a solid gold spoon and trundled an imported perambulator along the
east walk of Central Park, may have had something to do with Patrolman
Phelan’s choice of beat, but he failed to mention the fact to his mother. He
laid it all on the breweries and the temptations they offered.
Humble as was Michael Phelan’s station on the force, he was already
famous from the wooded wastes of Staten Island to the wilds of the Bronx.
Even the graven-featured chief inspector permitted himself to smile when
the name of Michael Phelan was mentioned.
He was a fresh, rosy-cheeked, greener-than-grass probationary cop when
39

fame came to him all in one clap and awoke a thunderous roll of laughter
throughout the city.
It was his first detail on the lower east side in the precinct commanded from
the Eldridge street station. The time was July and the day was a broiler. He
was sitting in the reserve room playing dominoes with the doorman and
mopping his forehead with a green bandana when the captain sent for him.
“Phelan,” said the captain shortly, “there’s a lady dead without a doctor at
311 Essex street, three flights up, rear. They’ve told the Coroner’s Office,
but all the Coroners are busy. The corpse is a lone widow lady with no kin,
so you go up and take charge and wait for the Coroner.”

Officer 666 tipped his cap with military salute and set out. Turning the
corner into Essex street, he met plain-clothes man Tim Feeney, who stopped
him and asked him where he was bound. Michael Phelan explained and
then said:
“Tim, if you don’t mind, will you give me a tip? What do I do when I get up
to that flat, and how long will I have to wait?”
“You’ll have to wait, Mike,” replied Tim Feeney, “till the Coroner gets good
and ready to come. When you get to the flat don’t knock; walk right in.
Then sit down by the bed and wait. Be sure you keep the door shut and let
no soul in till the Coroner arrives.”
“It’ll be powerful hot and I’m perishing o’ thirst now,” said Mike. 40

“Take off your coat,” said Tim, “and send a kid for a can of beer. When you
hear the Coroner comin’ slip the can under the bed.”
Tim Feeney went on his way with his hand over his mouth.
Patrolman Phelan had missed the twinkle in Tim Feeney’s eye and a few
minutes later found him sitting beside a bed with his coat off and a foaming
can on the floor by his chair. On his way up the steep, narrow staircases he
had met a boy and sent him for the liquid refreshment. He had instructed the
lad where to deliver the beer and had gone quietly in to his unpleasant vigil.
The door he opened led directly into the bedroom. He had glanced once at
the bed and then looked away with a shudder. Perspiration fairly cascaded
down his flaming cheeks as he tiptoed to a chair and placed it beside the
bed. He placed his chair at a slight angle away from the bed and then fixed
his eyes on the opposite wall. When he heard the tread of the boy in the hall
he made a pussy-footed dash for the door, took in the growler, shut the boy
out and buried his face in the froth. He was in better heart, but still mighty
uneasy when he wiped his mouth on the back of his fist.
Somewhere in the flat a clock ticked dismally. Through two small open
windows puffed superheated gusts of air. The muffled clamor of many 41

voices in strange tongues sifted through the windows and walls, but served
only to increase the awful stillness in the room. Despite his efforts to the
contrary, Phelan stole a glance at the bed, then looked away while his heart
stopped beating. There was a naked foot where he had seen only a sheet
before.

“Mebbe the wind blew it off,” he tried to tell himself, but something inside
him rejected the explanation and he felt an icy finger drawn up and down
his spine. Again he plunged his head into the capacious can and succeeded
in reviving his heart action.
More minutes of dreadful suspense passed. A leaden silence had filled the
sweltering room. Even the voices of the tenements had died away to a
funereal murmur. Battle as he did with all his will, Phelan’s eyes were again
drawn from their fixed gaze upon the wall, and what he saw this time
induced a strangling sensation.
Three toes had distinctly wiggled.
He withdrew his eyes on the instant and his shaking hand reached down for
the can. His fingers had barely touched it when an awful shriek rent the air.
The shriek came from the bed, and it was followed by a second yell and
then by a third.
Michael Phelan did not open the door as he passed out. It was not a very
strong door and it went down like cardboard before the impact. The third
shriek awoke the echoes just as Officer 666 was coasting down the stairs 42
on
the seat of his departmental trousers. His departmental coat and his
departmental hat were in no way connected with his precipitate transit. A
raging Polish woman brought these details of Michael’s uniform to the
Eldridge street station a little later. Likewise she prefered charges against
Phelan that come under the heading of “conduct unbecoming an officer and
a gentleman.”
It was a tremendous trial, in the course of which the Deputy Police
Commissioner who sat in judgment barely missed having a serious stroke.
It was adduced in evidence that Officer 666 had entered the wrong flat, the
Coroner’s case being one flight up.
But while the whole town rocked with laughter Michael Phelan failed to see
the joke, and his hatred of Precinct Detective Tim Feeney never cooled.
That he got off with a light sentence of one day’s fine did not in the least
improve his humor. He knew he was a marked man from that day, and it
was all his mother could do to urge him to stay on the force.
In the course of time, however, the sting had worn off and the young
patrolman learned to smile again. His hollow cheeks had filled out

amazingly during the period of the brewery beat and on that late autumn
day when he stepped into the pages of this narrative he looked mighty good,
not only to the raven-haired Rosalind O’Neill but to a host of other pretty
nursemaids who were wheeling their aristocratic little charges up and down
The Avenue.
Nor was Michael Phelan at all unconscious of this as he sauntered along the
43

broad pavement and gracefully twirled his baton. His chest jutted out like
the breast of a pouter pigeon and he wore the solemnly self-conscious
expression of a peacock on parade.
When he came to the great white square mansion of Travers Gladwin, he
paused and studied it shrewdly with his eye. It was one of the most
important functions of his patrol to study the fronts of all unoccupied
dwellings and see that every window was down and every door was closed.
First he looked into the areaway of the Gladwin home and then his eye
travelled up the wide balustraded stoop to the ornamental bronze doors.
“What’s this!” he gasped in astonishment. “Sure, I read in the papers on’y
this morning that Travers Gladwin was in Agypt. ’Tis a bold thafe who’ll go
in the front door in broad day, so here’s where Mary Phelan’s son makes the
grand pinch he’s been dreamin’ on this six months back and gets his picture
in the papers.”

44

CHAPTER VII.
THE LITTLE BROWN JAP.

Patrolman Phelan wrapped his sinewy fist about the handle of his club with
a vicious grip as he proceeded cautiously up the steps. The heavy bronze
door had been left ajar, and he squeezed through without opening it further,
then paused in the vestibule and listened. What he heard seemed no more
than the tread of a spider, and the thought rushed into his head:
“’Tis one of that felt-soled kind. ’Tis tip-toes for Phelan.”
He had noted that even the inside door was open, and he swiftly divined
from this that the thief had left it open for his own convenience or for some
other purpose connected with the mysteries of burglar alarms. Inch by inch
the policeman moved across the vestibule and wriggled through the door
into the richly carpeted hallway.
It was with a distinct sense of relief that he felt his heavy boots sink
noiselessly into the deep ply of a precious Daghestan rug. One of Phelan’s
boots had a bad creak in it, and he knew that the master crook who would
45

attempt such a robbery as this would have an acute sense of hearing.
It was dark as a pocket down the stretch of the heavily curtained foyer, save
for a meagre shaft of light that came through a slightly parted pair of
portières to the left and not a dozen feet from where he stood. He strained
his ear toward this shaft of light until there came an unmistakable swish of
sound, whereupon he moved forward in short, gliding steps.
When he reached the break in the portières and looked in he was astonished
to see a short little man with shiny black hair deftly removing the linen
covers from chairs and tables and statuary. The little man had his back to
Phelan as the policeman stepped inside, but he turned in a flash and
confronted the intruder with the peculiar glazed grimness of the Japanese.
“Well, what matter?” ripped out the little Jap, without moving a muscle.

“That’s what I come to find out,” retorted Phelan, with accusing severity of
tone.
“How you get in here?” retorted the Jap in the same sharp, emotionless
tones.
“I saw ye snakin’ in an’ ye didn’t latch the door after yez,” blurted Phelan,
taking a step nearer the Jap and still watching him with profound suspicion.
“What you want?” asked the Jap with a slight tremor of apprehension.
“Information!” cried Phelan. “What are yez doin’ in here?” Phelan’s eye46

swept the room for some evidence of an attempt to despoil. Though he saw
none he did not relinquish his attitude of suspicion. The Jap seemed about
to speak and then stopped. As Phelan continued to glower at him, he
snapped out:
“I no can tell.”
Triumph blazed in Phelan’s eyes. Now he was sure he had a thief and he
determined to handle the situation with all the majesty of his official person.
“So yez can’t tell what yez’re doin’ in this house,” he said with fine
sarcasm.
The Jap shook his head emphatically and returned a positive, “No tell!”
Phelan balanced his club for a moment and strode toward the Jap.
“Yez better come with me,” he said through compressed lips.
The Jap started back with a frightened exclamation.
“You no take me to jail?” he uttered, while his yellow features twitched
with fear.
“In a minute,” replied the elated officer, “if yez don’t tell me what yez’re
doin’ here. I’ve been lookin’ out for this place while Mr. Gladwin was in
foreign parts, and”–––
“You know Mr. Gladwin?” broke in the Jap, excitedly.
“No, I ain’t never seen him,” said Phelan, “but I know this is his house an’
47
I
been keepin’ my eye on it fer him.”
“Mr. Gladwin––he my boss!” and the Jap grinned from ear to ear.

This solution of the mystery never entered the policeman’s head and he
resented the surprise.
“Do yez mean yez’re his valley?” he asked vindictively, refusing to
relinquish his suspicion.
“Ees!” and again the Jap grinned.
Phelan read the grin as a distinct insult to his intelligence and he pounced
upon the little brown man in an even more caustic tone:
“If yez’re are Mr. Gladwin’s valley, what are ye doin’ here an’ him
thousands o’ miles away across the ocean in Agypt an’ Jerusalem an’ the
like?”
Now it was Phelan’s turn to grin as he saw the Jap shrink and turn upon him
a pair of wildly alarmed eyes.
“Come! Come! I’m waitin’ fer an answer,” The cat had his mouse backed
into a corner and mentally licked his chops.
“I no can tell,” stammered the Jap, desperately.
“That’s enough!” ripped out Officer 666, grabbing the Jap by the shoulder
and yanking him toward the doorway.
“No––no––wait!” gasped the struggling prisoner. “You no say if I tell you,
plees?”
“Tell me first,” grunted Phelan, releasing his grip.
The Jap ducked his head in every direction as if fearful that the walls had
48

ears, then said in an impressive whisper:
“My boss––Mr. Gladwin––home!”
“Misther Gladwin home! Here in New York!” There was both incredulity
and amazement in Phelan’s voice.
“Ees!” bleated the Jap and his grin returned.
“Well, why didn’t you say so before?” said Phelan angrily, at which the
fidgety little brown son of Nippon hastened to explain:
“No one should know. He come all in much secret. He go boat to Boston.
No use name. No one know he Mr. Gladwin. He say, ‘Bateato’––me

Bateato––‘Bateato,’ he say, ‘no tell I come home––sure,’ he say, and
Bateato he no tell.”
Officer Phelan yielded to the grip of the mystery and his attitude toward the
Jap changed.
“What did he want to snake home that away fer?”
“I no know,” nodded Bateato.
“Yez no know, eh? Well, is he comin’ here?––do yez no know that?”
“He tell me––come here and wait––feex thees room––he come here or
telephone.”
The straightforward manner of the little Jap had almost completely
disarmed the policeman’s suspicion, but he surrendered reluctantly.
“Did he give yez a key to get in here?” Phelan fired as his last shot.
“Ees––he give me all bunch keys––look!” and Bateato produced a gold key 49

ring with a gold tag and a number of keys attached. Phelan examined it and
read aloud the name Travers Gladwin engraved on the tag. Handing them
back to the Jap, he addressed him impressively, gesturing his emphasis with
his baton:
“I guess yez’re all right, but I’ll have me eye on yez from the outside, mind
that––and if yez’re foolin’ me or tryin’ to get away with anythin’”–––
Phelan snapped his lips together and with a mighty lunge plucked an
imaginary prisoner out of the atmosphere and shook it ferociously. Then
stepping back to the doorway he shut one eye with a fierce wink and jerked
out:
“Are yez wise?”
The profound pantomime was too much for Bateato, who stared after the
vanishing officer in open-mouthed amazement.

50

CHAPTER VIII.
ART, MYSTERY AND LOVE.

The little Jap was still posed in an attitude of bewilderment as the two
outside doors slammed and Officer 666 went down the front steps to resume
the tread of his beat and the breaking of fragile hearts.
When he did emerge from his trance he returned to the task of getting the
great room in order with the same snappy energy he had displayed when the
uniformed minion of the law broke in upon him. He had removed the
covers from the chairs and was dusting off a great carved chest that stood
against the wall to the right of the doorway when the door bell rang. Bateato
jumped and then waited for a second ring. Stepping warily out into the
hallway, he looked to see if it was the grim official in blue and buttons.
“Ha!” he exclaimed. “No more police,” and he shot to the door and opened
it for that debonnair young gentleman who was one day to inherit the
mustard millions of Old Grim Barnes.
“Hello there, Bateato,” Whitney Barnes greeted the little Jap cordially. “Did
your master show up yet?”
“He no come,” grinned Bateato, shutting the door and leading the way into
51

the room he had been preparing for his master’s arrival. As Whitney Barnes
stepped into the room the Jap asked:
“’Scuse me, Mr. Barnes––you see Mr. Gladwin?”
“No, nor his double, Thomas Smith of the Ritz; but he asked me to meet
him here at 5 o’clock, Bateato.”
“Ees sair!” lisped the Jap, with a bob of the head; then dived back to his
occupation of making the long deserted room look presentable.
As Bateato followed his master’s friend into the room he switched on the
full glare of electric lights that depended from the ceiling or blazed through

the shades of many lamps. Whitney Barnes blinked for a moment, and then
started as his gaze was directed to the walls hung with masterpieces.
The work of Rubens, Rembrandt, Coret, Meissonier, Lely, Cazzin, Vegas,
Fragonard, Reynolds and a score others of the world’s greatest masters
leaped across his vision as he turned from wall to wall, revolving on his
heel.
“Whew!” he ejaculated. “I didn’t know that Travers went in for this sort of
thing. He certainly is the secretive little oyster when he wants to be.”
Still studying the portraits and landscapes and allegorical groups, he voiced
to Bateato a sudden thought.
“By the way, Bateato, do you know what it was that brought your master
back in this strange fashion and the reason for all this secrecy?”
“No, sair,” responded the Jap. 52

“Well, it’s damned peculiar!” muttered the young man to himself, and
proceeded on a tour about the room to examine more closely its wealth of
art treasure. He had been engaged in this way about five minutes when the
door bell rang and Bateato cried:
“Here Mr. Gladwin now.”
“How do you know that Bateato?” quizzed the young man absently, his
attention being gripped by a stunning aphrodite rising from the sea in a
glory of nudity and rainbows.
The Jap paused a second on his way to the door, and replied:
“’Cause no one know he home but Mr. Barnes. Thees house close up much
long time and Mr. Gladwin make papers say he in Egypt.”
In the same breath in which he maximed this volley of words the little Jap
projectiled himself from the room.
“His deductions are marvellous,” said Whitney Barnes, solemnly addressing
a bronze bust of Philip of Macedon. He turned in time to meet the brisk
entrance of Travers Gladwin, alias Thomas Smith of the Ritz.
The two shook hands warmly and looked into each other’s faces with
quizzical smiles. They were about of an age, both unusually good looking

and bearing themselves with that breezy, confident manner that is
characteristic of young men who have been coddled in swan’s-down all
their lives.
“Well, well, well, Travers!” 53

“Hello, Whitney, old boy!”
The greeting sprang from their lips simultaneously, and after he had tossed
his hat and cane to his valet Travers Gladwin continued:
“Didn’t expect to see me so soon, did you, old scout?”
“I should say I didn’t. Why, when I got that telegram of yours to call up
Thomas Smith at the Ritz it certainly was some jar to my delicate nervous
system.”
Travers Gladwin laughed and rubbed his hands.
“Did it, though?” he cried. “Gave you a real thrill, eh?”
“Exact and specific––a real thrill.”
“Well, you’re lucky––a surprise and a thrill. I’d give anything for a real
surprise––I’ve hunted this little planet’s four corners for one and failed to
connect.”
“If you can’t achieve ’em you seem to be in the business of manufacturing
’em. Come along now, what’s all this thundering mystery. I’m shot to pieces
with curiosity. What’s happened to make you come home like this?”
“Watkins!” replied Travers Gladwin curtly.
“Watkins! What Watkins? Who’s Watkins?”
“Watkins is my man––I mean, Watkins was my man before I found out that
he was systematically robbing me.”
“Oh, I remember now. A jolly good servant, though. So he robbed you, did
54

he? But they all do.”
“Yes, but they don’t always get found out––caught with the goods, as the
police say. I caught Watkins with the goods and sacked him.”
“But you don’t mean to tell me that you came kiting home from the
pyramids and the lovely Sahara desert just because this chap Watkins was

dishonest?” said Whitney Barnes, in tones of incredulity.
“No, Whitney,” replied Gladwin, dropping into a chair and puckering his
forehead with a frown. “Watkins was only the start of it. I got rid of him six
months ago. But while I was on my way to Egypt I learned that Watkins and
my lawyer had been in some sort of a secret correspondence before I gave
Watkins the bounce.”
“What lawyer? Not ‘Old Reliable’ Forbes? Why, I thought he wore a
certified halo.”
“So did I, but I’ve got news to the contrary, and you know he has charge of
everything for me––keeps all my securities––has a power of attorney––
signs checks and all that.”
“That sounds bad,” said Whitney Barnes, sympathetically. “The old saint
could come pretty close to ruining you.”
“Now you’ve hit it,” assented Gladwin. “So I’ve come home to
investigate––sleuthing expedition, you might say. Didn’t want him to hear I
was coming and climb out. Now you’ve got the answer to the gumshoe 55

riddle. My plan is to lie low and have you look him up. Nothing else on
foot, Whitney? Haven’t gone into mustard or Wall street, have you?”
It was Whitney Barnes’s turn to construct a frown and take on an air of
intense seriousness, while his friend smiled at him, thinking it was one of
his humorous moods.
“Can’t say I have anything definite on foot,” said Barnes slowly, “but the
pater has given me a rather important commission to fulfil, though not
exactly in mustard.”
“Well, then,” said Travers Gladwin with a trace of annoyance, “I’d better
call on somebody else. I”––
“Nothing of the sort,” broke in Whitney Barnes. “It may fit right in with my
plans. It’ll keep me circulating round a lot and that’s just what I want––that
and what Bateato is bringing,” as the little brown man entered the room on
the run, bearing a silver tray, decanter and glasses.

56

CHAPTER IX.
THE CURSE OF MILLIONS.

As Travers Gladwin’s valet filled the tall, slim glasses with the fizzing
amber-colored fluid which constitutes the great American highball, the two
friends stretched their legs and lost themselves for a few moments in
aimless reverie. Bateato looked from one to the other, puzzled by their
seriousness. He clinked the glasses to rouse them and glided from the room.
Whitney Barnes was the first to look up and shake himself free of the sober
spell that gripped him.
“What the deuce made you skip abroad in such a hurry, Travers?” he asked,
reaching for his glass.
Travers Gladwin sat up with a start, pulled a lugubrious smile and replied:
“Bored to death––nothing interested me––living the most commonplace,
humdrum, unromantic existence imaginable. Teas and dances, dances and
teas, clubs and theatres, theatres and clubs, motors and yachts, yachts and
motors. It was horrible, and I can’t help thinking it was all my dear old
governor’s fault. He had no consideration for me.”
“He left you a tidy lot of millions,” drawled Whitney Barnes. 57

Young Gladwin drained his glass, jumped to his feet and began to pace the
room, hands deep in his trousers pockets.
“That was just it!” he flung out. “If he’d left me nothing but a shilling or
two there’d be some joy in living. I’d have had to buckle down. There’s
variety, interest, pleasure in having to make your own way in the world.”
Whitney Barnes laughed mockingly.
“Go out and tell that to the toiling masses,” he chuckled, “and listen to them
give you the ha-ha. You’re in a bad way, old chap––better see a brain
specialist.”

“I know I’m in a bad way,” Gladwin ran on fiercely, “but doctors can’t do
me any good. It was all right while I was a frolicking lamb, but after I got
over the age of thinking myself a devil of a fellow things began to grow
tame. I was romantic, sentimental––wanted to fall in love.”
“Now you interest me,” Whitney Barnes interjected, stiffening to attention.
“Yes, I wanted to fall in love, Whitney, but I couldn’t get it out of my head
that every girl I met had her eye on my fortune and not on me. And if it
wasn’t the girl it was her mother, and mothers, that is mothers-in-law-to-be
or mothers-that-want-to-be-in-law or––what the deuce do I mean?”
“I get you, Steve––they’re awful. Go on.” 58

“Well, I gave it up––the hunt for the right girl.”
“The dickens you say! I wish you hadn’t told me that.”
“And I went in for art,” Gladwin raced on, carried breathlessly on the tide
of his emotions and ignoring his friend’s observations. “I went in for these
things on the walls, statuary, ceramics, rugs, and tapestries.”
“You’ve got a mighty fine collection,” struck in Barnes.
“Yes, but I soon got tired of art––I still hungered for romance. I went
abroad to find it. I said to myself, ‘If there’s a real thrill anywhere on this
earth for a poor millionaire, I’ll try and find it––make a thorough search. It
wasn’t any use. Every country I went to was the same. All I could find were
things my money could buy and all those things have long ceased to interest
me. There was only once in all the years I’ve been craving a romance”–––
“Hold up there, Travers Gladwin, you’re talking like Methusaleh. You’ve
been of age only a few years.”
“Seems centuries, but as I started to say––there was only once. Two years
ago in a trolley car, right here in the midst of this heartless city. Seated
opposite me was a girl––a blonde––most beautiful hair you ever saw. No
use my trying to describe her eyes, clearest, bluest and keep right on piling
up the superlatives––peaches and cream complexion with a transparent 59

down on it, dimples and all that sort of thing. You know the kind––a
goddess every inch of her. Her clothes were poor and I knew by that she
was honest.”

The young man paused and gazed rapturously into space.
“Go on; go on,” urged Barnes. “Poor but honest.”
“I caught her eye once and my heart thumped––could feel it beating against
my cigarette case.”
“That’s the real soul-mate stuff; go on!” cried Barnes.
“Well, she got off at one of the big shops. I followed. She went in one of the
employees’ entrances. She worked there––I could see that.”
“And did you wait for her to go out to lunch?”
“No, I had an engagement. Next day I caught that same car, but she was not
on it. I kept on trying and the fourth day she was on the car, looking lovelier
than ever. When she got off the car I got off. I stepped up and raised my hat.
“‘Forgive me for approaching you in this impertinent manner,’ I said, ‘but I
would like to introduce myself,’ and I handed her my card.”
The youthful head of the house of Gladwin stopped abruptly and slid
listlessly into a chair.
“I demand to hear what she replied,” insisted Barnes.
“It wasn’t just what she said,” mused Gladwin, “though that was bad 60

enough, but it was the way she said it. These were her exact words, ‘Go on,
yer fresh slob, an’ sneak yer biscuits!’ How does that suit you for exploding
a romance?”
“Blown to powder and bits,” murmured Whitney Barnes, sombrely. “Sorry
you told me this––never mind why––but there’s one thing I’ve been
wanting to ask you for a long time: How about that girl you rescued from
drowning four years ago? I remember it made you quite famous at the time.
According to all standards of romance, you should have married her.”
Travers Gladwin looked up with a wry smile.
“Did you ever see the lady?” he asked sharply.
“No. Wasn’t she pretty?”
“She was a brunette.”
“You don’t fancy brunettes?”

“She was a dark brunette.”
“Dark?”
“Yes, from Africa.”
“That was tough luck!” exclaimed Barnes without cracking a smile.

61

CHAPTER X.
THE HEARTBEATS OF MR. HOGG.

In a magnificently furnished apartment on Madison avenue, which Mrs.
Elvira Burton had rented for New York’s winter season, that augustly
beautiful or beautifully august lady sat writing. I may say that she was
writing grimly and that there was Jovian determination stamped upon her
high, broad forehead and indented at the corners of her tense lips.
She had just returned from a consultation with two matrons of the same
stern fibre as herself. No group of gray-bearded physicians had ever
weighed the fate of a patient with more attention to pathological detail than
had Mrs. Burton and her two friends weighed the fate of Helen Burton, but
whereas it rarely happens that pork is prescribed in a delicate case, the
result of that petticoated conclave was that Hogg was prescribed for the
flower-like ward of the leader of Omaha’s socially elect.
While Mrs. Burton had done most of the talking, her two friends who had
broken into New York’s next-to-the-top layer of society by means of the
hyphens with which they coupled the names of their first and second 62

husbands; her two friends, I say, had managed to wedge in a word or two––
all in favor of Jabez Hogg.
The guardian of the two prettiest girls who had ever debutanted in the
Nebraska metropolis emerged from that conference on fire with resolve.
She would marry Helen to Mr. Hogg, thus link together the Hogg and
Burton millions and thereby create an alliance that would take its place
beside any in the country in the matter of bank account.
So confident was she of the power of her will that she did not even remove
her wraps before she sat down to answer Jabez Hogg’s letter. Nor did she
bother to ask her maid if Helen and Sadie had returned from their ride. She
did not care to discuss the matter with them. She had decided. It remained
only for weaker wills to yield.

Beginning with a regal flourish of the pen, she wrote:
“My Dear Mr. Hogg: I received this morning your courteous note, begging me to
persuade Helen to give you a final answer. It pains me deeply that you should suffer so
from her neglect––after all your kindness. I trust that you will forgive it on the score of her
youth. She is very young and her head has been turned with too much flattery. She shall be
yours––that I can promise you. When you come on for your annual slaughter-house
directors’ meeting you may bring the ring. I have already given the order for the engraving 63
of the engagement announcements, and I will arrange to give a reception and dance for
Helen at the Plaza. I do not know how to thank you for putting your French car at our
disposal. It has saved us a great deal of annoyance and bother. Helen has spoken often of
your thoughtfulness”–––

Mrs. Burton stayed her flying pen and grimly read the last sentence aloud. It
was not the strict truth, as she was writing it. Helen had spoken frequently
of the convenience of the car, but she had added that she could never ride in
it without feeling that she was going to run over a pig and hear it squeal.
Mrs. Burton did not waver for more than an instant, however. In a way of
speaking she gripped her conscience by the neck, strangled it, and threw it
into the discard. Then she continued with her letter:
“I have been looking at houses on the avenue and would suggest that you try and negotiate
for the Gladwin mansion. The owner lives abroad, and while it is not in the market I am
advised that the young man would be glad to get rid of it. He is said to be living a fast life
in Paris, and while he was left a great fortune he would probably be glad to get the ready
money. I know of no finer home in New York for you to settle down in after your
honeymoon.
“Thanking you again for your constant thoughtfulness and hoping that you will now banish 64
every doubt from your mind, I remain,
“Faithfully yours,
“Elvira Burton.”

The smile with which Mrs. Burton sealed this letter and delivered it to her
maid was more than a smile of triumph. It was a positively fiendish smile of
victory.

65

CHAPTER XI.
GAINSBOROUGH “BLUE BOY.”

Having discounted the romantic element of his thrilling rescue at
Narragansett Pier, Travers Gladwin fell into a moody silence. The more
volatile Barnes felt the influence and strove to fight it off. While he, too,
had been set upon the trail of romance at the behest of his father, he felt it
was too early to indulge in pessimistic reveries, so he groped for another
subject with which to revive the interest of his friend.
“I say, Travers,” he led off, rising from his chair and indicating the walls
with a sweep of his hand, “as I remarked before, you’ve got a wonderful
collection here.”
“Yes,” assented the young millionaire without animation, “but, as I said
before, I soon got tired of it. The pastime of collecting pictures became a
burden, and I was glad to get abroad and forget it.”
“Well,” said Barnes, “I guess the only thing for you to do is to go to work at
something.”
“I know it,” grumbled Gladwin, “but what’s the incentive? I don’t want any
more money––what I have now is the biggest sort of a nuisance. Just see the
66

trouble I’m in for with my lawyer and that man Watkins, though to tell you
the truth I am beginning to enjoy the novelty of that.”
The young man got up and assumed a more lively expression.
“Do you know, Whitney,” he ran on, “this travelling incognito isn’t half
bad. They are really getting suspicious of me at the Ritz.”
“But surely some one there ought to know you.”
“Not a soul! It was opened while I was abroad. You know I registered as
Thomas Smith and I even took a chance and went down into the grill room
for lunch. And there, Whitney,” cried Gladwin with an explosive burst of

enthusiasm, “I nearly got a thrill––another one like that on the trolley car.
The last place you’d expect it, too, in the midst of stiff formality and waiters
so cold and haughty they might have risen from the dead.”
“I suppose this was the ravishing girl at the cigar counter?” said Barnes,
ironically.
“Nothing of the sort––never smoked a cigar in her life––I mean, that is,
well, something entirely different. But she was a beauty! Golden bronze
hair––Titian never painted anything like it; the bluest eyes behind the most
wonderful dark lashes, creamy white skin”–––
“And you followed her to a cloak factory, where you found”–––
“Please wait till I finish, Whitney. I followed her nowhere, though she
67

interested me tremendously. I wish you could have seen her eat.”
“Eat?”
“Particularly the grapefruit. By Jove, Barnes, that girl certainly loves
grapefruit! It was fascinating. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her.”
“And did she notice you?” quizzed Barnes, raising his eyebrows.
“She was too busy,” came the gloomy rejoinder. “I watched her steadily,
fairly bored her with my eyes––tried to will her to look at me. They say you
can do that, you know––mental telepathy, projecting thought waves or
something of the sort.”
“Oh, rot!” cried Barnes, impatiently. “I tried that on a dog once and I’ve got
the scar yet.”
“But I tell you, Whitney, it almost worked. After a time her eyelids began to
flutter and the roses in her cheeks bloomed darker. But just as I felt sure she
would look up and see me––splash! the grapefruit hit her in the eye!”
“What!” ejaculated Whitney Barnes, wheeling open-mouthed and facing his
friend.
“The juice, I mean,” Gladwin laughed ruefully, “and, of course, the spell
was broken. She never looked again. Dash it all, there’s some sort of a
lemon in all my romances!”

“You certainly do play in tough luck,” sympathized Barnes. “I can see that
you need bucking up, and I think I’ve got the right kind of remedy for you.
68

Wait, I’ll call Bateato.”
Whitney Barnes stepped briskly across the room and pressed a button. In a
twinkling the little Jap appeared.
“Bateato,” said Barnes, “has your master any hunting clothes at the hotel?”
“Ees, sair!” responded the Jap. “Plenty hotel––plenty house. We no time
pack all clothes––go sail too quick.”
“Plenty here––splendid!” enthused Barnes. “Pack a bag for him, Bateato,
this instant––enough things to last a couple of weeks.”
“What’s all this?” cut in Gladwin. “What are you going to do?”
“Never you mind,” retorted Barnes, importantly; “you do as I say,
Bateato––I’m going to show your master some excitement. He’ll never get
it here in town.”
“Ees, sair! I pack him queeck,” and Bateato vanished noiselessly, seemingly
to shoot through the doorway and up the broad staircase as if sucked up a
flue.
“But see here”–––objected Travers Gladwin.
“Not a word now,” his friend choked him off. “If you don’t like it you don’t
have to stay, but I’m going to take you in hand and show you a time you’re
not used to.”
“But I don’t”–––
“Don’t let’s argue about it,” said Barnes, lightly. “You called me in here69to
take charge of things and I’m taking charge. Just to change the subject, tell
me something about your paintings. This one, for instance––who is that
haughty looking old chap?”
Whitney Barnes had planted himself with legs spread wide apart in front of
one of the largest portraits in the room, a life-size painting of an aristocratic
looking old man who seemed on the point of strangling in his stock.
Travers Gladwin turned to the painting and said with an unmistakable note
of pride:

“The original Gladwin, my great-grandfather. Painted more than a hundred
years ago by Gilbert Stuart.”
“I guess you beat me, Travers––the original Barnes hadn’t discovered
mustard a hundred years ago. But I say, here’s a Gainsborough, ‘The Blue
Boy.’ By George! that’s a stunner! Worth a small fortune, I suppose.”
Whitney Barnes had crossed the room and stood before the most striking
looking portrait in the collection, a tall, handsome boy in a vividly blue
costume of the Gainsborough period.
The owner of “The Blue Boy” turned around, cast a fleeting glimpse at the
portrait and turned away with a peculiar grimace.
“You suppose wrong, Whitney,” he said, shortly. “That isn’t––so––
horribly––valuable.”
“What! A big painting like that, by a chap famous enough to have a hat
named after him.”
“That was just about the way it struck me at first,” answered Gladwin, “so70 I
begged two old gentlemen in London to let me have it. Persuaded them to
part with it for a mere five hundred pounds, on condition––close attention,
Whitney––that I keep the matter a secret. I was delighted with my
bargain––until I saw the original.”
“The original?”
“Ah ha! the original. It was quite a shock for me to come face to face with
that and realize that my ‘Blue Boy’ had a streak of yellow in him.”
“That sounds exciting,” cried Barnes. “What did you do? Put the case in the
hands of the police?”
“Not much,” denied Gladwin emphatically. “That would have given the
public a fine laugh. It deceived me, so I hung it up there to deceive others. It
got you, you see. But you are the only one I’ve let into the secret––don’t
repeat it, will you?”
“Never!” promised Barnes. “It’ll be too much of a lark to hear others rave
over it.”
“Thank you,” acknowledged the bitten collector, curtly.

Barnes wandered from “The Blue Boy” and signalled out another painting.
“Who painted this?” he asked.
“That’s a Veber––but do you know, Whitney, the more I think of it––there’s
something about that grapefruit girl, something gripping that”–––
“I like these two,” commented Barnes.
“There’s something different about her––something”––– 71

“Who is this by?” inquired Barnes, lost in admiration of a Meissonier.
“A blonde”–––
“What?”
“And very young, and I know her smile”–––
“Look here, Travers, what are these two worth?”
Gladwin volplaned to earth, climbed out of his sky chariot and was back in
the midst of his art treasures again.
“I beg your pardon,” he said hastily. “Which two?”
Barnes pointed to two of the smaller pictures.
“Guess,” suggested his host.
“Five thousand.”
“Multiply it by ten––then add something.”
“No, really.”
“Yes, really! That one on the left is a Rembrandt! and the other is a Corot!”
“My word; they’re corkers, eh!”
“Yes, when you know who painted them, and if you happen to have the eye
of a connoisseur.”
“And what in creation is this?” exclaimed Barnes, as he stumbled against
the great ornamental chest which stood against the wall just beneath the
Rembrandt and Corot.
“Oh, let’s get the exhibition over,” said Gladwin, peevishly. “That’s a
treasure chest. Cost me a barrel––picked it up in Egypt.”

“You never picked it up in your life,” retorted Barnes, grasping the great72

metal bound chest and striving vainly to lift it. “Anything in it?” he asked,
lifting the lid and answering himself in the negative.
“What’s the whole collection worth?” asked Barnes, as he returned to where
his friend was standing, gazing ruefully at “The Blue Boy.”
“Oh, half a million or more. I really never kept track.”
“Half a million! And you go abroad and leave all these things unguarded?
You certainly are fond of taking chances. It’s a marvel they haven’t been
stolen before now.”
“Nonsense,” said Gladwin. “I have a burglar alarm set here, and I’ll wager
there aren’t half a dozen persons who know the Gladwin collection is hung
in this house.”
“Just the same––but I say, Travers, there’s the door bell. Were you
expecting anybody else.”
Gladwin glanced about him nervously.
“No,” he said sharply. “On the contrary, I didn’t wish––what the deuce does
it mean?”
“It means some one is at the door.”

73

CHAPTER XII.
APPROACHING A WORLD OF MYSTERY.

Gaston Brielle, the strawberry blonde French chauffeur who piloted the big,
luxurious motor car Jabez Hogg of Omaha had placed at the service of Mrs.
Elvira Burton and her two charming young nieces, did not have his mind
entirely concentrated upon manipulating the wheel and throttle of the car as
he swung around Grant’s Tomb and sped southward down the Drive. While
his knowledge of English was confined to a few expletives of a profane
nature and the mystic jargon of the garage, he was nevertheless thrilled by
the belief that the two mademoiselles behind him were plotting some
mysterious enterprise.
From time to time they had unconsciously dropped their voices to the low
tones commonly used by conspirators, or at least that was the way Gaston
had sensed it. Along the silent roads of Central Park and Riverside Drive,
where even the taxis seemed to employ their mufflers and to resort less
frequently to the warning racket of their exhausts, the Frenchman had been
straining his ears to listen.
He had heard on two occasions what he divined as a manifest sob, first
74

when the emotional Sadie gave way to tears and again when Helen was
aggravated to a petulant outburst of grief.
Later when he heard bright laughter and gay exclamations he could hardly
believe his ears. He was profoundly troubled and completely bewildered––a
dangerous state of mind for a man who has the power of seventy horses
under the pressure of his thumb.
Nor was his mental turmoil in the least alleviated when, having turned south
and being on the point of coasting down a precipitous hill he felt a touch on
his shoulder and heard the elder of his two pretty passengers command him
in worse French than his own poor English to go slow when he turned into
Fifth avenue again and be prepared to stop.

Gaston knew that this was in direct violation of his orders from Mrs.
Burton, but when he saw a yellow-backed bill flutter down over his
shoulder his quick intelligence blazed with understanding. His first groping
suspicions had been justified. There was romance in the wind. Steering
easily with one hand, Gaston deftly seized the bill and caused it to vanish
somewhere in his great fur coat.
Sadie Burton had been horror-stricken at this bold proffer of a bribe.
Likewise she was alarmed that Helen should put so much trust in Gaston,
who seemed to be in mortal terror of her aunt and to quake all through his
body when he listened to her commands.
As Helen sank back beside her, after letting fall the bribe, the agitated Sadie
75

whispered tremulously:
“Are you sure you can trust him, Helen? If he should tell Auntie El she
would surely make you a prisoner. You will never get a chance to leave her
side at the opera to-night.”
“Gaston is a Frenchman, my dear,” laughed Helen, confidently, “and most
Frenchmen––even chauffeurs, I am sure––would cut their hearts out before
they would oppose a barrier to the course of true love.”
But Helen’s gayety did not communicate itself to Sadie. That shy miss
trembled apprehensively as she sought to picture herself in Helen’s place––
on the verge of an elopement. Not that such a prospect did not have its
alluring thrill even to such a shrinking maiden as the violet-eyed Sadie, but
her fear of her aunt seemed to crush and obliterate these titillating
sensations. As the car shot through Seventy-second street and headed for
the entrance to the West Drive of Central Park, she ventured another word
of caution.
“Wouldn’t it be better to send a messenger to Mr. Gladwin’s house, Helen?
Suppose we should run into somebody there who knew auntie?”
“You ridiculously little fraid-cat,” Helen caught her up. “Of course there’ll
be nobody there but Travers, or perhaps his man or some of the other
servants. He has good reason for keeping very quiet now and sees
absolutely nobody, not even––not even––not even his grandmother, if he
has one.”
76

“And didn’t he tell you whether or not he had a grandmother, Helen?”
gasped Sadie.
But Helen disdained to reply, her heart suddenly filling with rapture at the
prospect of an immediate meeting with her betrothed.

77

CHAPTER VIII.
TRAVERS GLADWIN GETS A THRILL.

A ring at the door bell should suggest to the ordinary mind that some person
or persons clamored for admission, but Whitney Barnes’s announcement
seemed to have difficulty in hammering its way into Travers Gladwin’s gray
matter and thence downward into the white matter of his brain cells.
“What is some one at the door for?” he asked vacuously.
“To see you, of course,” snapped Barnes.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the other with annoyance. “The house has been
closed for ages and you are the only one who knows I am home. Why I”–––
Bateato skimmed in, grinning like a full moon.
“Well, what is it?” his master asked, shortly,
“Two ladies, sair!”
“Two––that’s good!” chimed in Barnes. “They must have got a wireless that
I was here.”
“What do they want?” Gladwin addressed Bateato.
“You, sair,” replied the Jap. “They say you come to door one minute.”
“Two ladies to see me? Are you sure?” Travers Gladwin was both
78

bewildered and embarrassed.
“Ees, sair!” Bateato assured him.
“Did you tell them that I was here?”
“They no ask. They say, ‘Please, Mr. Gladwin come to door!’”
“Well, you tell them Mr. Gladwin is not at home––that I’m out, away––in
Egypt.”

“Ees, sair,” and Bateato was about to skim out into the hallway again when
Barnes stopped him.
“Wait a minute, Bateato––what do they look like?”
“Look nice, sair,” and Bateato’s moon-like grin returned in full beam.
“You’re sure?” asked Barnes, gravely.
“Oh, fine,” uttered the Jap, enthusiastically.
“Young?” inquired Barnes.
“Ees, sair––much young––come in autbile. I tell them you no home?”
turning to Gladwin.
“No, wait,” responded Gladwin, his curiosity taking fire. “You tell them to
come in.”
“They say you come door.”
“Very well,” but Whitney Barnes stopped him.
“Better see them in here, Travers. If they really want to see you they’ll
come in. Ask them to come in, Bateato.”
The little Jap was gone with the speed and noiselessness of a mouse.
“Who in heaven’s name can it be?” whispered Travers Gladwin as Bateato 79

could be heard lisping in the vestibule. Before Whitney Barnes managed to
frame a reply a swift, muffled step was audible and Helen Burton stood
framed in the narrow space between the portières. Her timid cousin stopped
behind her, staring timidly over her shoulder. She was manifestly surprised
and startled as she paused and regarded the two young men.
In point of startled surprise, however, Travers Gladwin’s emotion matched
hers. He stared at her almost rudely in his amazement and involuntarily he
turned to Whitney Barnes and said under his breath:
“The grapefruit girl!”
Whitney Barnes’s lips merely framed: “No! You don’t mean it!”
He was going to add something more, when the two girls came on into the
room diffidently and stood by the great carved table, close together, as if

prepared to cling to one another in case something extraordinary happened.
Travers Gladwin was the first of the two young men to come to their rescue.
“Pardon me! Did you wish to see me?” he said with his best bow.
“No,” replied Helen Burton quickly, her lips trembling; “we want to see Mr.
Gladwin, please.”
The young man did not recover instantly from this staggering jolt, and a
clock somewhere in the great hall nearby ticked a dozen strokes before he
managed to mumble:
“Well––er––I am”–– 80

“Isn’t he here?” broke in the brown-haired beauty, breathlessly. “His man
just asked us to come into this room to see him.”
“What Mr. Gladwin did you want?” asked that young man incoherently.
“Why, Mr. Travers Gladwin!” exclaimed the girl indignantly, the color
mantling to her forehead. “Is there more than one?”
“Well––er––that is,” the young man turned desperately to his friend, “do
you know Mr. Gladwin?”
“Do I know him?” cried Helen Burton, and then, with a hysterical little
laugh as she turned to her cousin, “I should think I did know him. I know
him very, very well.”
Sadie Burton appeared both distressed and frightened and slipped limply
down into one of the great chairs beside her. As Travers Gladwin’s features
passed through a series of vacant and bewildered expressions and as the
attention of Whitney Barnes seemed to be focussed with strange intensity
upon the prettiness of the shy and silent Sadie, anger flashed in Helen’s
expressive eyes as she again addressed the young man, who felt as if some
mysterious force had just robbed him of his identity.
“You don’t suppose,” she said, drawing herself to the full height of her
graceful figure, “that I would come here to see Travers Gladwin if I didn’t
know him, do you?”
“No, no, no––of course not!” sputtered the young man. “It was stupid of me
81

to ask such a question. Please forgive me. I––er”––

Helen turned from him as if to speak to Sadie, who sat with erect primness
suffering from what she sensed as a strange and overpowering stroke. She
had permitted herself to look straight into the eyes of Whitney Barnes and
hold the look for a long, palpitating second.
While Sadie was groping in her mind for some explanation of the strange
thrill, Whitney Barnes had flung himself headlong into a new sensation and
was determined to make the most of it, so when Travers Gladwin turned to
him and asked:
“I rather think Gladwin’s gone out, don’t you?” Barnes nodded and
answered positively:
“He was here only a few minutes ago.”
This reply drew Helen’s attention immediately to Barnes and taking a step
forward she said eagerly:
“Oh, I hope he’s here. You see, it’s awfully important––what I want to see
him about.”
Whitney Barnes nodded with extraordinary animation and turning to
Gladwin impaled that young man with the query:
“Why don’t you find out if he’s in?”
While Gladwin had come up for air he was still partially drowned. Turning
to Helen Burton, he forced an agreeable smile and said hurriedly:
“Yes, if you’ll excuse me a moment I’ll see, but may I give him your
name?”
It was Helen’s turn to recoil and stepping to where Sadie had at last got
82

upon her feet, she whispered:
“Shall I tell him? They both act so strangely.”
“Oh, no, Helen, dear,” fluttered Sadie. “It may be some awful trap or
something.”
While this whispered conclave was going on Travers Gladwin made a
frantic signal to Whitney Barnes behind his back and mumbled:
“Try and find out what it’s all about?”
“I will––leave that to me,” said Barnes confidently.

Leaving her cousin’s side, Helen again confronted the two young men and
said tremulously:
“I’d rather not give my name. I know that sounds odd, but for certain
reasons”–––
“Oh, of course, if you’d rather not,” answered Gladwin.
“If you will just say,” Helen ran on breathlessly, “that I had to come early to
tell him something––something about to-night––he’ll understand and know
who I am.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said the baffled young millionaire. “Say that you
want to see him about something that’s going to happen to-night”–––
“Yes, if you’ll be so kind,” and Helen gave the young man a smile that
furnished him the thrill he had hunted for all over the globe, with a margin
to boot.
“I’ll be right back,” he gasped, spun on his heel and passed dizzily out into
the hallway.

83

CHAPTER XIV.
THRILL BEGETS THRILL.

Gladwin’s exit from the room served as a signal for the agile-witted Barnes
to strike while the iron was hot. His friend had hardly vanished through the
portières when he turned to Helen with an air of easy confidence, looking
frankly into her eyes, and said:
“It’s singular that my friend doesn’t know what you referred to––the object
of your call,” and he nodded his head with a knowing smile.
“Why, do you?” asked Helen eagerly, coming toward him.
Whitney’s knowing smile increased in its quality of knowingness and he
spoke with an inflection that was quite baffling.
“Well,” he said, in a confiding whisper, “I have an idea; but he”––jerking
his thumb over his shoulder where Travers Gladwin was last seen departing
from view––“is Travers Gladwin’s most intimate friend.”
The astonishing character of this information served only further to confuse
the beautiful Miss Burton’s already obfuscated reasoning faculties and 84

hypnotize her into that receptive condition where she was capable of
believing any solemnly expressed statement.
“Really!” she said with a little start of surprise.
“Oh, yes,” ran on the glib Barnes, “they are lifelong chums––love each
other like brothers; one of those Castor and Pollox affairs, you know––only
more so. Never have any secrets from each other and all that sort of thing.”
Helen dropped back into her chair and her brow wrinkled with perplexity.
“That’s curious,” she said. “I don’t think Travers ever spoke to me about
that kind of a friend.”
The idea was just burgeoning in her mind to ask for the friend’s name when
Barnes hastened on:

“Well, now that is singular. Are you sure that”––
The sudden brisk return of Travers Gladwin saved Barnes from an
immediate excruciating tax upon his ingenuity.
“I’m awfully sorry,” said Gladwin, going to Helen and shaking his head
regretfully, “but I couldn’t find him.”
“Oh, dear! That’s very provoking!” cried Helen. “He didn’t say he was
going out, did he?”
“No; I could have sworn he was here a few minutes ago,” spoke up Barnes,
turning his head away for fear his smile would suddenly get out of control.
“Well, is his man here?” demanded the girl.
“Why, he let you in,” blurted Gladwin. 85

“I don’t mean the Japanese.”
“You mean the butler, perhaps,” Gladwin corrected.
“Yes,” Helen answered mechanically.
Travers Gladwin felt it was time for Barnes to take a hand again, as his
mental airship was bucking badly in the invisible air currents.
“Is Gladwin’s butler here?” he inquired sharply, frowning at Barnes.
“No,” said Barnes promptly.
“I am sorry, but he is not here,” Gladwin communicated to Helen.
“Well, where is he?” cried the exasperated Helen.
“Where is he?” Gladwin asked Barnes.
Whitney Barnes went down for the count of one but bobbed up serenely.
“Where is he?” he said with a nonchalant gesture. “Oh, he’s giving a lecture
on butling.”
The bewildered Miss Burton did not catch the text of this explanation. In
her increasing agitation she wrung her hands in her muff and almost
sobbed:
“I’m sure I don’t know what to do. I simply must get word to him
somehow. It’s awfully important.”

Whitney Barnes saw the trembling lip and the dampening eye and strove to
avert a catastrophe that would probably double the difficulty of probing into
the mystery. Turning to Gladwin, but half directing his remarks to Helen, he
said:
“I’ve just been telling the ladies that you and Travers are bosom pals.” 86

Travers Gladwin flashed one look of amazement and then caught on.
“Oh, yes,” he cried, “we are very close to each other––I couldn’t begin to
tell you how close.”
“And I have also hinted,” pursued Barnes, “that you never have any secrets
from each other, and that I felt sure that you knew all about––all about––
a––a er––to-night.”
“Oh, of course,” assented Gladwin, beginning to warm up to his part and
feel the rich thrill of the mystery involved. “Yes, yes––of course––he’s told
me all about to-night.”
“Has he?” gasped Helen, looking into the young man’s brown eyes for
confirmation, feeling that she liked the eyes, but uncertain that she read the
confirmation.
“Yes, everything,” lied Gladwin, now glowing with enthusiasm.
All this while the shy and silent Sadie had remained demurely in her chair
looking from one to the other and vainly endeavoring to catch the drift of
the conversation.
Sadie was too dainty a little soul to be possessed of real reasoning faculties.
The one thought that had been uppermost in her mind all day was that
Helen was taking a desperate step, probably embarking upon some terrible
tragedy. She had hungered for an opportunity to compare notes with some 87

sturdier will than her own and the instant she heard Travers Gladwin admit
that he “knew all about to-night” she rose from her chair and asked,
breathlessly, turning up her big, appealing eyes to Travers Gladwin:
“Then won’t you––oh, please, won’t you––tell her what you think of it?”
There was something so naïve and innocent in Sadie’s attitude and
expression that Whitney Barnes was charmed. It also tickled his soul to see

how thoroughly his friend was stumped. So to add to Travers’s confusion he
chimed in:
“Oh, yes, go on and tell her what you think of it.”
“I’d rather not,” said Gladwin ponderously, trying to escape from the
appealing eyes.
“But really you ought to, old chap,” reproved Barnes. “It’s your duty to.”
“Oh, yes, please do!” implored Sadie.
The victim was caught three ways. Both young ladies regarded him
earnestly and with looks that hung upon his words, while Barnes stood to
one side with a solemn long face, elbow in one hand and chin gripped
tightly in the other, manifestly for the moment withdrawn from rescue duty.
There was nothing for the badgered young man to do but mentally roll up
his sleeves and plunge in.
“Well, then,” with exaggerated sobriety, “if you must know––I think––that
is, when I was thinking of it––or I mean, what I had thought of it, when88 I
was thinking of it––turning it over in my mind, you know––why, it didn’t
seem to me––I am afraid”––turning squarely on Helen––“what I am going
to say will offend you.”
“On the contrary,” cried Helen, flushing to her tiny pink ears, “if you are
Travers’s best friend, I should like to know just what you think of it.”
“Well, then,” said Travers Gladwin desperately, “if you must know the
truth, I don’t like it.”
“There!” breathed Sadie, overjoyed, and dropped back in her chair.
But Helen Burton was far from pleased.
“You don’t like what?” she demanded.
“Why––this thing to-night,” he groped.
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew Mr. Hogg,” the indignant girl flung out.
“There, Gladwin––that’s a clincher––you don’t know Hogg.”
Whitney Barnes was up to his ears in clover.
“How do you know I don’t know him?” asked Gladwin, a little wildly.

“Why, how could you?” said Helen, accusingly.
“How could I know Mr. Hogg?”
“Yes.”
“Why, just go out to his pen, introduce yourself and shake his tail.”
Helen failed to see the humor of this sally and again the tears struggled for
an outlet.
“Now you’re making fun of me,” she said, turning away. “I think it’s very
unkind.”
Travers Gladwin felt a sharp pang of remorse and hated himself for his 89

break. In his eagerness to repair the wound, he stepped to the young girl’s
side and said with great seriousness:
“I wouldn’t hurt you in any way for the world.”
Helen looked up at him and read the soul of sincerity and sympathy in his
eyes. She was both reassured and embarrassed by the intensity of his look.
“Really?” she managed to murmur, backing away and sitting down again.
The mention of Mr. Hogg had inflamed Whitney Barnes’s curiosity, and he
desired to know more of that unknown.
“Well, I don’t see what Mr. Hogg has to do with it,” he spoke up.
“Why, Auntie insists upon my marrying him.”
Helen blurted this out involuntarily
“That’s dreadful!” exclaimed Whitney Barnes, and Helen rewarded him
with a smile of gratitude.

90

CHAPTER XV.
HEROISM, LOVE AND SOMETHING ELSE.

The embarrassment of both the girls had begun to wear off. The two strange
young men, notwithstanding the unaccounted-for absence of the object of
Helen’s quest, began to appear less strange. Both possessed potent
attractions and undeniable magnetism.
The shy and shrinking Sadie was sure she liked that tall and slender young
man with the easy drawl and bright, humorous eyes immensely. The
boldness of his glances made her heart beat pleasantly. To her he seemed to
possess the master will and wit of the pair, and she felt she could repose
perfect confidence in him.
For her part Helen was uncertain just how to sense the situation. One side of
her will urged her to leave a message for her betrothed and hurry away.
Another strain of consciousness held her fast.
Travers Gladwin’s psychic waves that had so utterly failed in the grill room
of the Ritz may or may not have had something to do with this. He felt
inspired with a desire to prolong the interview indefinitely. He could not91

recall ever having been so attracted by the charming personality of any girl
as he was by this distressed maiden who was so eager to see her Travers
Gladwin.
He was flattered, even by the compliment of having the same name as the
unknown. As a further expression of sympathy with Helen in the matter of
Mr. Hogg he said earnestly:
“Do you mean to tell me that your aunt insists upon you marrying this––
hog?”
“Yes,” replied Helen, passionately. “And he’s awful, and I hate him, and I
won’t––I just won’t.”
“I think you’re absolutely right,” Gladwin agreed with her.

“Oh, you do?” cried the delighted Helen. Then, turning triumphantly upon
her cousin she exclaimed:
“There!”
But Sadie’s one idea did not include Mr. Hogg. She considered the
elopement as a separate matter in which Mr. Hogg was in no way involved,
wherefore she said:
“But you’ve only known Mr. Gladwin two weeks.”
“I know,” retorted Helen, “but I’ve loved him for four years.”
“You’ve loved Travers Gladwin four years,” said that young man in a voice
hollow with wonder.
“And only known him two weeks,” cut in Whitney Barnes. “By Jove, he
must be one of those retroactive soul-mates.”
“I’ve loved him four years,” said Helen stiffly. 92

“You’ve loved him four years in two weeks,” said Barnes in the tone of one
trying to do a sum. “I give up. I can’t do it.”
Helen faced the heretic Barnes and announced impressively:
“Ever since the time he so bravely risked his own life to save that girl. It
was splendid, noble!”
Travers Gladwin decided it was time to call a halt on the borrowing
proclivities of the unknown double. It was bad enough for some one to
appropriate his name, but also to take unto his bogus self the glory of the
real one’s heroism was too much.
“You mean that time at Narragansett?” he opened.
“Yes,” said Helen. “Four years ago when he dashed into the roaring
surf”–––
“Yes, and fished out a cross-eyed colored lady,” said Gladwin hotly.
“That’s just it,” returned Helen with flashing eyes and heaving bosom. “If
she had been beautiful or some one dear to him, it wouldn’t have been half
so noble. Oh, it was fine of him!”
“And he told you about that?” asked Gladwin, numbed for the moment.

“No, he didn’t. He’s much too modest. I knew of it the day it happened, and
he has been my ideal ever since. But would you believe it, when I first
spoke to him about it he could hardly remember it. Imagine doing such a
brave thing, and then forgetting all about it.”
“Oh, I’ve forgotten lots of such things,” said the unrecognized hero. 93

Helen’s lips curled with scorn.
“Yes,” the young man was stung to go on, “and what Travers Gladwin did
wasn’t brave at all.”
“What!” Helen gasped.
“She was so fat she couldn’t sink,” derided Gladwin, “so I swam out to
her.”
“Yes,” bubbled over the young man, overjoyed at the opportunity of
discounting his own heroism, “I swam out to her. I told her to lie on her
back and float. Well, she did, and I”–––
“You!”
“Why, yes––er––you see, I was with him. He pushed her to shore. Simplest
thing in the world.”
Helen rose angrily. There was both indignation and reproach in her voice.
“It’s shameful to try and belittle his courage, and you say you’re his dearest
friend.” She paused for a moment, then went closer to the young man and
said in a different tone:
“Oh, I understand you now––you’re saying that to try and make me change
my mind. But I shan’t––not for anybody.”
Helen crossed the room to her cousin and gave Sadie the benefit of the look
of defiance with which she had confronted Travers Gladwin.
“Oh, please, please don’t say that, Helen,” cried Sadie, all a-flutter. “I know
he will agree to a postponement.”
“But I don’t want any postponement,” protested Helen. “I told you what94 I
intended doing and I’m going to do it.”
“Go on, tell her again––we’d all like to hear it,” broke in Gladwin.

Helen swung around and said dramatically:
“I’m going to marry Travers Gladwin to-night.”
Travers Gladwin reeled a little where he stood, met and turned from the
beaming stare of Whitney Barnes. As he did so Helen came very close to
him, laid her hand on his arm and said tremulously:
“You are his best friend. Tell me honestly, don’t you think I’m right in
wanting to marry him?”
This was a poser, but when he did summon an answer it came right out
from the heart, his eyes devouring the beautiful girl before him as he spoke.
“Nothing on earth would please me so much as to have you marry Travers
Gladwin, and I promise you now that I am going to do everything in my
power to persuade you to do it.”
“Oh, I am so glad!” Helen thanked him. A moment later she added with a
perplexed smile: “But why did you talk about his bravery as you did?”
“Well, you see”––the young man stopped.
“I suppose,” Helen suggested brightly, “being so very fond of him, you
hated the idea of his marrying. Was that it?”
“Yes, but that was before I saw you. I hope you are going to like his best
friend just a little.”
There was no mistaking the ardent emphasis on the last sentence and Helen
95

studied the young man’s face curiously. She turned away with a blush and
walked across the room.

96

CHAPTER XVI.
THE TORMENT OF OFFICER 666.

Meantime Officer 666, on his aristocratic beat, four blocks up and four
blocks down the Fifth avenue pave, was sticking to the east side of the
street and vainly trying to keep his eyes to the front.
It was excruciating duty, with the raven-haired Rose wheeling her
perambulator along the opposite way and keeping, by way of feminine
perversity, on a latitudinal line with the patrolling of Michael Phelan.
There she was just opposite, always, never twisting her head an inch to give
him so much as a glance or a smile. It made him wild that she should
discipline her eyes in that fashion, while his would wander hither and yon,
especially yon when Rose was in that direction.
The daintiness of Rose in cap and apron with a big white fichu at her throat,
with one red cheek and the corner of the most kissable mouth on the avenue
maddeningly visible, soon drove all memory of the Gladwin mansion and
the suspicious antics of the “rat-faced little heathen” out of his mind. His
one thought was that Rose would have to cross over the way at the fall 97of
dusk and trundle her millionaire infant charge home for its prophylactic
pap. There would be a bare chance for about seven or ten words with Rose.
But what was he going to say?
For one hundred and nine days’ running, his days off inclusive, Michael
Phelan had intercepted Rose at that particular corner and begged her to
name the day. The best he ever got was a smile and a flash of two laughing
eyes, followed by the sally:
“Show me $500 in the bank, Michael Phelan, and I’ll talk business.”
And why didn’t Michael Phelan save up $500 out of the more than $100 a
month the city paid him for his services? Rose didn’t get a quarter of that,

and she had already saved $300, besides which she sent a one-pound note
home to Ireland every month.
The reason was this––Michael Phelan turned in his wages each month to his
mother, and out of what she allowed him to spend he couldn’t have saved
$500 in five hundred years, at least not to his way of thinking. The trouble
was that Rose had more than an inkling of this, and it galled her to think
that her gallant brass-buttoned cop should permit himself to be still
harnessed to his mother’s apron strings.
Yes, down in the invisible depths of Rose’s heart she was very fond of the
faithful and long-suffering Michael, but even so she couldn’t bring herself
to marry a milksop who was likely to make her play second fiddle to his
mother. And when Rose once made up her mind, she was as grimly 98

determined as she was pretty.
The sun had swung down behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the
trees that bordered the Park wall had begun to trace their shadows on the
marble fronts of the mansions across the way when Rose suddenly wheeled
the gig containing Master Croesus and walked demurely toward Officer
666.
Michael Phelan blushed till he could feel his back hair singeing, but he
stopped stock still and waited. Rose gave no sign until she was within half a
dozen feet of him. Then she looked up pertly and exclaimed:
“Why, if it ain’t Michael Phelan!”
“It is, Rose, an’ with the same question pantin’ on his lips,” broke out the
young man, his bosom surging and his heart rapping under his shield.
“And what is that same question, Mr. Phelan?” asked the tantalizing Rose.
Officer 666 choked with emotion.
“Will ye name the day, d-d-d-ar”–––
He stopped and looked round about him fearfully, for Sergeant McGinnis
was due on his rounds and Sergeant McGinnis, though married, had an eye
like a hawk for a pretty girl and a tongue like an adder for a patrolman
caught sparking.

Rose’s eyes flashed and her lips drew taut. She started forward, but turned
her head to face Phelan as she walked away.
“I’ll give you an answer, Michael,” she said in parting, “when ye may set 99
up
your own home for your own”–––
That was all Phelan heard and possibly all that the young woman uttered,
for just then Master Croesus set up a bawl that was most common and
vulgar in its utter lack of restraint. There could be no more to the interview
that day with young Master Croesus in such vociferous mood, so Officer
666 turned away with a heaving sigh and plodded dolefully along on his
beat.

100

CHAPTER XVII.
TRAVERS GLADWIN IS CONSIDERABLY JARRED.

Taking time out to sense the bruised condition of your heart isn’t a whole
lot different from taking time out to recover from a jolt received in the prize
ring. Having released that impassioned sentence, “I hope you are going to
like his best friend just a little!” young Mr. Gladwin felt a trifle groggy.
Until he had spoken he hadn’t realized just how badly his cardiac
equipment was being shot to pieces by the naked god’s ruthless archery.
The fact that the case should have appeared hopeless only fanned the flame
of his ardor. He had looked into the depths of two vividly blue eyes and
there read his destiny. So he told himself fiercely; whereupon, in the
Rooseveltian phrase, he cast his hat into the ring.
He cared no more for obstacles than a runaway horse. His very boredom of
the past few years had stored up vast reserves of energy within him, waiting
only for that psychological thrill to light the fuse.
As Helen Burton turned from him with the uncomfortable feeling of one
who has received a vague danger signal he paused only a moment before101he
again strode to her side. He was about to speak when she took the lead from
him and, looking up at one of the masterpieces on the wall, said:
“Oh, this is his wonderful collection of paintings! He told me all about
them.”
It was what the gentlemen pugilists would call a cross-counter impinging
upon the supersensitive maxillary muscles. It certainly jarred the owner of
that wonderful collection and caused him to turn with an expression of
astonishment to Whitney Barnes.
But that young man was intensely occupied in a vain endeavor to draw
more than a monosyllable from the shrinking Sadie Burton. He missed the

look and went doggedly ahead with his own task. Helen Burton repeated
her remark that he had told her all about his paintings.
“Oh, has he?” responded Gladwin, dully.
“Yes, and they are worth a fortune!” cried the girl. “He simply adores
pictures.”
“Yes, doesn’t he, though?” assented the young man in the same vacuous
tones.
“And we are going to take the most valuable away with us to-night!”
Here was information to jar Jove on high Olympus. Travers Gladwin came
stark awake with a new and vital interest. There was glowing life in his
voice as he said:
“So you are going to take the pictures with you on your honeymoon?”
“Yes, indeed, we are.” 102

“Won’t that be nice?” was the best Gladwin could do, for he was trying to
think along a dozen different lines at the same time.
“We will be gone for ever so long, you know,” volunteered Helen.
“Are you going to take his collection of miniatures?” the young man asked
in unconscious admiration of the colossal nerve of the gentleman who had
so nonchalantly appropriated his name.
“Miniatures?” asked Helen, wonderingly.
“Yes, of course,” ran on Gladwin; “and the china and the family plate––
nearly two hundred years old.”
“Why, I don’t think he ever mentioned the miniatures, or, or”–––
“That is singular,” broke in Gladwin, striving to conceal the sarcasm that
crept into his voice. “Strange he overlooked the china, plate and miniatures.
I don’t understand it, do you?” and he turned to Barnes, who had caught the
last of the dialogue and shifted his immediate mental interest from the shy
Sadie.
“No, I really don’t, old man,” said Barnes.

“Do let me show you the miniatures,” Gladwin addressed Helen upon a
sudden inspiration.
“That will be splendid,” cried Helen. “I adore miniatures.”
“They are just in the next room,” said Gladwin, leading the way to a door to
the left of the great onyx fireplace.
As she followed, Helen called to her cousin: 103

“Come along, Sadie, this will be a treat!”
But the next moment she was alone with Travers Gladwin in the long,
narrow room, two windows of which, protected by steel lattice work on the
inside, looked out on a side street.
The girl did not notice that as the young man preceded her he reached his
hand under the screening portière and touched a spring that noiselessly
swung open the heavy mahogany door and switched on half a dozen
clusters of lights. Neither did she notice that Sadie had failed to follow her
as her eyes fairly popped with wonder at the treasures presented to her gaze.
On one side of the room there was a long row of tables and cabinets, and
almost at every step there was an antique chest. On the tables there were
huddled in artistic disorder scores upon scores of gold and silver vessels
and utensils of every conceivable design and workmanship. Each cabinet
contained a collection of exquisite china or rare ceramics. On the walls
above was the most notable collection of miniatures in America.
Travers Gladwin waited for the young girl to have finished her first outburst
of admiration. Then he said softly:
“I suppose you know that five generations of Gladwins have been collecting
these few trinkets?”
“He never even mentioned them!” gasped the girl. “Why the paintings are
nothing to these!”
“I wouldn’t say that,” chuckled Gladwin. “It would take a deal of this gold
104

and silver junk to buy a Rembrandt or a Corot. There are a couple of Cellini
medallions, though, just below that miniature of Madame de Pompadour
that a good many collectors would sell their souls to possess.”

“Perhaps he was preserving all this as a surprise for me,” whispered the
awed Miss Burton. “It is just like him. I am afraid he will be awfully
disappointed now that you have shown them to me.”
“Or mayhap he has forgotten all about them,” said Gladwin, in a tone that
caused his companion to start and color with quick anger.
“You know that is not true,” she said warmly. “You know that Travers
Gladwin is just mad about art. How can you say such a thing, and in such a
sarcastic tone of voice?”
“Well,” the young man defended himself, inwardly chuckling, “you know
how his memory lapsed in regard to that heroic affair at Narragansett.”
Helen Burton turned and faced him with flashing eyes.
“That was entirely different. It simply showed that he was not a braggart;
that he was different from other men!”
The words were meant to lash and sting, but the passion with which they
were said served so to vivify the loveliness of the young girl that Travers
Gladwin could only gaze at her in speechless admiration.
When her glance fell before the homage of his regard he took hold105of
himself and apologized on the ground that he had been joking.
Then he made the rounds of the treasure room, pointing out and giving the
history of each precious family heirloom or art object with an encyclopedic
knowledge that should have caused his companion to wonder how he knew
so much. Several times he slipped in the pronoun I, hoping that this might
have some effect in waking Helen from the obsession that any other than he
could be the real Travers Gladwin.
But alas! for his subtle efforts, the hints and innuendoes fell on deaf ears.
She accepted his fund of information as a second-hand version, exclaiming
once:
“What a splendid memory you have!”
Then he gave it up as a hopeless case and led the way back into the other
room.

106

CHAPTER XVIII.
SADIE BECOMES A CONSPIRATOR.

“Ah! Be careful! Don’t go out there!” was the warning that had stopped
Sadie Burton in full flight for the treasure room into which her cousin and
Travers Gladwin had vanished.
She was more than half way to the door in obedience to Helen’s command
when Whitney Barnes spoke. He was sitting on the arm of one of the great
upholstered chairs in a gracefully negligent attitude twirling his gold key
chain about his finger. He spoke softly but with a mysterious emphasis that
took hold and held the retreating miss fast in her tracks. She turned with a
frightened:
“Why?”
“Because I would be all alone,” he said solemnly. Then as Sadie took
another hurried step forward: “Oh, no, you wouldn’t desert me––you
wouldn’t be so cruel! How would you like to have some one desert you?”
This mystic remark caused Sadie to turn around and take a step toward him.
She said timidly:
“I don’t understand.”
“Then I’ll tell you,” he said, getting on his feet and going toward her. 107

“No, no!” objected Sadie, and began to back away.
The young man stopped and said in his most reassuring tones:
“Fear not––I am quite harmless, I assure you. Now, I can see that you are in
trouble––is that not so?”
“Oh, yes!” Sadie admitted, delighted at this new turn in his attitude. Her
first disturbing suspicion had been that he wanted to flirt.
“You see, I’m right,” he pursued. “I would like to help you.”

“Would you?” she breathed, with increasing confidence.
“Of course I would,” he said, earnestly, whereat Sadie lost all fear.
“Then we must hurry if we are to stop it,” she said in a dramatic whisper.
“Stop it––stop what?” The heir of Old Grim Barnes had launched the belief
that he was about to start something. There wasn’t any stop in the
vocabulary of his thoughts at that minute.
“Why, the elopement!” ejaculated Sadie, exploding a little bomb that
brought Whitney Barnes down out of the clouds.
“Yes, of course––to be sure––the elopement––I’d forgotten,” he raced on.
“Let me look at you. No, you must not turn away. I must look at you––
that’s the only way I can help you.”
If he had to take a hand in the business of preventing an elopement he was
108

going to combine that business with pleasure.
“You are sure you want me to help you?” he asked.
“Yes, so awfully much!” she cried.
“Then I must look at you––look at you very closely,” he said, with the
utmost seriousness.
“I don’t understand,” murmured Sadie, both pleased and frightened by his
intense scrutiny.
“I’ll show you,” said Barnes. “Stand very still, with your arms at your
side––there! (my, but she’s a picture!) I’ve found out the first thing––I read
it in your eyes.”
“What!” in a stifled whisper.
“You don’t approve of this elopement.”
“Oh, no!” Sadie had yielded her eyes as if hypnotized.
“There, I told you so!” exulted Barnes. “You want to stop the elopement,
but you don’t know how to do it.”
“Yes, that’s perfectly true,” confessed the spellbound Sadie.
“Shall I tell you how to stop it?”

“Yes, please do.”
“Then sit down.”
He motioned to a chair three feet from where he stood. The victim of this,
his first excursion into the fields of mesmerism, tripped with bird-like steps
to the chair and sat down. Barnes went easily toward her and sat down109 on
the arm. He was as solemn about it as if his every move were part of a
ritual.
“Now, please take off your glove––the left one,” he commanded softly.
Sadie obeyed mechanically. Barnes went on:
“Before deciding upon what you should do, I’d like to know definitely
about you––if you don’t mind.”
“What do you want me to tell you?” asked Sadie, with a brave effort to keep
her voice from running off into little tremors.
“Nothing!” replied the seer-faced Barnes. “What I want to discover you
may not even know yourself. Allow me to look at your hand, please.”
Sadie yielded her hand with shy reluctance, allowing the young man to hold
only the tips of her fingers. Whitney Barnes bent his frowning eyes over the
fluttering little hand, studied the palm for a long second, then exclaimed
suddenly:
“By Jove! This is extraordinary!”
Sadie started, but her curiosity was greater than her fear.
“What?” she asked, excitedly.
“Really wonderful!” Barnes kept it up.
“What?” Sadie repeated, in the same little gasp.
“See that line?”
He had taken possession of the whole hand now and pointed with a long,
ominous forefinger to the centre of the palm.
“Which line?” inquired Sadie, eagerly, getting her head very close to his110as
she pried into the plump, practically lineless palm.
“That one,” said Barnes, impressively.

“No.”
“Don’t you see that it starts almost at your wrist?”
“Now I see. Yes. What of it?”
“Why it runs ’way round the bump, or, that is––the bump of Venus.”
“What does that mean?” asked Sadie innocently.
“Oh, a lot. You are very affectionate––and extremely shy.”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Sadie, amazed at the young man’s stupendous
skill.
“Now here’s a cunning little line,” he pursued. “That shows something too.”
“Does it show how to stop the elopement?” asked Sadie, ingenuously, but
making no effort to withdraw her hand.
“Yes, and it shows that you and your friend are”––– He paused to allow
Sadie to fill the gap, and she did.
“Cousins––and we live with Auntie––and we’ve been in New York a
month.”
“And your cousin hasn’t known Gladwin long?”
“Only two weeks.” Sadie was really awed.
“That’s right––two weeks; and she met him at the”–––
He said to himself that here was a little game that beat any other known
sport to flinders.

“NOW HERE’S A CUNNING LITTLE LINE”, HE PURSUED. “THAT SHOWS SOMETHING
TOO.”

“At a sale of old pictures and art objects,” said Sadie, supremely confident
111

that he was reading her mind.
“A sale of pictures, of course,” Barnes led her on.

“Yes, she was bidding on a picture and he whispered to her that it was a
copy––a fraud, and not to buy it. That was the way they got acquainted. But
he wouldn’t let her tell auntie anything about him.”
“Just a moment,” cried Barnes. “Here’s a bit of good luck. I’d almost
overlooked that line.”
Sadie was on fire with curiosity and looked eagerly into his eyes.
“You meet a dark man––and he prevents the elopement.”
“Perhaps that’s you!” exclaimed the delighted girl, withdrawing her hand
and jumping to her feet.
“I’m sure it is,” said Barnes, nodding his head.
“Oh, I’m so glad.”
“But wait,” said Barnes, going very close to her. “Please pay attention to
every word I say. Do all you can to get your cousin to change her mind;
then, if she won’t, tell your aunt. But don’t tell her until the last minute,
and––but here’s your cousin.”

112

CHAPTER XIX.
HELEN LEAVES AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE.

Helen Burton and Travers Gladwin were almost at the door leading from
the treasure room when the young man stopped and confronted the girl,
whose eyes were still bright with the anger he had kindled in them. He
smiled rather sheepishly as he said:
“Suppose I were to tell you that I am Travers Gladwin and that the other
Travers Gladwin with whom you think you are in love is not Travers
Gladwin at all?”
Her lip curled and she regarded him scornfully. But she said nothing.
He went on into the other room, holding back the portière for her to follow.
“Why don’t you answer my question?” he insisted as she passed him.
“It is much too silly,” she said sharply. Then in a different tone to her
cousin, who still stood by Whitney Barnes, with her color coming and going
by turns:
“Oh, Sadie, why didn’t you come with us? Travers has the most wonderful
things.”
“Then you are not going to answer my question?” Travers Gladwin asked
113

again.
“I said it was much too silly,” the girl returned with increasing vehemence.
Gladwin came forward and explained to Barnes and Sadie:
“I have been asking Miss––er––I’ve been asking how she’d take to the idea
of my being Travers Gladwin.”
Helen was now thoroughly aroused as she turned:
“Why do you persist in asking such a question?”

“I was wondering,” he said quickly, “whether you were in love with the
man or the name.”
“Have I given you the impression”–––she began, haughtily, scarcely able to
control her anger.
“Yes, you have,” he said warmly, and with all the dramatic emphasis he
could command. “I am afraid you were thinking more of that rescue at
Narragansett and your desire to be free of poor Mr. Hogg than you were
of––of my poor friend.”
This insult was more than she could endure. She turned her back to address
Whitney Barnes.
“Shall you be here when Travers returns?” she said imperiously.
“I am sure to see him before I leave,” responded the young man.
“And would you be kind enough to give him a message for me?”
She had gathered up her fur piece and muff and was moving toward the
door.
“Delighted,” said Barnes, with a deferential bow. 114

“Thank you so much. I want you to tell him that I cannot avoid the opera to-
night––that I have simply got to go, but that I’ll get away as soon as I can
and come to him directly from there.”
“But you can’t do that,” interposed Sadie in a voice that thrilled with alarm.
“But I am going to do that,” cried Helen, her face aflame and her head held
high. “And now we must go––I’d no idea we’d stayed so long. Good-by
and thank you.”
She had taken a step toward the entrance to the hallway when Gladwin
strode forward.
“You didn’t say good-by to me,” he said in an injured tone. Then with a
sudden vehemence: “But I am glad you didn’t, for we are going to meet
again.”
“I suppose we shall if you are here when I return,” she said coldly and
without looking at him.
“When you return?” he said, in quick surprise.

“Yes, when I come back here to-night,” in the same disdainful, snubbing
tones.
“You’re going to meet Travers here to-night?” he queried, in palpable
unbelief.
“Yes, I am. He wanted me to meet him at the station, but I insisted on
coming here.”
“And what time was it Travers wanted you to meet him here? I’d almost
forgotten.”
“At half-past ten,” answered Helen, taken off her guard and submitting
115

unconsciously to his cross-examination.
“Oh, yes, at half-past ten,” he repeated. “That’s right.”
“But you,” pointedly addressing Barnes, “must tell him I may be late.”
“I will,” acquiesced Barnes, a trifle bewildered.
“I hope you will be very late,” cut in Gladwin.
“What do you mean?” she caught him up.
“I mean you have no idea what a mad thing you are going to do.”
“Please”–––she began icily.
“Don’t be angry,” he pleaded. “I’m saying this for your good.”
“I don’t care to hear it.”
“But you’ve got to hear it,” he cried. “To leave your aunt and run off with a
man you hardly know––why you must be mad even to think of it.”
“How dare you speak to me in this way?”
If ever a young lady’s fur was up, as the saying is, such was the case with
the enraged Helen Burton. If her eyes had been weapons to slay, Travers
Gladwin would have been annihilated at a glance. But he stuck doggedly to
his guns.
“Well, somebody ought to speak to you,” he ran on. “Can’t you understand
that this man is no good––that he must be a scoundrel to ask you to do such
a thing, that”–––

“Stop! I forbid you to say any more––to say such horrible, cowardly things
116

about him behind his back. You, who claimed to be his dearest friend.”
Her anger was suddenly checked by a thought that flashed in her mind.
“Only a few minutes ago you said you were glad I was going to marry Mr.
Gladwin, and that you would do everything in your power to help.”
“And I jolly well meant it,” he acquiesced, with a low bow.
“You meant it! Then how could you––oh,” and she started suddenly from
him, “why didn’t I see it before? You’ve been drinking. Come, Sadie.”
Barnes turned away with an uncontrollable snicker. Gladwin was stunned.
As he saw her leaving him he made a last desperate effort:
“But just a moment. Please allow me to explain. I said I wanted you to
marry Travers Gladwin, because I am”–––
“I don’t care why you said it,” she flung at him, “because I don’t think you
know what you are saying.”
She fairly sailed through the portières, leaving the young man staring after
her in a state of utter mental collapse.
The little cousin had listened to this impassioned dialogue in the attitude of
a frightened bird, standing first on one foot and then on the other, struggling
with all her small nervous force to hold back the tears. As Helen
disappeared, a sob escaped her and she ran forward. Barnes started after her.
“Oh, Miss Sadie––just one word!” 117

“Oh, don’t––please don’t!” she wailed over her shoulder.
“But won’t you let me call on you––just once?” he pleaded, in real distress.
Sadie stopped, gave him one frightened glance, smiled through her tears
and burst out:
“I shall be delighted.”
Then she was gone and a moment later the door slammed.

118

CHAPTER XX.
MICHAEL PHELAN TO THE RESCUE.

The slamming of the front door of the Gladwin mansion struck upon the
two young men as a numbing shock. They stood looking at each other with
eyes that saw not and with expressions of idiotic vacancy.
Within the span of a brief half hour they had been swept along on a rushing
tide of emotions. They had been thrilled and mystified, mystified and
thrilled. Nor was there any relief in the reaction. There was more mystery
and more thrill ahead that demanded immediate action.
Naturally the bulk of the thrill was heaped upon Travers Gladwin. He was
not only fiercely convinced that he had fallen desperately in love, but the
unknown beauty who had kindled this passion had revealed that she was
coming that night to his home to meet and elope with a villain and an
impostor.
Here was a situation to scatter the wits of a Napoleon! It was no wonder
that for a few moments his thoughts flattened themselves against an
impassable barrier. Whitney Barnes was the first to revive and speak.
“Now what do you think of that?” he drew out with a long breath. 119

“I haven’t begun to think yet,” Gladwin managed to stammer. “I’m in no
condition to think. I’m stunned.”
“And you’ve travelled all over the universe in search of a thrill, eh? Now
you’ve got one you don’t know what to do with it.”
While Gladwin was groping for a reply to this thrust Bateato breezed in
with a swift sidelong rush, carrying a bulging portmanteau.
“Bag all packed, sair,” announced the little Jap, standing at attention.
“Take it back. I’m not going now,” said Gladwin, gruffly. Bateato’s entrance
had nipped another idea in the bud.

“You no go?” said the Jap, in surprise.
“No go––take back––unpack.”
“Ees, sair; ’scuse me,” and Bateato started off with his usual noiseless rush.
“Hold on,” Gladwin checked him. “Wait a minute. Don’t unpack it. Leave it
in the hall. I may want it at a minute’s notice.”
“Ees, sair,” and the wondering valet steamed out into the hallway and
vanished.
“What are you going to do now?” asked Barnes, lighting a cigarette and
offering one to his friend.
Gladwin took a turn about the room, puffing nervously at the cigarette.
Coming to a sudden stop he faced Barnes and reeled off in a quick volley:
“I’m going to marry that girl! I’ve been all over the world, seen all kinds120of
’em, and right here in my own house I find the one––the only one, on the
verge of eloping with a bogus me. But I’m going to expose that man
whoever he is––I’m going to rescue her from him.”
“For yourself?”
“Yes, for myself, and I’m going to put him where he can never annoy her
any more.”
“How the deuce are you going to do all this?” asked Barnes, planking
himself down into a chair.
“I don’t know,” said the other, “but I’m going to move the whole Western
Hemisphere to do it, if necessary.”
“Rather a large contract,” drawled Barnes. “But I say, Travers, if that fellow
is going to steal your pictures it sort of sizes up as a case for the police.”
“Of course,” agreed Gladwin. “I was just thinking of that. Where’s that man
of mine? Bateato! Bateato!”
Bateato responded with the swift obedience of a jinn rising from a
miraculous bottle.
“Ees, sair,” and the little son of Nippon stood stiffly at attention. “Ladies
run off in autbile,” he volunteered as his master hesitated.

“Never mind that––I want you to find a policeman,” commanded Gladwin.
“Pleesman––where I find him?” asked Bateato in alarm, recalling his
uncomfortable experience with Officer 666.
“Try a saloon,” said Gladwin. “And when you’ve found him, bring him
121

here quick!”
“Ladies steal something?” ventured the Jap, starting for the door. “Autbile
go fast like winds.”
“Some one is going to try and steal something,” replied the young man.
“We must see that they don’t. Hurry, now!”
“Ees, sair. ’Scuse me,” and Bateato vanished.
“That’s the way to do it,” Barnes enthused, rubbing his hands. “Get a
policeman in here, and when the other Mr. Gladwin shows up nab him.
Then this marriage can’t come off without the aid of a prison chaplain.”
The excitement that for an instant had transfigured Travers Gladwin
suddenly left him. A look of dismay spread over his features.
“By Jove, Barnes!” he cried. “We can’t do this!”
“Why not?” asked Barnes.
“Why? Because it would make a tremendous scandal. I’m not going to have
my future wife mixed up in any public hoorah for the newspapers. Think of
it––her name in the papers coupled with the name of a crook! Her picture
on one side and a Rogues’ Gallery photograph on the other. Impossible! The
police must know nothing about it.”
“I don’t follow you,” said Barnes. “What are you going to do––kill him and
stuff him in that chest? He probably deserves it, but it would he an awfully
unpleasant thing to have around the house.”
“Shut up! Let me think,” cut in Gladwin. 122

Then he added with swift inspiration: “Now I’ve got it. I’ll wait outside for
her to come and warn her of her danger. You stay in here and be on the
lookout for the man.”
Whitney Barnes threw up his hands and ejaculated:
“Good night!” He made as if to start for the door.

“No, no, Whitney,” cried Gladwin, “we must see this thing through
together. You wouldn’t want this sweet, young, innocent girl connected with
a sensational robbery, would you?”
“No,” Barnes agreed soberly; “neither would I want any robber’s bullets
connected with me.”
“You’re a coward!” blurted Gladwin, hotly.
“You bet I am,” acquiesced Barnes, “and I’m alive to tell it. Likewise I may
have some marriage plans of my own. But keep your hair on, Travers. Let
us do some real thinking, unaccustomed as we are to it, and see if we cannot
devise some safer plan.”
“What plan is there?” groaned Gladwin.
“Let us think––concentrate,” suggested Barnes, posing himself with his
elbow on one hand and his forehead supported on the fingers of the other.
Gladwin unconsciously fell into the same pose, and so they stood, side by
side, with their backs to the hallway.
“Thought of anything?” Barnes broke the silence.
“Not a ––– thing,” retorted Gladwin, peevishly. A broken-legged minute
123

had crawled by when Barnes spoke again:
“I’ve got it.”
“What?” Gladwin asked, uninspired.
“Simplest thing in the world. Why didn’t I think of it before?”
“Somehow I don’t think it’s going to be any good,” muttered Gladwin,
without relinquishing his thoughtful pose.
“Listen,” said Barnes, impressively. “Go straight to the aunt and tell her the
whole thing.”
Gladwin whirled around and gripped his friend’s hand.
“By Jove, you’re right, Whitney! We can make a lot of excuses for her,
youth and innocence, and all that. I didn’t think you had it in you. Come on,
we’ll go together!”
Barnes’s face fell and he stammered:

“But where does she live?”
“Where does she live? Don’t you know?”
“No.”
It was Gladwin’s turn to throw up his hands.
“And don’t you even know her name?”
“No.”
“Then how in blazes were you going to call on that girl?”
“By thunder! I forgot all about getting her address,” admitted the crestfallen
Barnes.
Gladwin uttered a mirthless laugh and said with sarcastic scorn:
“Oh, yes, you had a fine plan! I might have suspected as much.” 124

“Pile it on; pile it on,” growled Barnes. “I guess the pater has me sized up
about right.”
“But we must do something the police will know nothing about,” urged
Gladwin. “Let’s concentrate again. Maybe a real idea will break out.”
Again the two young men wrinkled their brows in profound absorption.
They succeeded so well in their effort at concentration that neither was
aware of the precipitate entry of Bateato and Michael Phelan, both of whom
had sprinted a distance of two blocks. Phelan was puffing like a tugboat and
stopped at the threshold of the room to catch his breath. He had prepared his
mind for all manner of excitement and had burst in upon a tomb-like silence
to be greeted by two inscrutable backs.
“What’s this,” he panted. “Eden Musee or a prayer-meetin’?”
Barnes glanced over his shoulder and frowned.
“Keep quiet,” he said. “We’re thinking.”
Gladwin strove to invent an excuse for getting rid of the policeman.
“What do you want?” he bluffed, as if amazed at the sudden invasion.
“What do I want?” shrilled Officer 666. “I come to find out what youse
want.”

“I don’t want anything,” said the young man with exaggerated politeness.
125

“Thank you very much, but I don’t want anything. Good evening!”
“Good evening!” echoed Barnes, with another glance over his shoulder.
Michael Phelan turned purple. He hadn’t indulged in the most exhausting
sprint in six months to be made sport of.
“Which one of youse sent for me?” he rasped out.
The two young men pointed to each other, which only served to fan the
flame of Phelan’s wrath.
“Is one of youse Mr. Gladwin?” he gurgled.
They repeated the pantomime until Gladwin caught the fire in Phelan’s eye
and decided that it would be better to temporize.
“I am Mr. Gladwin,” he bowed.
Phelan measured him from the ground up as he filled his lungs for another
outburst.
“Why did yez send for me?” he demanded savagely. “This here little
Japanaze come runnin’ wild-eyed down me beat an’ says there’s two
women been robbin’ the house. What’s all this monkey business?”
“Bateato is mistaken,” said Gladwin, forcing a laugh.
“No, sir!” cried the Jap excitedly. “Ladies run off quick in big autbile”–––
“Now wait––that’s enough,” Gladwin stopped him.
“You tell me find plece,” persisted the Jap, who saw the terrible wrath of
Michael Phelan about to flash upon him.
“That’s enough,” Gladwin sought to shut him up. 126

“You say they steal––I go saloon”–––
“Don’t talk any more! Don’t speak again! Go back to the hotel and wait for
me. I’ll send for you when I want you. Stop! Not another word.”
Bateato gripped his mouth with his fingers and stumbled out of the room.
Avoiding the still glowering eye of Officer 666, Travers Gladwin turned to
Barnes and attempted to say casually:

“When Bateato gets an idea into his head there is no use arguing with him.
There is only one thing to do––don’t let him speak.”
The young man started to hum a tune and strolled toward the heavily
curtained window that looked out on Fifth avenue.

127

CHAPTER XXI.
TRAVERS GLADWIN GOES IN SEARCH OF HIMSELF.

Policeman Michael Phelan was at first undecided whether to pursue the
departing Bateato and arrest him as a suspicious person or to remain on the
scene of mystery and get to the bottom of what was going forward.
He chose the latter plan upon the inspiration that if he arrested a millionaire
he would get his name in the paper and Rose might read of it and come to
some realization of the immensity of his official dignity.
He was further urged to this course by the insolent nonchalance of the two
young men. They weren’t paying any more attention to him than they were
to the inanimate sticks of furniture in the room.
“Well, what did yez send fer me fer?” he broke out again, hurling the words
at Travers Gladwin’s back.
“I thought you might like a drink,” replied that young man, turning slowly
and smiling upon the enraged bluecoat.
“I never touch it,” shot back Phelan, “an’ that’s no answer to me question.”
Gladwin stared at Phelan steadily a moment, his smile vanishing. As128he
measured the officer’s height and build an idea came to him. His face
lighted as he exclaimed:
“I’ve got a great idea! Officer, I want you to do me a little favor. How
would you like to make five hundred dollars?”
If he had said four hundred dollars, or even four hundred and fifty, the
effect would not have been half so great upon Michael Phelan. The mention
of an even five hundred dollars, though, was the open sesame to the very
depths of his emotions. Five hundred dollars represented the talisman that
would lead him safe through Purgatory into the land of sweet enchantments.
The fires of his wrath were instantly cooled and he said feebly:

“Are yez tryin’ to bribe me?”
“Not at all, sergeant,” said the young man gravely.
“I ain’t no sergeant,” Phelan retorted.
“All right, lieutenant,” laughed Gladwin, his good humor increasing as his
sudden idea took shape in his mind.
“Don’t call me lieutenant,” said Phelan, with a return of temper.
“Well, it’s this way, captain.”
“Nix on the promotion stuff,” shot back Phelan, the consciousness returning
that he was being kidded. “I’m patrolman and me name is Michael Phelan,
and I’m onto me job––mind that!”
“No offense, officer,” Gladwin hurried on. “I’m sure you’re onto your job.
129

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.”
“S-s-say,” stammered Phelan, “what’s this all about?” 130

“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 bulge
ad 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.”
It was manifest that Officer 666 was sorely tempted. To goad him further 131

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.
“Now the bonnet,” he said, reaching for the uniform cap and removing132it
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.

133

CHAPTER 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!”
The time was 7 P. M., with the inky darkness of night blanketing the city134so
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.”
It was the way Travers Gladwin handled the skirts of his coat in getting135at
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.”
“Fine,” cried the young man, poking a $20 bill out through the crack in 136
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.
When he stepped out of the taxi, at almost the very spot where he had 137

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 per usual––making love. Yis, me grinning chauffeur frind, 138

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:
“Which station shall I drive to?––I’m sure there must be some mistake.” 139
“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 into the dark reaches of the East Drive. Slowing
140

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
colliding with a Fifth avenue motor ’bus. Officer 666 was put down a block
141

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.

142

CHAPTER 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?”
“Only in a way of speaking,” laughed Barnes. “But calm yourself, Mr. 143

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, Whitney Barnes was utterly at 144
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.
He sent the club attendant back to the phone with a savage growl and 145 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 all up to you. You commanded.
146
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 windows and tiptoed about the room with the147 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.

148

CHAPTER 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 shook his fist at the ceiling, and at last, beside himself, he made
149

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, now wide-awake and getting150 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 the arms o’ Sergeant McGinnis.
151

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.
“I don’t know what yez’re talkin’ about,” protested Phelan, backing toward
152

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,
her ample bosom heaving and her breath coming in short hysterical gasps,
153

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.”
“Of course he isn’t,” chimed in Barnes, trying to shake himself together
154

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, crying, “You’re his friend––you’re helping him155to
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:
“Because from the moment I saw you I became your slave. When I saw 156

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.”
“Watching? Watching what?” demanded auntie, suspiciously. 157

“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!”
“But won’t you understand,” insisted Barnes. “He’s trying to save her,
158

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.
159

CHAPTER XXV.
PHELAN MEETS HIS UNIFORM AGAIN.

About the time the Gladwin mansion was ringing with the shrill staccato
outbursts of Mrs. Elvira Burton, the owner of that luxurious dwelling was
leaning against the Central Park wall a few blocks away engaged in earnest
conversation with a small boy.
“You ought to be in bed,” the young man was saying, severely, looking
down at the lad and noting how thinly he was clad and yet how little he
appeared to suffer from the sting of the chill night air.
“Bed nuttin’,” responded the boy, curtly. “I’m lookin’ fer me dog. Did yez
seen him go by––he’s a t’oroughbred an’ lost one ear battlin’ with a bull.”
“Oh, so you’re her brother, then,” laughed Gladwin.
“Who’s brudder?” asked the boy, suspiciously.
“May’s,” said Gladwin, “or I should say the brother of Miss May Henny.”
“Hully gee!” ejaculated the boy. “Did dat kid skin out too after me an’ the
old man tellin’ her to stay in bed an’ shut up her bellerin?”
“Yes,” said Gladwin, “and the young lady, with my aid, found the valuable
160

animal you are searching for––a black dog with a white spot over the right
eye and no tail.”
“Hully gee!” cried the boy, ecstatically. “She found him, eh? Well, who’d a-
t’ought it, an’ me lookin’ fer him tree hours. Where did she find him,
officer? His name’s Mike––named after me old man’s boss what bites
nails.”
“We found him in the park in company with a disreputable friend,” said
Gladwin.
“A yaller mut?” asked the boy, with a contemptuous emphasis on the mut.
“Dat’s the janitor’s dog an’ he’s nottin’ but a tramp. I wisht he’d fall in de

river an’ get et by a catfish.”
“I wouldn’t wish him all that hard luck,” laughed Gladwin, “for he had a
large bone he was sharing with Mike. I was watching them over the park
wall when May came along. I sent them all, and the bone, home in a
taxicab.”
“In a which?” ejaculated the boy, while his eyes popped.
“In a taxi,” said Gladwin, lightly.
“Aw, say,” and the little chap’s jaw fell, “now I know you’re kiddin’.
Where’d May git the price of a taxi, an’”–––
“Oh, I arranged all that,” the uniformed mystery explained reassuringly,
“and if you’d like I’ll call one for you. You look pretty tired. I guess you’ve
161

walked a good many miles on the trail of Mike.”
The youngster tried to speak, but could not. The very thought of a ride in a
taxicab froze his brain. Gladwin took him by the hand and led him to the
curb.
“Now, would you prefer a yellow or a red one?” he asked. “There’s all
kinds going by.”
“Yaller,” cried the boy. “I likes them best.”
They had only a moment to wait, when one of the mystic yellow hue
cruised round a corner and came toward them. Gladwin hailed it and the
chauffeur stopped with a wondering look at the pair.
Gladwin had a bill ready in his hand and passed it up to the chauffeur.
“Take this boy over to No. 287 East Eightieth street,” commanded Gladwin,
“and whatever you’ve got left out of the tenspot above what the meter
registers, split the change with the boy. And as for you son, patting the
urchin on the head, you keep your eye peeled on the meter.”
“Gee! Will I?” responded the boy, and as Gladwin opened the door he
hopped in and took up a perch where he could best observe the fascinating
operations of the register.
The chauffeur, a bullet-headed, cross-eyed individual, squinted at the bill
half a dozen times before he stowed it away in his pocket and set the meter.

Then he made a swift, fierce scrutiny of Travers Gladwin’s face, shook 162
his
head, swallowed a mouthful of oaths, threw in the clutch and spurted
diagonally for the cross street.
As he vanished, the uniformed similitude of Officer 666 consulted his
watch, made out that it was almost 10.30 and strode rapidly in the direction
of his home. He wore a smile that was fairly refulgent.
“Wouldn’t have missed this night patrol for a hundred thousand,” he said
inwardly––“and they say that the life of a patrolman is a monotonous
drudgery.”
Arriving at the stoop of his home he reconnoitered the avenue in both
directions and then looked up at the black windows of the house. A sudden
lull had come upon the neighborhood and there seemed not a soul stirring.
He sped lightly up the stoop and let himself in. He was surprised to find the
lights burning brilliantly in the drawing-room and no sign of Barnes. The
heavy curtains, he saw, were carefully arranged to prevent the merest ray of
light from showing outside. He took the further precaution, however, of
turning off all but the single globe in one lamp.
He speculated on the disappearance of Barnes until he heard a stealthy step
approaching through the corridor that led to the kitchen. Without noise he
glided to the window and concealed himself behind the curtains.
He had scarcely hidden himself when the hinged panel that answered for
163
a
door opened slowly and the countenance of Michael Phelan protruded itself
into the room. The Phelan shoulders and embonpoint, still in negligee,
followed. Taking a cautious step forward he uttered behind his hand:
“Pst! Pst! Hey, youse there!”
There was no answer, and Phelan worked his head round like a wary
weazel, muttering:
“Who was that woman, I wonder? She must have took that Slim Jim away
with her. Musha! Musha! If they should call the police. Bad cess to that
feller an’ his five hundred dollar bill. Murther! Murther! I’m done fer!”
Travers Gladwin had stepped out of the folds of the curtain.
“Hey, there!” he blurted. “What are youse up to?”

“Howly Saint Pathrick! I’m gone now, sure!” groaned Phelan, and trembled
where he stood.
“Come, come, Officer 666,” laughed Gladwin, “I’m only your ghost.”
Phelan exhaled a tremendous sigh of relief.
“The Lord be praised if it ain’t yez!” he exclaimed, delightedly. “But where
did ye get that disguise?”
“At a hair store––Madam Flynn’s on Avenue A––do you like it?” laughed
the young man. “I didn’t want any of my friends or neighbors to recognize
me, you know.”
“But fer the love o’ heaven where have yez been all the time?” asked
164

Phelan, sinking into a chair and breathing hard.
“Patrolling my beat––I mean your beat,” returned the young man, “and
keeping my eye out for my friend the burglar. Oh, I’ve had quite a party.
When I got hungry I sent to the Plaza for lunch and sat on the park wall and
ate it. And, by the way, I saw a friend of mine coming along in an
automobile and I arrested him for speeding.”
“What!” Phelan exploded, jumping to his feet and turning white as his
boiled shirt.
“Yes, nabbed him for breaking the speed limit,” Gladwin nodded, leaning
back against a table and lighting a cigarette.
“Fer, fer, fer breakin’ the speed limit; fer, fer––yez made an arrest?”
“Exactly! He was going so slow he deserved to be arrested, and what’s
more, he was making love to a pretty girl without shame. I got in and told
him to drive me to the station.”
Phelan threw up his hands with a groan.
“An’ did yez take him to the station?”
“How could I?” chuckled Gladwin. “I didn’t know where it was––that is,
your station––so I told him most any would do. We rode about a bit and as
he didn’t seem anxious to be locked up, I compromised for fifty dollars. It
was really quite simple, Phelan, and if I’d only had more time I might have
got back that five hundred.”

“GIVE ME ME UNIFORM AN’ LET ME GIT OUT OF HERE.”

“You’ve lost me me job––that’s what you’ve done!” moaned Phelan, while
165

his brain reeled with pictures of police headquarters, trial rooms and
ruthless commissioners. “Come, give me me uniform,” he cried, with a
sudden accession of passion.
“What’s that?” asked the young man, quickly, his grin vanishing.
“Me uniform!” rasped Phelan, with a rush toward the young man. “Give me
me uniform an’ let me git out of here.”
Gladwin dodged around the table, protesting:

“No, no––not yet. The burglar––that is, my friend––will be here any
moment.”
“Your friend?” Phelan stopped, again a prey to bewilderment.
“Yes, yes––I explained all that before. The one I’m playing the joke on. You
don’t suppose I’m going to take it off now, do you?”
“Yez can bet your life, yez are,” roared Phelan, with another savage rush
round the table. “I’ve had enough of this, an’ too much!”
“Now, just a minute,” pleaded Gladwin. “I assure you everything is all
right, and I’m not going to leave the house again. If anything happens so
you need your uniform I’ll be right here where you can get it. I’m not going
to leave the house. Tell me, where’s Barnes?”
“Who?” said Phelan, more calmly, and pausing in his pursuit.
“My friend––the one I left here.” 166

“I dunno––there was a ring at the bell here a while ago and in come a wild
woman and”–––
“Great Scott! I hope my friend wasn’t scared off! If that fellow was to meet
her here at 10.30––why, it’s after that now!”
“Here! Phelan, quick––help me put these covers on the chairs and things.
Over there in the corner, back of the chest. He mustn’t know that anybody’s
been here. Hurry, man; hurry! we haven’t a second to spare.”
Phelan submitted to the breathless commands as if he were hypnotized,
puffing and blowing like a porpoise as he struggled to slip the linen covers
over the chairs. Gladwin worked at top speed, too; and just as he was
covering the great chest he gave a start and held up his hand.
“Sh!” he whispered. “There’s a motor stopping outside. You go down into
the kitchen and be ready to come up if you hear me whistle.”
“But ye’ll promise yez won’t leave the house with them clothes,” gasped
Phelan.
“No, no––certainly not. Be quick now––I’ll switch off this light and step
out on the balcony. Close that door tight after you and be sure you switch
out the lights in the back hall.”

Gladwin only waited for the disappearance of Phelan and the soft closing of
the door when he plunged the room into darkness. He could hear the click167

of a key in the front door lock as he groped his way to the window curtains
and pressed back into the semi-circular recess that led out onto a window
balcony. As he did so he unlatched the heavily grilled balcony window,
drew out his penknife and slit a peephole in the curtain.

168

CHAPTER XXVI.
GLADWIN MEETS HIMSELF.

Standing as stiff and immovable as if he had been turned to stone, Travers
Gladwin peered with one eye through the narrow aperture he had slashed in
the heavy brocade portière. Still gazing into inky darkness he could hear the
cautious tread of two persons. His senses told him that one of the visitors
was a heavy, sure-footed man and that the other was of lighter build and
nervously wary. His deductions ceased instantly as a flash of light crossed
his vision.
For a moment the concealed watcher saw nothing save the incisive ray of
light that cut like a knife thrust through the darkness; then as he followed
the shaft of light to its source he made out the silhouette of a man in
evening dress––a white shirt front, square shoulders that branched off into
the nothingness of the cloaking shadows and a handsome, sharp profile that
lost itself in the gloom of a silk hat.
He also made out a cane from which the flashlight beamed. It was a new
device to the experience of Travers Gladwin, and he watched it with 169 the
same fascination that a man is wont to manifest in the gleam of a revolver
muzzle that suddenly protrudes itself from the mysterious depths of night.
The wielder of this smart burglar’s implement did not move as he gashed
the darkness with the ray of light, and to Gladwin he seemed inordinately
calm. His companion was somewhere behind him, groping, and did not
come into the picture until suddenly he found the push button in the wall
and switched on the full glare of the electroliers suspended from the ceiling.
Gladwin saw and recognized. He drew in a deep breath of surprise.
It was Watkins, the thieving butler he had discharged in London. His
attention did not linger on this familiar soft-shuffling tool of the master
thief, however, but snapped back to the big, good looking young man with
the branching shoulders and erect, confident carriage.

Used as he was to immaculate exteriors, Travers Gladwin had never seen a
better groomed man. He had never seen a man with a quicker eye and more
unconscious grace of movement.
It was no wonder that bitter envy gnawed his heart for a little while as there
rose again before him the picture of that bewilderingly pretty girl and her
passionate insistence that she would elope with “Travers Gladwin” in spite
of any and all obstacles.
That underneath all these splendid sheathings the man had the mean spirit
170

of a deceiver and a robber never entered the young man’s head.
But presently things began to happen with such avalanching rapidity of
action that there was not even a second to spare for speculation upon the
vast gap between their social positions.
The lights had hardly been switched on before the big fellow put the sharp
query to his companion:
“Watkins, is this room just as you left it when you went away with Mr.
Gladwin?”
“I don’t know, sir,” replied Watkins, with characteristic deference of tone.
“Bateato, the Jap, closed the house.”
“H’m,” said the other, laying his cane and hat on a table and drawing from
the pocket of his light overcoat a blue print diagram of the house. Casting
his eyes about the room, he unfolded the diagram and pointed to it, nodding
his head behind him for Watkins to come and look.
“We’re in this room now,” he said, easily.
“Yes, sir.”
“Out that way is the corridor to the kitchen.”
He pointed to the panel-like door which a few minutes before had
swallowed the very much undressed Officer 666.
“Yes, sir.”
“And there’s no other way out save through the front door or by way of this
balcony behind those curtains?”
“No, sir.” 171

“And,” still running his finger over the diagram, “on the floor above are
Gladwin’s apartments.”
“Yes, sir, at the head of the stairs––first door to the left.”
“H’m, very good,” slipping the diagram back into his pocket and lifting his
eyes to the great portrait of the ancestral Gladwin.
“Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly and with palpable relish, “that’s a Stuart! Is
that the great-grandfather, Watkins?”
“Yes, sir,” responded Watkins, without any of his companion’s enthusiasm.
“H’m,” with the same grim emphasis, and off came the overcoat to be
carelessly tossed across his hat and stick. His eye fell upon the great antique
chest by the wall.
He lifted the lid to inspect its void interior. Glancing up above it, he
motioned to Watkins and said:
“Here, help me get this out of the way.”
Watkins glided to one end of the chest and together they hauled it clear of
the wall. This done, he addressed Watkins as if he were but a creature to
command:
“I can manage alone in here, but I want to be ready to leave by the time
Miss Burton arrives. You go outside and wait in the car––and keep a sharp
lookout.”
Watkins bowed himself out with his stereotyped, “Yes, sir,” and the door
clicked gently after him.
The now lone invader returned to his interested survey of the paintings that
172

covered the walls, turning easily on his heel until his line of vision
embraced “The Blue Boy.”
From his difficult peephole Travers Gladwin could see the sharp, stern
features wrinkle with smiles before the intruder laughed lightly and
breathed with seeming great enjoyment:
“Ha! The Blue Boy.”
The smile went out as swiftly as it had come and was replaced by an utterly
different expression as he swung about and visualized the Rembrandt on the

wall above where the great empty chest had stood.
There was reverence and quick admiration in every feature as he bowed and
exclaimed with a long sigh:
“Rembrandt! Rembrandt! God!––to paint like that!”
The emotions of this remarkable young man came and went with the
quickness of his eye.
While still in the act of outpouring his admiration he whipped from the tail
of his dress coat a flat fold of a dozen or more sheets of wrapping paper,
shook them out and laid them on the lid of the chest.
With another swift gesture he produced a knife, sprang the thin gleaming
blade and walked up to the Rembrandt.
He raised the knife to the canvas with the ease of a practiced hand, when he
heard a movement behind him, and turned his head.
Travers Gladwin had stepped from the sheltering screen of portières and
173

stopped abruptly.
Whatever shock this sudden apparition of a uniformed policeman was to the
man caught in the act of cutting a priceless canvas from its frame he
managed to conceal by taking tight grip of every muscle in his body.
His eyes revealed nothing. There was no rush of color to or from his face.
His first change of expression was to smile.
Dropping the arm that poised the knife, he let himself down easily from
tiptoe and turned squarely to Gladwin.
“Good evening, Officer,” he said without a tremor, showing his teeth in as
engaging a smile as Travers Gladwin had ever looked upon.
“Evenin’!” said Gladwin, shortly, with an admirable affectation of Phelan’s
brogue.
“Do you find something on the balcony that interests you?” said the other
slowly, still holding his smile and his amazingly confident bearing.
“You climbed up there to enjoy the moonlight, perhaps?” he added, even
more softly, gaining reassurance from the wooden expression that Gladwin
had forced upon his features.

“No, not the moonlight,” responded the uniformed similitude of Officer
666, “the other light. I seen ’em go on. This house has been closed for
months.”
“Oh, yes, to be sure,” the other shrugged. “You’re most alert, Officer––right
174

on the job, as they say. I congratulate you.”
“I’ve been watching this house ever since Mr. Gladwin went away,” said
Gladwin slowly, unable to make up his mind whether to call Phelan or to
continue the intensely interesting dialogue.
His visitor decided the situation for him by coolly lighting a cigar, taking a
few deliberate puffs and turning it over in his fingers to inspect it as if it
were the only object worth attention in the room.
Gladwin read this elaborate by-play for what it was worth––an effort to
decide just how best to play his part––and was pleasantly thrilled with the
realization that he himself was so well disguised in the uniform of Officer
666.
So he clung to his own rôle and forgot Michael Phelan.
“H’m,” said the invader, reflectively. “That’s very good of you, Officer. Let
me offer you this as a slight token of my appreciation.”
His left hand slid into his trousers pocket and brought up a roll of bills. His
nonchalance was a perfect mask as he stripped off one of the bills and held
it out carelessly to Gladwin.
On his part, Gladwin’s expression was superbly blank as he reached for the
bill, pocketed it and said with his purring brogue:
“Thank ye, sorr! And might I ask who ye are?”
“H’m, that’s good,” chuckled the other, now thoroughly master of himself
and utterly confident.
“Now, who do you suppose, Officer, would come to the front door––unlock
175

it––walk in and turn up the lights?––a thief?”
“They do sometimes,” said Gladwin, cocking his head to one side with an
air of owlish wisdom.
The other raised his eyebrows to express surprise.

“Do they really?” he drawled. “You amaze me, Officer. I’ve always
supposed they broke in somehow and used dark lanterns.”
“Not always,” said Gladwin, obstinately.
The big man shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, puffed his cigar for a
moment and said indulgently:
“Well, I’m sorry, Officer, to deprive you of the pleasure you would
evidently derive in catching a thief and making an arrest. Now,” with a light
laugh, “who might you imagine I was?”
“Well, if I wasn’t sure Mr. Gladwin was across the Atlantic I’d imagine that
yez were Mr. Gladwin himself.”
This was said with such laborious canniness that the thief made haste to
discover just how the land lay.
“Oh, so you’re sure Mr. Gladwin is abroad, eh?”
“Well, I see be the papers.”
A real hearty laugh escaped this time, and he added brightly:
“Well, Mr. Policeman, I’ll tell you something to help you make a good
shrewd guess––Mr. Gladwin is not abroad!”
“Then yez are Mr. Gladwin, sorr!” cried the young man eagerly, as176if
delighted at the discovery.
The other leaned back against the table, crossed one foot over the other and
said musingly:
“You found me out, Officer––I must admit it. Permit me to thank you again
for looking out for my house, and if you don’t mind I’ll double this little
reward.”
Again the roll of bills came out and another $20 gold certificate was
gathered in by Officer 666, who grinned as he took it.
“Thank ye, sorr!”
The gesture with which this second benefaction was bestowed was a gesture
of dismissal and the bestower set off on an easy saunter about the room,
humming a tune.

Officer 666 did not move, and after a moment the other casually remarked:
“You don’t seem to be in any hurry to get back to your post, officer.”
“No, sorr––I ain’t in no hurry.”
“Have a cigar, then,” and one was offered with the same assumption of
good-natured indifference that had accompanied the tender of the bribes.
Gladwin accepted the cigar, took off his cap, dropped it in and returned the
cap to his head.
The thief was puzzled for a moment, until it occurred to him that it would
suit his purpose best to have this thick-skulled copper in his company rather
than have him go outside and discuss the matter with a more shrewd 177

superior. Therefore he said quickly:
“Oh, officer, could you be spared off your rounds for, say, an hour?”
“Why, yes, sorr; I think so.”
“Well, I want you to do me a favor. I’ll pay you well for it.”
“What is it?”
“You look to me like a chap who could keep a secret?”
“That’s part o’ me trade.”
“Good! Well, then, I’m expecting a call from a lady.”
“Oh, I see, sorr,” and Gladwin forced another fatuous grin.
“No, you don’t see,” said the other, impressively. “This lady is my fiancée.”
“Well, that’s your business, sorr.”
Gladwin was beginning to enjoy the battle hugely.
“You don’t understand,” explained the thief. “I’m about to be married.”
“Oh, yez are about to be married!” with a slight wince.
“Yes, I’m going to be married to-night––secretly.”
“Is that so? Well, I can’t help yez about that, can I?”
“Oh, yes, you can, because I want it kept quiet on the lady’s account.”

“Well, I’ll help you keep it quiet on the lady’s account!” with an emphasis
178

that got away from him, but was misinterpreted.
“Good!” and out came the roll of bills again and another yellow boy was
slipped into the greedy palm of Officer 666.
“Thank you, sorr. But what can I do, sorr?”
“I’ll show you later on. In the mean time help me take the covers off this
furniture and make the place look habitable. Hurry now, for I haven’t much
time. That’s the idea––brisk. Switch on the hall lights––you can find the
button. Then go upstairs and straighten my room.”
Gladwin stopped in his activities as if he had run against a wall.
“Your room, sorr?”
“Yes, at the head of the stairs, first door to the left. Then come back here
and help me pack.”

179

CHAPTER XXVII.
MISADVENTURES OF WHITNEY BARNES.

Just as it had not occurred to Travers Gladwin to ask Michael Phelan to
define the limits of his beat along Fifth avenue so it happened that Whitney
Barnes went forth in search of his friend without even the vaguest notion of
where he might be found.
It is doubtful if young Mr. Barnes knew what a policeman’s beat was.
Certainly he did not conceive of it as a restricted territory.
He had gone about six blocks at his best stride, eagerly scanning both sides
of the avenue before the thought came into his mind that he might be going
in the wrong direction and that he might keep on indefinitely to the Staten
Island ferry and obtain never a glimpse of the borrowed uniform of Officer
666.
“But I must warn the chap,” he thought fiercely, “or there will be the very
deuce and all to pay.”
Whitney slowed down, came to a full stop and was meditatively chewing
the head of his cane when an automobile halted at the curb. A head thrust
itself out of a window of the limousine and a musical voice asked:
“Why, Mr. Barnes, what are you doing here?” 180

Whitney Barnes guiltily jumped and barely missed swallowing his cane.
Volplaning to earth, he looked for the source of this dismaying interruption.
He recognized with a start one of the past season’s débutantes whose
mamma had spread a maze of traps and labyrinths for him––Miss Sybil
Hawker-Sponge of New York, Newport, Tuxedo and Lenox.
Before he could even stutter a reply a motor footman had leaped down from
the box and opened the door of the limousine. Miss Hawker-Sponge
fluttered out, contrived her most winning smile and repeated:

“Why, Mr. Barnes, what are you doing here?”
Her big doll eyes rolled a double circuit of coquetry and slanted off with a
suggestive glance at the massive doorway of the Hawker-Sponge mansion,
one of the most aristocratically mortgaged dwellings in America.
“It is rather late for a call,” she gushed suddenly, “but I know mamma”–––
“Impossible!” cried Barnes. “That is––I beg your pardon––I should be
charmed, but the fact is I was looking for a friend––I mean a policeman.
Er––you haven’t seen a good looking policeman going by, have you, Miss
Sybil?”
All the coquetry in Miss Hawker-Sponge’s eyes went into stony eclipse.

“You are looking for a policeman friend, Mr. Barnes?” she said icily, 181

gathering up her skirts and beginning to back away. “I hope you find him.”
She gave him her back with the abruptness of a slap in the face.
In another moment he was again a lone wayfarer in the bleak night
wilderness of out-of-doors Fifth avenue.
Indubitably he had committed a hideous breach of good manners and could
never expect forgiveness from Miss Hawker-Sponge. She had really invited
him into her home and he had preferred to hunt for a “policeman friend.”
Yet the tragedy of it was so grotesquely funny that Whitney Barnes laughed,
and in laughing dismissed Miss Hawker-Sponge from his mind.
He must find Travers Gladwin, and off he went at another burst of speed.
He covered about three blocks without pause.
A second and far more sensational interruption came from a side street, and
again of the feminine gender.
It was a tall, weird looking figure wound in a black shawl and it bumped
squarely into Whitney Barnes and brought him up sharply, spinning on one
foot.
Before he stopped spinning he felt himself seized by the arm.
Without warning a bundle was thrust into his arms and he had to clutch it.
In another instant the weird figure had fled up the avenue, turned a corner
182

and vanished.
Instantly the bundle that Whitney Barnes held awkwardly and painfully, as
if it were a firebrand, emitted an anguished wail.
If that wasn’t a pretty pickle for Whitney Barnes! His cane had clattered to
the pavement and he did not dare stoop to pick it up. The anguish from the
bundle he held increased terrifically in volume. He could feel beads of
perspiration running down his face.
What in desperation was he going to do with that awful bundle? He knew
intuitively that the tall, shawled figure would never return.
“My God!” he cried, “I’ll be arrested as the father of it, and what will Sadie
say to that?”

It was no wonder that the son and heir of Old Grim Barnes sweated. It
wasn’t perspiration. One doesn’t perspire in such awful straits––one sweats,
like a navvy.
It seemed ages before he could form the impulse to move in any direction
for any definite purpose. He was on the point of making up his mind to lay
the bundle on the doorstep when he sensed a heavy step from behind and
was paralyzed by the gruff ejaculation:
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
Barnes twisted his head and beheld a big, deep-chested policeman––a
haughty domineering policeman––who showed in every inch of him that 183

the gods had anointed him above the mere ranks of mortal patrolmen.
“Take it! take it!” cried Barnes, extending the bundle toward the uniformed
presence. “It’s not mine,” he almost shrieked. “A woman gave it to me––
and I have a very important engagement and must hurry.”
Sergeant McGinnis––for ’twas none other––drew back and waved the
bundle from him.
“Just a minute, my young friend,” he spoke through one side of his large
mouth. “You’ll hold that infant till its mother comes or you’ll go with me to
the police station and tell your story to the captain.”
“But I can’t wait,” wailed Barnes. “I’ve got to find a policeman.”
“A policeman, eh? Well, here’s one for you, and a sergeant at that.”
“I mean a friend. It’s horribly important. I’ll give you anything you ask if
you’ll only take this howling bundle.”
“None o’ that, young feller,” McGinnis snapped him up. “You’ll give me
nothing and you’ll come sharp and straight to the station. Now I know
there’s something back o’ this.”
“But I haven’t time,” Barnes objected. “It’s most horribly important that I
should find”–––
“Chop it! Chop it! You’ll come with me, and you’ll lug that infant. If you
won’t come quiet I’ll slip the nippers on you.”
184

Barnes realized the hopelessness of the situation and looked about him
wildly.
“Stop that taxicab, officer,” he urged, as he saw one of the vehicles
approaching. “I can’t walk like this. I’ll pay the fare––I’ll pay everything.”
McGinnis consented to this arrangement. The taxicab stopped. A few
minutes later it bore the sergeant, his prisoner and the still howling infant to
the threshold of the East Eighty-eighth street police station.
McGinnis consented to carry the infant as they got out and once inside the
station lost no time in turning it over to the matron.
“Hello, McGinnis,” said Lieut. Einstein from the desk; “what’s all this?”
McGinnis explained in a few crisp sentences.
“Is the captain in, Lieutenant?” he asked. “This young fellow is after trying
to bribe me.”
Barnes protested that such a thought had never entered his head.
“I simply told him,” he declared hotly, “that I had an important
engagement”–––
“Looking for a policeman, he says.”
“For a friend. I may have said policeman––I may have said anything in
such a beastly situation. I am sure that when the captain hears me he will
understand immediately.”
“That may be true, sir,” said the lieutenant politely, “but the captain is out at
present and won’t be back till after midnight. If you want to, you can sit185in
the back room and wait for him.”
Further protestations were unavailing. With a sigh of despair Barnes
permitted himself to be led to the back room, where he dropped down on a
chair and looked savagely about him.
The room was empty and there was nothing to gaze at save four blank walls
and a black cat sitting in a corner idly washing its paws. Now and then a
door opened, a face peered in and the door shut again. Somewhere a clock
ticked dolefully.

An hour passed while the young man sought in vain to enchain his
incoherent thoughts. He could think of nothing vividly. He could recall
nothing at all.
Whenever the wail of that infant the matron was caring for reached him he
writhed and ground his teeth.
In this sad plight he remained until a door near him opened and a man in
plain clothes came stealthily in. He walked straight to Barnes, bent down
and whispered:
“If you’ve got a hundred-dollar bill about you drop it onto the floor and
walk out. The lieutenant won’t see you.”
The individual turned on his heel and went out the way he had come. He
did not shut the door tightly behind him. Barnes felt that an eye was
watching through the slit, so he lost no time in jumping to his feet, getting
186

his money out of his wallet and dropping two one-hundred-dollar bills on
the floor.
This done, he jammed the wallet back in his pocket, picked up his cane and
gloves and opened the door through which he had entered the room. He
started warily forward with his eyes straight ahead. He could feel that the
lieutenant who sat behind the high-railed-off desk was the only person in
the room and he could hear the scratch of his busy pen.
Gaining the street entrance, he drew an immense sigh of relief, opened it
eagerly and fairly leaped outside to the steps. As the door shut behind him
he thought he heard a sudden explosive laugh, but it meant nothing to him
as he hurried along blindly, increasing his pace at every stride.
At the corner of Third avenue he stopped and consulted his watch. It was
midnight!

187

CHAPTER XXVIII.
AN INSTANCE OF EPIC NERVE.

Travers Gladwin scaled the great staircase three steps at a time. Stumbling
against a divan he threw himself across it and lay for a few moments
stretched on his back with every muscle relaxed. He felt as if he had been
buffeted by mighty tempests and overwhelmed by cataclysms. His head
throbbed with fever and he felt a sickening emptiness inside.
How was he going to avert the catastrophe of an elopement and at the same
time save himself and that charming young girl from a shrieking scandal?
There didn’t seem any coherent solution. If Whitney Barnes had only
remained with him––at least to lend him moral courage!
Where had the confounded ass gone? Why didn’t he return? A fine friend in
need was he!
There was no time to unravel his perplexities and lay any definite plan. He
must act, taking his cue as it was presented to him by the racing events of
the moment.
He got up from the divan and rushed downstairs. He cleared the last
landing, with a momentum that slid him across the polished floor of 188 the
hallway after the manner of small boys who slide on ice. He fairly coasted
into the room, but his precipitate intrusion did not in the least disturb his
visitor.
During Gladwin’s brief absence that supernaturally composed individual
had cut the Rembrandt from the frame and laid it on one of the sheets of
wrapping paper he had spread out on the chest. He had also cut out a Manet,
a Corot and a Vegas––all small canvases––and hung them over the back of
a chair.
As the owner of these masterpieces skidded into the room the thief was
taking down a Meissonier, frame and all, fondling it tenderly and feasting

his eyes on the superb wealth of detail and the rich crimson and scarlet
pigments in the tiny oblong within the heavy gilt mounting.
“Ah, Officer, you are back,” he said easily, as Gladwin staggered against a
table and gripped it for support. The methodical despoiler did not so much
as turn his head as he placed the Meissonier on the chest and deftly cut out
the canvas. His back was still squared to the flabbergasted young man as he
continued:
“Come, get busy, Officer, if you are going to help me. Take down that
picture over there on the right.”
He pointed, and went on wrapping up the immensely valuable plunder.
Gladwin got up on a chair and reached for one of the least noteworthy of his
collection.
“No, no––not that one,” said the thief, sharply,––“the one above,” an 189
old
Dutch painting that had cost a round $10,000.
The young man took it down gingerly, biting his lips and cursing inwardly.
“That’s it,” he was rewarded, “bring it here.”
Gladwin managed to cross the room with an appearance of stolid
indifference and as he handed the picture to the “collector” he said
haltingly:
“I take it these pictures is worth a lot of money, sorr.”
“You’re right, I take it,” said the other with a laugh, beginning at once to
slash out the canvas.
“Yes, sorr, I mean, you take it!” said Gladwin viciously. The wrathful
emphasis missed its mark. The “collector” was humming to himself and
working with masterful deftness.
“Now that woman’s head to the left,” he commanded as soon as he had
disposed of the Dutch masterpiece. “And be quick about it. You move as if
you were in a trance.”
Gladwin saw that he was to take down his only Rubens, wherefore he
deliberately reached for another painting, “The Blue Boy.”
“No, not that thing!” exclaimed the “collector.”

“Why, what’s the matter with this one, sorr,” snapped back Gladwin.
“It’s a fake,” said the other, contemptuously. “I paid two old frauds five
hundred pounds for that thing in London a couple of years ago––it’s 190

absolutely worthless from the standpoint of art.”
Gladwin looked at him in open-mouthed amazement and slid from the chair
to the floor.
How had this astounding person come by the secret of “The Blue Boy?”
There was a positive awe in Gladwin’s gaze as he sized up the big man––
again from his shining patent leather shoes to his piercing eyes and broad,
intellectual forehead. He fairly jumped when the command was repeated to
take down the Rubens and hand it to him. As he handed it over he
stammered:
“I don’t think much of this one, sorr.”
“You don’t?” said the other, in pitying disgust. “Well, it’s a Rubens––worth
$40,000 if it’s worth a cent.”
“Yez don’t tell me,” Gladwin managed to articulate.
Indicating the full length portrait of the ancestral Gladwin, he added, “Who
is that old fellow over there, sorr?”
“Kindly don’t refer to the subject of that portrait as fellow,” the other caught
him up. “That is my great-grandfather, painted by Gilbert Charles Stuart
more than a century ago.”
“You monumental liar,” was on Gladwin’s lips. He managed to stifle the
outburst and ask:
“Are yez goin’ to take all these pictures away with yez to-night?”
“Oh, no, not all of them,” was the careless reply. “Only the best ones.” 191

“How unspeakably kind of him!” thought the unregarded victim.
“If yez wanted the others,” he said with fine sarcasm, “I could pack ’em up
afther ye’re gone an’ sind thim to yez.”
“That might be a good idea, Officer––I’ll think it over,” the pilferer thanked
him.

Then he went on with his task of taking the back out of the mounting of the
Rubens, showing that he did not trust his knife with such an ancient and
priceless canvas.
Gladwin was thinking up another ironic opening when the door bell rang.
He jumped and cried:
“If that’s the lady, sorr, I’ll go and let her in.”
“No, you wait here,” the other objected. “She might be frightened at the
sight of a policeman––you stay here. I’ll let her in myself,” and he strode
swiftly out into the hallway.

192

CHAPTER XXIX.
IN WHICH THE HERO IS KEPT ON THE HOP.

Travers Gladwin watched the big handsome mis-presentiment of himself
disappear into the hallway with every nerve at full strain.
As he heard the door open, then a delighted feminine cry and the
unmistakable subtle sound of an embrace, he ground his finger nails into his
palms and bit his lips. Every fibre of him burned with jealous hatred of this
impostor.
If there had been only more of the brute left in the Gladwin strain
undoubtedly there would have been a sensational clash between the two
men for the benefit of the beautiful young girl who, Gladwin strove to
acknowledge, was the helpless pawn of circumstances. But the refinements
of blood rob the physical man of his savage resources and impose a serious
hamper upon his primordial impulses.
Helen came into the room with the thief’s arm about her waist while
Gladwin stood dumbly at attention, his features hardened and inscrutable.
At sight of his uniform and failing to recognize him in his disguise the girl
turned pale and uttered a frightened exclamation.
“Don’t be alarmed, dear,” the man at her side reassured her, smiling down
193

upon her, “this is only officer––” He looked up with a laughing expression
of inquiry.
“Murphy, sorr,” responded Gladwin, through tightly compressed lips.
“Yes,” the pretender nodded quickly. “Murphy, Officer Murphy, my dear––
looks after my house when I’m away. He is one of the city’s best little
watchmen and he is going to see that everything is made safe and secure
after we have gone.”

Helen breathed an exclamation of relief, but the fright in her eyes lingered
as the unconscious feeling struck in that the attitude of the policeman
seemed more than a trifle strained.
She carried a little grip in one hand, which the bogus Gladwin took from
her and handed to the real Gladwin, nodding significantly for him to leave
the room. Turning to Helen, he said:
“But why did you bring the bag, dear? My man told me he found your trunk
at the Grand Central Station.”
“Yes,” Helen answered, “but auntie insisted that I go to the opera, so I had
to pack my travelling dress. I slipped out of the opera during the entre act,
and went home to change my gown. I was so frightened and in such a
dreadful state of nerves that I couldn’t.”
A shudder ran through her and she seemed on the point of breaking down
194

when the man with whom she had chosen to elope drew her to him and said
with what had every expression of genuine tenderness:
“There, there, dear! Calm yourself. Why, you’re trembling like a leaf. There
is nothing to be frightened about now.”
She yielded to his embrace and he bent down his head to kiss her on the
lips.
Whatever he projected in the nature of an enduring osculation was spoiled
as Gladwin dropped the bag to the floor with a crash.
The man looked up angrily and the girl gave a frightened cry.
“What’s the matter with you, officer?” the thief shot at him.
“Excuse me, sorr,” said Gladwin, with mock humility, turning away his
head to hide his emotions.
As the girl shrank from his arms the thief switched his attention from
Officer 666 and led her to a chair, resuming his gentle tones. He pressed her
to sit down, saying:
“I am just packing up some pictures. I shan’t keep you waiting long. Now,
that’s good; you’re getting calmer. You’re all right now, aren’t you?”

“Ye-es, Travers dear,” she responded with an effort, looking into his face. “I
shan’t break down,” she went on, with a nervous laugh. “I’m stronger than I
look. I’ve made my mind up to it. The trouble is that my heart won’t
behave. It’s beating terribly––just feel it.”
He was about to place his hand on her heart when Gladwin was seized with
195

a paroxysm of coughing. The thief straightened up and turned scowlingly
upon the young man.
“Say, what’s the matter with you, McCarthy?”
“Murphy, sorr,” Gladwin retorted. “Me throat tickled me.”
“Well,” returned the other sharply, “if you would move around as I told you,
your throat wouldn’t tickle you. Get something to pack these paintings in.
There isn’t anything in this room––go upstairs and get a trunk.”
“I don’t know where there is none, sorr,” Gladwin objected.
“Well, look around for one––a small empty trunk, and be quick about it.”
He spoke with crackling emphasis.
Stung to the quick by the overbearing insolence of this command, it
required a prodigious effort for the young man to control his voice. He said
with difficulty:
“I was thinking, sorr––suppose––the––trunk––is––full?”
The thief squared his broad shoulders and walked threateningly toward
Gladwin. He stopped directly in front of the young man and said through
his teeth, slowly and deliberately and without raising his voice:
“If the trunks are full––now listen carefully, because I want you to
understand this––if the trunks are full, then empty one. Do you get 196 my
meaning? Take the fullness out of it, and after you have done that and there
is nothing more left in it, then bring it down here. Now do you think you get
my idea clearly?”
“Yes, sorr,” said Gladwin, dully, feeling that there was no way out of the
situation for the moment save to obey. Strive as he might he could not
wholly shake off the influence of this splendid big animal’s dominating will
power.

And if it affected him that way he didn’t wonder at the spell the man had
cast upon the impressionable and sentimental Helen.
He left the room with a sudden spurt and swiftly mounted the stairs, the
chief object of his haste being to prevent an extended interview in his
absence and a resumption of tender dialogue.
He had scarcely gone when the spurious Gladwin turned again to the girl
with his most engaging smile and softest tones:
“You see, dear,” with a sweeping gesture that included his work of
spoilation, “I am taking your advice––packing only the most valuable
ones.”
“I am afraid, Travers,” said Helen, rising from her chair and coming toward
him with all her impulsive love and confidence restored, “that I am giving
you a lot of trouble.”
“Trouble!” he cried, with the gushing effusiveness of a matinée idol.
“You’re bringing a great joy into my life.”
He took her hand and caressed it, adding with the true lover’s frown197of
perplexity, “But are you going to be happy, dear? That’s what you must
think of now––before it is too late.”
It was a magnificent bluff and carried with deadly aim. The girl stopped
him passionately:
“We must not stop to talk about that now––there isn’t time. We must hurry,
dear, and get away before auntie finds out and comes after me.”
“Do you think she’ll come here?” he asked slowly, while his forehead
wrinkled.
“I am afraid Sadie will tell her!”
“Sadie––your cousin? H’m.”
He made no effort to conceal that he was thinking rapidly.
“Perhaps you’d rather postpone it after all, Travers?” she said quickly, while
the color rushed to her cheeks and her lips trembled. “If you only thought it
best I’d like to tell auntie what I’m going to do.”

“No”; he retorted. “We can’t do that––we’ve gone over all this before. It
must be this way, or not at all. Which is it to be?”
“I’ve given you my word, you know,” she said under her breath.
“That’s my brave little girl!” he cried with a burst of feeling, reaching out
his arm to embrace her.
Crash! Bang! Biff! Slam! Bam!
There burst into the room Officer 666, entangled in the lid and straps of an
empty trunk. It was a steamer trunk and not very heavy, but Travers 198

Gladwin was far from adept in baggage smashing.
He had wasted so much time in hunting for the trunk that he had sought to
make up for the delay by executing what resembled an aëroplane descent.
At the final twist of the staircase the trunk had mastered him and charged
with him into the room. As he lay sprawled on the floor with a foolish grin
on his face, the discomfited lover turned on him with a voice of fury.
“Officer, what the deuce is the matter with you?”
The intense savagery of his tone made the girl shrink away from him and
turn pale. He managed to cover his break so quickly with a forced laugh and
an effort to assist Gladwin to his feet that her fear was only momentary.
In the last stage of his downward flight Gladwin glimpsed that he had
dropped in barely in time to spoil another touching scene. With a grin of
sheer delight, he asked:
“Where’ll I put the trunk, sorr?”
“Put it there.”
The self-styled Gladwin pointed to the right of the chest and set to work to
gather up his few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of pelf. He was about to
place the flat packages in the trunk when he turned to Helen and asked:
“Do you see any others that you’d like me to take, dear?”
“Oh, you know best,” she replied. “Only I should think that you would take
199

some of the miniatures.”
“The miniatures?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes,” said the girl. “They are the loveliest I’ve ever seen and they’ll hardly
take up any room at all. If we are going to be away such a long time I think
it would be safer to take them.”
It was palpable to Travers Gladwin that the big chap had received a psychic
jolt, for his hand trembled a little as he laid down the canvases on the top of
the chest and addressed the girl:
“I didn’t know you’d seen the miniatures.”
“Oh, yes, when I was here this afternoon.”
He took this between the eyes without flinching. His voice was
marvellously steady as he said:
“I didn’t know you were here this afternoon.”
“You didn’t?” she asked in a puzzled tone. “How funny! You’d just gone
out when I called, but two of your friends were here and one of them
showed me the miniatures, and china, and plate and lots of things. Why, I
left a message for you about the opera––didn’t they tell you?”
The girl stood with her back to Gladwin and the man she addressed slowly
turned his head and glanced over her head with a keen, flashing look of
inquiry. Gladwin lifted his chin a little and met the look without change of
expression.
“Didn’t they tell you, Travers?” the girl repeated.
“Yes, yes; they told me,” he said hastily, still maintaining his fixed gaze
200

upon Gladwin. There was barely an instant’s pause before he spoke:
“Officer, kindly go up to my room and see if you can find a bag and pack
enough things to last a week or two.”
“Yes, sorr.” Gladwin flung out of the room.
He started noisily up the stairs until he saw that the thief had turned his
back to him, whereat he vaulted the banister and dropped lightly upon a
divan in a recessed niche that could not be seen from the room he left.
The moment Gladwin vanished the thief turned to Helen and asked sharply:
“What time did you see my friends here?”

“A little after five,” replied the girl, recoiling slightly with a look of dismay,
for there was a new raw edge to the sharpness of his tone.
“Did you tell them about the elopement?” he said less harshly, but with a
scarcely veiled eagerness.
“Why, they knew all about it,” Helen hastened to reply, searching his face
apprehensively.
“Knew about it?” he mused, fairly grinding his brows together under the
pressure of his agitated thoughts.
“What did you tell them?” he queried steadily, measuring her fresh, young
beauty and vowing to himself that whatever struggle impended he was
going through with it to the limit of his resources.
“That we were to meet here,” she answered with increasing fear.
“That we were to meet here?” he repeated. 201

“Yes, at half-past ten––oh, was it something I shouldn’t have told them?”
she cried, coming toward him.
Once more Officer 666 snapped the tension. He had wriggled around the
staircase and found the suitcase Bateato had packed and left for him. Hating
to play the rôle of an eavesdropper any longer than necessary he made a
flying start and burst into the room.

202

CHAPTER XXX.
GLADWIN COMES OUT OF HIS SHELL.

“What the”–––
The spurious aristocrat and art collector suppressed his torrid exclamation.
The impulse moved him to seize the uniformed butter-in and pitch him
through the nearest window. He was big and powerful enough to do it, too.
In the furious glance he got, Travers Gladwin read a warning that in an
earlier stage of his career would have made him feel mighty uncomfortable.
Now he liked the smell of danger and met the message of wrath without a
flicker.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” the thief, having mastered himself, asked,
pointing to the grip.
“’Tis the bag you asked for, sorr,” drawled Gladwin.
“I told you to pack it,” said the other, sharply.
“All packed, sorr. Hunting clothes, shirts, ties, socks”–––
He looked up with a boyish grin and the big chap was stumped for a
moment. The thief said slowly:
“Now take it up to my room and unpack it.” It was his turn to grin.
“What, sorr?” asked the dismayed Gladwin. 203

“I shan’t want these things after all,” came the velvety rejoinder. “Unpack it
carefully and bring it back here. And kindly be more careful of the stairs
when you come down––one step at a time, please! Now, what are you
waiting for?”
Gladwin withdrew reluctantly, stealing a glance at Helen as he sidled
through the curtained doorway. Her eyes never left the face of the man she

thought she loved, but whose character was being swiftly revealed to her in
a new light.
That resourceful individual waited only for the blue uniform to pass through
the portières, when he sprang forward and reached out on both sides for the
heavy mahogany folding doors. He brought them together swiftly and
softly, then ripped down the portières from the pole, flinging one to the left
of the door and the other across the chest.
“Now listen, Helen,” he cried, seizing her roughly by the shoulder. “It may
be that we will have to get out of here in a hurry.”
“W-w-w-hy, what’s the matter?” she stammered, wincing at the crushing
grip of his hand.
He replied with a swift rush of words that fairly stunned her:
“Your aunt may find it out and try to stop us. Now I shall be on the lookout,
but I want you to do everything I tell you––I’ll see if the coast is clear in
case we have to go out the back way. In the meantime I want you to wrap 204

these pictures for me. I wouldn’t ask you, dear, only we haven’t a minute to
wait.”
He darted across the room and opened the narrow door that led into the
backstairs corridor. Helen stared stupidly after him until he disappeared and
then turned toward the chest and went to work wrapping up the precious
canvases like one in a trance. She had scarcely started when the folding
doors opened noiselessly and Bateato stuck in his head.
Fearing that some harm had come to his master the little Jap had left the
Ritz and sprinted all the way to the Gladwin mansion. He was breathless
and wild-eyed, yet he had entered the house as silently as a breath of air.
Peeking into the room Bateato noted the ripped-down portières and
devastated picture frames. His Oriental mind told him but one thing––
robbery. Seized with a violent spasm of loyalty to his master he brushed
into the room and exclaimed:
“Whatz thees? Oh, hell––damn!”
Helen was in too good training by this time to swoon, though she wanted to.
She started back in alarm and exclaimed:

“Oh, how you startled me!”
Bateato circled round her like an enraged rat.
“You no fool me––I know you tief––you steal picture––I get pleece––much
pleece––whole big lot pleece, quick.”
He headed for the door. 205

Helen pursued him, crying: “See here! Wait a minute! You don’t
understand! Mr. Gladwin!”
The Jap was gone and the hall door slammed after him before she had
reached the folding doors. In another instant Travers Gladwin, who had
been making a vain hunt for a revolver in the upper part of the house came
flying down the stairs and assailed the frightened girl with another
overwhelming shock.
Seeing she was alone he threw himself into the breach headlong:
“Miss Helen, just a moment. I’ve been waiting for a chance to speak to you.
You must get away from here at once. Do you understand––at once! Don’t
waste time talking––go quick while you have a chance. You mustn’t be
mixed up in what’s coming.”
The girl felt that her heart would burst with its palpitations of fear, but she
was incapable of flight. Her limbs seemed like leaden weights. Some force
working without the zone of her mental control made her stammer:
“W-w-ho are you?”
“Listen,” the young man raced on, “and you must believe what I say––this
man you came here to meet and elope with is not Travers Gladwin at all.”
She expressed her horrified disbelief in a frozen stare.
“It’s true,” he pursued passionately. “He’s an imposter! The real Travers
206

Gladwin you met here this afternoon. He was I; that is, I was he. I mean I
am Travers Gladwin––only I’ve got this uniform on now. It is only on your
account that I have not caused his arrest and a sensation. I can’t have you
mixed up in a nasty scandal. I want to save you––don’t you see I do?––but I
can’t wait much longer.”

“I don’t believe what you are saying! I can’t believe it! Oh, it’s too
horrible!” sobbed Helen, clinging to a fragment of her shattered idol as a
drowning man clings to a straw.
Gladwin was on the point of resuming his appeal when he sensed a heavy
tread. He had divined that the picture thief had left the room to reconnoitre
emergency exits or to learn whether or not the house was surrounded. He
had hoped that he might run into Michael Phelan, but did not stop to puzzle
out why this had not happened. Backing to the door, he whispered:
“He’s coming––question him. That’s all I ask. I’ll be waiting to see that you
get out in safety––trust me!”
He wriggled backward and disappeared through the folding doors.

207

CHAPTER XXXI.
A VISIT TO THE EXILED PHELAN.

But where, oh, where was the exiled Phelan when the bogus Gladwin went
on his backstairs investigation? Puzzled as he was by the fast moving
events of the night, stripped of the uniform of his authority, still his police
instincts should have warned him of this new character in his dream.
Michael Phelan, however, was busy––busy in a way one little would
suppose.
As the gentlemanly outlaw entered the kitchen, Phelan was standing on the
tubs of the adjoining laundry, his face almost glued to the window-pane and
his eyes uplifted to the fourth story rear window of a house diagonally
opposite, through which he could observe a pantomime that thrilled him.
It was late, well past bedtime even for the aristocratic precincts of New
York. Yet there was going on behind that brilliantly lighted window a one-
man drama strangely and grotesquely wide-awake.
A first casual glance had conveyed the impression to Phelan that a tragedy
was being enacted before his eyes––that murder was being done with
fiendish brutality, and he––Phelan––powerless to intervene. 208

The seeming murderer was a man of amazing obesity, a red-faced man with
a bull neck and enormous shoulders, clad in pink striped pajamas and a
tasselled nightcap of flaming red.
Back and forth the rotund giant swayed with something in his arms,
something which he crushed in his fists and brutally shook, something
which he held off at arm’s length and hammered with ruthless blows.
“The murtherin’ baste!” ejaculated Phelan as he switched off the one light
he had been reading by and darted into the next room to get a better view
from the summit of the kitchen tubs.

Suddenly the mountain of flesh and the debile victim that he was ruthlessly
manhandling disappeared from view. For several long thundering seconds
the petrified Phelan could see nothing save a dancing crimson tassel, the
tassel attached to the nightcap. Surely a mighty struggle was going on on
the floor!
Phelan did not hear the light step upon the kitchen stair or the stealthy tread
of the big man in evening dress as he pussy-footed his way to the kitchen
door leading out into the back yard and found that it was easily opened.
Every sentient nerve in Michael Phelan’s being was concentrated in his eyes
at that moment and it is highly doubtful if he would have heard a fife and
drum corps in full blare enter the kitchen. He heard nothing and saw 209

nothing below that upward focal angle.
The man Phelan should have heard flashed the light in his cane only at
infrequent intervals. He did not aim its bright revealing beam into the half
open door of the adjoining laundry and he was as unconscious of the
proximity of Phelan as that unfrocked or de-uniformed officer was of the
invader. He returned to Miss Helen Burton in complete ignorance of the fact
that the lower regions of the dwelling were otherwise than empty.
But the second he re-entered the room he saw the girl was strangely agitated
and that she feared to look at him. Laying down his cane he crossed the
room to her side and said in his softest tones:
“Well, you haven’t got on very fast in your packing, have you, dear?”
Helen was leaning against the back of a chair, feeling she was surely going
to topple over in a swoon. Summoning all her reserve of nerve power, she
strove to reply naturally:
“No. I––I didn’t quite understand how to pack.”
He was at her side now and seized both her hands.
“Why, Helen, what’s the matter? Your hands are cold as ice.”
He spoke warmly and tenderly, while at the same time his eyes were
everywhere about the room and he was listening with the wary alertness of
a rodent.
210

There was more than a little of the rat in the soul inclosed in this splendid
envelope.
“It’s nothing––only I’m faint,” she said tremulously.
“That policeman has been talking to you––hasn’t he?” he said quietly.
“Yes, he has,” she blurted, with a catch in her throat.
“Did he tell you who he was?”
He measured out each word and conveyed the sense. “Did he tell you who
he pretended to be?”
“Yes,” the girl responded, scarcely above a whisper.
He took her by the shoulders and turned her squarely toward him, looking
down into her face with frowning eyes.
“Now, Helen, I want you to tell me the truth––the truth, you understand? I
shall know it even if you don’t. Who did he say he was?”
A feeling of repugnance took possession of the girl and she shook herself
free and stood back. Her body had warmed into life again and she looked
steadily into his eyes as she answered:
“Travers Gladwin!”
He needed all his great bulk of flesh and steel-fibred nerve to fend off this
shock. Not the remotest fancy had crossed his mind that Travers Gladwin
might be in New York. It was with a palpably forced laugh that he
ejaculated:
“Travers Gladwin! Oh, he did, eh?” 211

The girl had read more than he imagined the sudden contraction of his
features and dilation of his eyes had revealed.
“I want you to tell me the truth––you must!” she said passionately. “Who
are you?”
“A man who loves you,” he let go impulsively. The desire to possess her
had sprung uppermost in his mind again.
“But are you the man you pretended to be––are you Travers Gladwin?” she
insisted, compelled against her convictions to grope for a forlorn hope.

“And if I were not?” he cried, with all the dramatic intensity he could bring
to voice. “If instead of being the son of a millionaire, a pampered molly-
coddle who never earned a dollar in his life––suppose I were a man who
had to fight every inch of the way”–––
He stopped. His alert ear had caught a sound in the hallway. He sped
noiselessly to the folding door and forced one back, revealing Officer
Murphy.
“Come in,” he said threateningly, and Gladwin came in a little way.
“Where’s that bag?” said the thief, with a glare and a suggestive movement
with his hands.
“What bag, sorr?” said Gladwin, feeling that for the moment discretion was
the better part of valor.
“The one you brought in here.”
“You told me to unpack it, sorr. It’s upstairs, sorr.”
“Go and get it. Go now––and don’t waste time.” 212

Gladwin went, determined this time that he must arm himself with some
weapon, even if it were one of the rusted old bowie knives of his
grandfather that ornamented the wall of his den. He estimated accurately
that he would prove a poor weak reed in the hands of that Hercules in
evening dress, and while the thought of a knife sickened him, he was
impelled to seek one.
As he mounted the stairs the thief strode to the table near the window and
gathered up Helen’s opera cloak and handed it to her.
“Now, go quickly,” he urged; “my car is just across the street. There is no
time to argue your absurd suspicions.”
“No, I shan’t go,” retorted Helen, accepting the cloak and backing away.
“So you believe that man?” he asked reproachfully.
“I am afraid I do,” she said firmly.
“Then I’ll show you mighty quick you’re wrong,” he cried, as a crowning
bluff. “He’s probably some spy sent by your aunt. I’ll get my man in here

and will have him arrested after you and I have gone. Wait here––I shan’t
be a moment.”
As the door slammed after him Helen ran to the window and then back to
the door. She was now terribly alarmed on another score. She feared to go
out and she feared to remain in the house. She feared physically––feared
violence.
Travers Gladwin had found the bowie knife and slipped it into his trousers
213

pocket. Then he had gone down the stairs on the run. As he entered the
room and saw that the man had gone he said:
“Is he running away––and without his pictures or his hat and coat. What’s
his game, I wonder.”
“He’s coming back––he says my aunt sent you here,” said Helen, but less
afraid at his return to the room.
“Never mind what he says,” Gladwin returned, gesturing excitedly. “You
must go home––now. To-morrow you can learn the truth.”
“But if I go out he’ll be sure to see me,” she protested.
Gladwin looked about him and thought a moment.
“Do you see that little alcove back of the stairs,” he said quickly, pointing.
Helen crossed the room and nodded.
“Well, hide in there,” he commanded. “The curtains will conceal you. If he
and his man come back I’ll get them in this room––then I’ll press this
button, see?”
He indicated a button and added: “That rings a buzzer; you can hear it from
the alcove, and then slip out the front door.”
The girl paused but an instant, then fled to the place of shelter.

214

CHAPTER XXXII.
IN WHICH BLUFF IS TRUMPS.

Having disposed of the girl for the moment, Travers Gladwin decided it was
time to call Michael Phelan to his assistance. There was no telling what this
amazing crook might do now. He was too much for him. That a thief and
impostor could possess such superhuman nerve had never occurred to his
untutored mind. He was a perfect dub to have let the situation reach such a
stage of complexity, though the one thought uppermost in his mind was to
save Helen from public ridicule and contempt.
He had reasoned it out that just the uniform of Officer 666 would serve him
almost as a magician’s wand. He had almost counted on the thief taking one
craven look at his constabulary disguise and then leaping through the
window––fleeing like a wolf in the night––he, Travers Gladwin, remaining
a veritable hero of romance to sooth and console Helen and gently break the
news to her that she had been the dupe of an unscrupulous criminal. Instead
of which––he ground his teeth, went to the little panel door and shouted
Phelan’s name.
Mrs. Phelan’s son came a-running. 215

He had been on his way. The vast girthed individual in the pink striped
pajamas and tasselled nightcap had accomplished his awful purpose, but the
climax had been anti-climax and Phelan had ground his teeth in rage.
He had been on the point of bursting through the window and somehow
scrambling aloft to the rescue of that helpless being who was being ground
and wrenched and pounded by that porcine monster, when the monster
suddenly rose to view again with a dumb-bell in each hand.
The jaw of Officer 666 slowly dropped as he watched the manipulation of
the dumb-bells. There was no passion in the stodgy movements of the great
paddy arms. Even so far away as he was Phelan could see that the man

puffed and blew and that his vigor was slowly waning. Then suddenly the
huge man stooped and held up in plain view a dangling wrestling dummy.
The lone watcher swallowed a savage oath.
“Sure ’twas exercisin’ an’ not murther he was doin’,” Phelan hissed through
his teeth.
His anger was white hot. Again he had been the victim of delusion and had
wasted heroic emotions on a stuffed dummy that served merely as an
inanimate instrument in a course of anti-fat calisthenics.
Every nerve in Phelan’s body was fairly a-bristle as he made his way216

upstairs and burst into the great drawing-room and picture gallery.
“Fer the love o’ hivin,” he cried, “give me me uniform and let me out o’
here.”
“Here’s your uniform; I’ve had enough of it,” replied Gladwin, throwing
him the coat and cap, “and get into it quick. There’s work for you right in
this house.”
“There is not, nor play neither,” snapped Phelan. “I’ve got to go out and
chase up a drunk or throw a faint or git run over or somethin’ desperate to
square mesilf with the captain. I’m an hour overdue at the station.”
“You’ll square yourself with the captain all right if you just do what I tell
you,” said Gladwin eagerly, helping him on with his coat and pushing him
toward the window recess. “You go right in there behind those curtains and
wait till I call you.”
Phelan took one look at the young man’s face and muttered as he obeyed.
“This must be a hell of a joke.”
And just then the thief breezed in again, jerking back on his heels as he
caught sight of Gladwin sans uniform, sans moustache and sans eyebrows.
But a glance at that young man meant volumes and there was no limit to his
spontaneous resources. He summoned a laugh and jerked out:
“Oh, so you’ve resigned from the force?”
“Yes,” retorted Gladwin, “and let me tell you that this little excursion217of
yours has gone far enough. I’ll give you one chance––get away from here
as quickly as you can.”

The big fellow curled one corner of his lip in a contemptuous smile, then
glanced about him quickly and asked:
“Where’s the young lady?”
“Never mind the young lady,” Gladwin flung back at him. “It was only on
her account that I let you go as far as this. Now get out and keep away from
that young lady––and drop my name.”
The sneering smile returned and balancing himself easily as he looked
down on Gladwin, he said:
“Easy, son––easy. I don’t like to have little boys talk to me like that,” and
turning to the doorway behind him he beckoned. The obedient Watkins
sidled in and stopped with head averted from Gladwin, who started with
surprise at seeing him.
Stepping forward and making sure there could be no mistake, Gladwin
turned to the thief and exclaimed:
“Oh, now I understand how you knew all about my house. This is what I get
for not sending this man to jail where he belonged.”
“Don’t bother with him, Watkins,” snarled the big fellow, as he noted his
companion’s complexion run through three shades of yellow.
“There’s no time to bother with him,” he went on, and reaching out he
caught Travers Gladwin by the shoulder and whirled him half way across
218

the room.
The young man spun half a dozen times as he reeled across the carpet and
he had to use both hands to stop himself against a big onyx table. As he
pulled himself up standing he saw that Watkins had lifted the trunk on his
shoulders and was headed for the hallway.
“Phelan!” he gasped out. “Here, quick!”
Officer 666 came out with the snort and rush of a bull.
“Stop that man,” cried the thief, pointing to Watkins, “he’s trying to get out
of here with a trunkful of pictures.”
The man’s hair-trigger mind had thought this out before Phelan was half
way round the table. One lightning glance at the thickness of the

patrolman’s neck and the general contour of his rubicund countenance had
translated to him the sort of man he had to deal with.
“Here––here––put down that trunk,” spluttered Phelan, brandishing his club
at Watkins. Watkins dropped the trunk and at a signal from his companion
was gone. Swiftly and silently as he vanished, he could not have been half
way to the door before the thief urged Phelan:
“Quick––go after that man––he’s a thief!”
“Stop Phelan!” cried Gladwin, who had begun to see through the
pantomime. “They’re both thieves!”
Phelan tried to run four ways at once.
“W-w-what?” he gurgled. 219

“It’s a trick to get you out of the house,” said Gladwin with his eyes on the
big man, who was calmly smiling and who had fully made up his mind on a
magnificent game of bluff.
“What the blazes kind of a joke is this?” blurted Phelan, looking from one
to the other in utter bewilderment.
“You’ll find it’s no joke, officer,” said the bogus Gladwin sharply––“not if
he gets away.”
“You’ll find it’s not so funny yourself,” cut in the real Gladwin. Then to
Phelan, “Arrest this man, Phelan.”
“Do you mean it?” asked the astonished Phelan, sizing up the thief as the
highest example of aristocratic elegance he had ever seen in the flesh.
“Of course I mean it,” Gladwin shot back. “Look out for him––there he
goes for the window.”
The thief had started in that direction, but his purpose was not escape. The
idea had flashed upon him that Helen might be concealed there. Phelan
headed him off, whereupon the thief said severely, in a tone that was far
more convincing that Gladwin’s most passionate sincerity:
“Now be careful, officer, or you’ll get yourself into a lot of trouble.”
“Don’t let him bluff you, Phelan,” cautioned Gladwin.

“You bet your life I won’t,” Phelan answered, though he was already 220

bluffed. “I’ll stick close to yez,” he faltered, inching uncertainly toward the
thief.
He had come close enough for that astute individual to make out that he
wore the same uniform young Gladwin had been masquerading in and he
made capital of this on the instant.
“How do you think it is going to look,” he said, impressively, “if I prove
that you’ve tried to help a band of thieves rob this house?”
“A band of thieves?” Phelan’s jaw dropped wide open.
“He’s lying to you,” cried Gladwin.
“I said a band of thieves,” insisted the thief. “Why he’s got his pals hidden
all over the house.”
“I tell you he’s lying to you,” Gladwin cut in frantically, seeing that Phelan
was falling under the spell of the big man’s superb bluff, and at the same
time remembering Helen and pressing the button in the wall to warn her
that the time had come for her to flee.
“We’re the only ones in this house,” Gladwin pursued, as Phelan gave him
the benefit of his pop-eyes before he yielded them again to the stronger
will.
“Then they’ve all escaped,” said the thief, easily, thrusting his hands in his
pockets to help out his appearance of imperturbability.
“You let one go out, Phelan, and there were two others beside this one.”
The buttons on Phelan’s coat were fairly undulating with the emotions that
221

stirred within him. In his seething gray matter there stirred the
remembrance that Bateato had told him that women were robbing the
house.
“You mean the women,” he said, ignoring Gladwin and addressing the thief.
“I remember––when the little Japanaze called me oft me beat, he said there
was women crooks here, too.”
“He’s lying to you, Phelan,” persisted Gladwin, though with less
vehemence, a great feeling of relief having visited him in the belief that
Helen had made her escape. “You can have the whole place searched just as

soon as you’ve got this man where he can’t get away. There are no women
here.”
This last declaration had scarcely passed his lips when a woman’s voice
raised in hysterical protest was audible in the hallway.

222

CHAPTER XXXIII.
BATEATO SUMMONS BIG MUCH POLICE.

A vitagraph film of Bateato’s journey to and from the police station would
consist of a series of dark brown blurs. If you have ever noticed a mouse in
full flight you will have some idea of how that Jap ran. He knew where the
police station was, too, for he had been there once when his brother, Itchi
Comia, was arrested for assaulting a Russian peddler.
If the little Jap had only coursed through another street things might have
gone somewhat differently in the Gladwin household, for he would have
encountered Whitney Barnes hurrying in the opposite direction, and that
young man would very likely have prevented him from going to the station.
But there was absolutely no obstacle in Bateato’s way until he reached the
station house, and the only obstacle he encountered there was a serious
impediment in his speech.
Police Captain Stone had returned to barracks a few minutes after the
departure of Barnes and a few minutes before the arrival of Bateato. He was
standing beside the lieutenant’s chair when the Jap sped in, and he seemed
223

almost interested (for a police captain) at the extraordinary manifestations
of emotion in Bateato’s countenance.
“All pleece––quick––robbers––thieves––ladies!” began Bateato, then
paused and made wild jabs above his head with his hands.
“Crazy as a nut,” said the lieutenant in an undertone to the captain, and the
captain nodded.
“All pictures––thieves––steal ladies!” was Bateato’s second instalment, and
the captain and lieutenant looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Big much pleece!” shrieked Bateato, made some more motions with his
hands and rushed out into the street.

“It’s Jap whiskey,” said the captain, musingly, utterly unimpressed. “He
isn’t crazy. That Jap whiskey’s awful stuff. They licked the Russian army on
it. He’ll run it off. If you ever see a Jap runnin’ you’ll know what’s the
matter.”
Bateato ran a block and then stopped.
“Hell damn!” he exploded. “I no tell where house.”
He ran back to the station and burst in again with even more precipitation.
“I no tell house,” he rattled off. “Mr. Gladwin––Travers Gladwin. Big lot
white house––Fifth avenue––eighty, eighty, eighty. Quick––thieves––
ladies!” and he was gone again before Captain Stone could remove his cigar
from his face.
The captain looked at the lieutenant and the lieutenant looked at the captain.
224

“Maybe he ain’t drunk, Captain,” ventured the lieutenant. “There’s that
Gladwin house on the books. It’s marked closed and there’s a note about a
million-dollar collection of paintings.”
The captain thought a moment and then burst into action:
“Call the reserves and get the patrol wagon,” he shouted. “I remember that
Jap. I guess there’s something doing. I’ll go myself.”
As the reserves were all asleep and the horses had to be hitched to the patrol
wagon Bateato had a big start of his big much pleece.
Notwithstanding the breathless condition in which he had arrived at the
station house, his return journey was accomplished at his dizziest speed.
Also he arrived back at the house way in advance of Whitney Barnes. There
was a reason.
Wearing a frock coat and a silk hat and carrying a cane (of course he called
it stick) one is hardly equipped for marathoning. And if you must know
more, Whitney’s small clothes were too fashionably tight to permit of more
than a swift heel and toe action. At this he was doing admirably in his
passionate haste to return and warn his friend Gladwin when another
woman came into his life and appealed for succor.
Three in one evening, when he was perfectly satisfied to stop at one––the
bewitching Sadie.

No. 3 was of an entirely different type from No. 1 and No. 2, and, happily
225

for Whitney, there was no yowling bundle this time––merely a cat, and a
silent cat at that.
She was a plump little woman and rather comely and she was intensely
excited, for the cat in the case was hers and the cat was up the only tree on
that street east of Central Park. At the foot of the tree sat a large bulldog
gazing fixedly up at the cat.
Whitney Barnes was so occupied with his heel and toe pace that he did not
descry the woman or the dog or the tree or the cat until the woman seized
him by the arm and cried:
“You must save my darling Zaza from that dog.”
Then she tailed off into hysterical sobs, but did not release her grip.
“Madam, I’m in great haste,” retorted Barnes, striving to wriggle free from
her grip. “I would advise you to call a policeman.”
“There is no policeman,” sobbed the distressed mistress of Zaza. “Oh, you
m-m-m-must s-s-s-save my Z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-aza. Oo-oo!”
Then Barnes glimpsed the dog and its fang-filled grin as it stared up at the
cat.
“You don’t expect me to tackle that dog?” he asked, backing away and
making another effort to free himself.
“Shoot him! do anything to him!” insisted the distressed female. “Oo-oo-
oo! he kills cats. Do something quick or I must scream.”
Whitney Barnes would have welcomed an open manhole to vanish into.226If
that woman screamed and held fast to him till the police came it would be
just as bad as the baby case. But if he tackled the dog he would probably go
to the hospital and be afflicted with hydrophobia and all sorts of things.
“Calm yourself my dear woman,” he said frantically. “The dog cannot
climb the tree and your cat is perfectly safe.”
“Are y-y-y-you s-s-s-sure?” she moaned. Then grabbing him tighter. “But
you must not leave me. In case the dog should go up that tree you must
attack it with your cane.”

“I promise,” panted Barnes, “if you will only release your grip on my arm.
Your finger nails are tearing the flesh.”
“I w-w-w-will not hold you so tight,” she consented, “but I must hold on to
you till somebody comes. Oh, look at that brute. He is biting the tree.
He–––”
But the sudden clangor of a patrol wagon and the hammering of steel-shod
hoofs on the cobbles caused the owner of Zaza both to cease her shrill
lamentations and let go of Whitney Barnes’s arm.
The patrol wagon was rolling down behind them at a furious pace while its
gong rent the stillness of the night as a warning to all crooks and criminals
to beware and to scurry to shelter. It is the New York brass band method of
thief hunting and if that patrol wagon gong hadn’t broken before the vehicle
227

had crossed Madison avenue the destinies of several prominent personages
might have been seriously hampered in their headlong fling.
That gong kept blaring its clang of warning long enough to frighten off the
dog and restore Whitney Barnes to freedom, and once released from the
bruising grip of that distraught little woman he turned his back upon Zaza’s
fate and ran––he ran so long as he considered it feasible to maintain the
integrity of his trousers. That is, he ran not quite a block, then dropped back
to his heel and toe exercise and swiftly ate up the distance that separated
him from Travers Gladwin’s home.

228

CHAPTER XXXIV.
PHELAN LOSES HIS BRIBE.

It was merely a coincidence that Bateato should drag Helen back into the
room just as Gladwin had gone on record with the declaration, “There are
no women here,” but it was a sufficiently dramatic coincidence to jar from
Officer No. 666 the exclamation:
“Where the divil are they all springin’ from?”
Bateato had come up with Helen as she was descending the stoop, had
seized her by the wrist and almost swung her off her feet as he swept her
back into the house and rounded her up before the three men, dumb with
fright and barely able to stand. Still gripping her wrist, Bateato let go the
Maxim volley:
“You tief! She try get away, but Bateato catch fast––she tief––I see steal all
pictures––she”–––
“Bateato, you idiot!” his master hurled at him with a menacing gesture that
caused the little Jap to drop the girl’s hand and jump back.
“Didn’t I tell you to stay at the hotel?” continued Gladwin, fiercely, for the
moment ignoring both Phelan and the thief.
“Yes, but I ’fraid––much late you no come. Bateato come back see girl steal
229

all pictures!”
The little Jap had fallen into Phelan’s state of blind bewilderment.
“Shut up!” his master snapped him up, walking up to him with an eat-’em-
alive expression. “And now listen––I don’t want you to say anything more,
understand? Not a word to anybody about anything. Not a syllable!”
“I no spick,” bleated the Jap.
“See that you don’t––not a single word––if you do I’ll skin you!”

Never in the three years he had served the young man had Bateato seen him
in anything like this savage state of mind.
“I spick no more for noting not nobody quick!” he promised, and his hand
clasped over his mouth like a vise.
Having corked Bateato in this wise, Gladwin turned to Helen, who stood as
if rooted to the floor, staring straight ahead of her.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said gently. “Everything is all right.” He took her
arm to reassure her and then spoke to Phelan, who had been making a vain
effort to solve the mix-up and didn’t feel quite sure that he wasn’t
bewitched.
“Now, Phelan,” said Gladwin, “I’ll explain the thing.”
“I wish to God ye would!” said Phelan from the bottom of his heart.
“This lady’s being here is all right––and she isn’t connected with this affair
230

in any way. I’ll prove that to you readily enough.”
“Well, go ahead.” And Phelan crossed his eyes in an effort to include in the
focus both Gladwin and the thief de luxe, whose splendidly groomed
appearance impressed him the more.
On his part the thief was leaning carelessly against a cabinet looking on
with the expression of one both amused and bored. What he had noticed
most was that Helen kept her eyes averted from him as if she feared to look
at him and that she had palpably transferred her allegiance to Gladwin.
When she had recovered some of her self-control she followed that young
man’s words eagerly and obeyed his slightest signal.
“I will explain to you, Phelan, as soon as I see this young lady started for
home,” Gladwin ran on, and proceeded with Helen toward the entrance to
the hallway.
“Hold on! Yez’ll not leave this room,” Phelan stopped them, his suspicions
again in a state of conflagration.
“But I only want–––”
“I don’t care what yez want,” Phelan snorted, blocking the way. “Yez’ll stay
here.”

“Oh, well––just as you say,” returned the young man desperately, “but I will
have to ask my man to escort this lady out and put her in a taxicab.
Bateato”–––
“Bad Pertaters ’ll stay where he is.” 231

Phelan was visibly swelling with the majesty of the law.
“You’re very disagreeable,” Gladwin charged him; then to Helen, “I’m
awfully sorry I cannot go with you, but I think you can find the way
yourself. Just go out through the hall, and”–––
“She’ll stay right here with the rest o’ yez,” was Phelan’s ultimatum, as he
squared himself in the doorway with the heroic bearing of a bridge-
defending Horatius.
The only member of that tense little tableau who really had anything to fear
from the spectre of the law embodied in the person of Officer 666 had
waited for Gladwin to play his poor hand and, conceiving that this was the
psychological moment, sauntered across the room and said with easy
assurance:
“Officer, if there’s anything further you want of me, you’ll have to be
quick.”
“Yez’ll wait here, too, till I can communicate with headquarters,” Phelan
gave him back, not liking the tone of command.
“Then hurry up, because it won’t go well with you if I am detained.”
“Now, don’t yez threaten me!” exploded Phelan. “I’m doin’ me duty by the
book.”
“Threaten you! Why, I can show you that you have been helping to rob my
house.”
This was a new current of thought––a sudden inspiration––but this peer232of
bluffers managed to crowd a volume of accusation in the slow emphasis
with which he said it.
“Your house!” gasped Phelan, rocked clear off the firm base he had scarcely
planted himself on. “What do ye mean––who are yez?”
“Who do you suppose I am? Travers Gladwin, of course.”

Even the fear-numbed Helen Burton was startled into animation by this
amazingly nervy declaration and half rose from the chair she had been
guided to and forced into by Gladwin when she seemed on the verge of
swooning at Phelan’s refusal to permit her to depart.
Phelan expressed wonder and alarm in every feature and his arms flopped
limply at his side as he muttered:
“Travers Gladwin––youse!”
“Don’t listen to him, Phelan,” cried Gladwin.
“Shut up!” Phelan turned on him.
“When I came home to-night,” the thief pressed his advantage, “this man
was here––robbing my house, dressed in your uniform––yes, and you
yourself were helping him.”
“But I didn’t know,” whined the distressed Phelan, yielding himself utterly
to the toils of the master prevaricator.
“I don’t think you did it intentionally––but why did you do it?” the thief let
him down with a little less severity of emphasis.
“He said he wanted to play a joke. He––he–––” 233

“Oh, don’t be an idiot, Phelan,” interposed Gladwin, putting his foot in it at
the wrong time and receiving as his reward from the policeman a savage,
“Close your face!”
“Oh, playing a joke, was he?” said the thief, smiling. “And did he offer you
money. Now, no evasion––you had better tell me.”
“Yes, sir,” gulped Phelan, with murder in one eye for the real Gladwin and
craven apology in the other for the impostor.
“And you took it?” sharply.
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, officer! Shame! Shame!” in tones of shocked reproach. “Let me see
what he gave you––come now, it’s your only chance.”
Phelan hesitated, gulped some more, and at last produced the bill.

The thief took it from his trembling but unresisting hand, unfurled it, turned
it over, held it up close to his eyes and suddenly laughed:
“Well, you certainly are easy––counterfeit!”
“What!” roared Phelan, and Travers Gladwin joined him in the exclamation.
“Will you swear that man gave you this bill?” cut in the thief, sharply,
snatching out a pencil and marking the gold certificate across the corner.
“I will, sorr!” shouted Phelan. “I will, an’–––”
“Very well! Now you see this mark in the corner––will you be able to
identify it?”
“Yes, sorr.” Phelan was fairly grovelling. 234

“Good,” said the thief, and nonchalantly shoved the bill into his waistcoat
pocket.
“See here, Phelan,” protested Gladwin.
“Kape your mouth shut––I’d just like to take wan punch at yez.”
Phelan meant it and took a step toward Gladwin when the thief stopped him
and asked:
“Now, officer, is there anything I can do for you?”
“Thank you, Mr. Gladwin––I got to get the patrol wagon here some way.”
If Bateato had entered into an inflexible contract with himself not to utter
another syllable before the break of day at least he might have eased
Phelan’s mind on that score and informed him that something ominously
like a patrol wagon was rounding the corner at that moment. And if the art
collector had not been so keenly amused at his facile conquest of the
gullible bluecoat his alert ears might have warned him to say something
entirely different from this:
“I’d call the wagon for you, officer, only I’m afraid these people might
overpower you and get away with that trunk of pictures. You see what a
nice mess they’ve been making of my picture gallery. Why, if I hadn’t
happened in to-night they would have walked off with half a million
dollars’ worth of paintings.”

“You call the wagon, Mr. Gladwin,” returned Phelan, grimly. “I kin handle
the lot of o’ them an’ ten more like them.”
“All right, officer, but be very careful––I shan’t be long.” 235

And turning with a mocking bow to Travers Gladwin, he sauntered out into
the hallway and walked into the arms of Police Captain Stone and ten
reserves.

236

CHAPTER XXXV.
BATEATO KEEPS HIS PROMISE.

Although the escaping thief was brushed back into the room rather rudely
and Travers Gladwin cried out as he caught sight of the uniformed officer
and his men, “By Jove, captain, I’m glad you’ve come,” the consummate
bluffer did not bat an eyelash or manifest the merest symptom of fear,
stepping easily to one side and watching for the coming of his cue with
feline alertness.
For a moment Captain Stone devoted himself only to the distribution of his
men, posting them at all the windows and doors. When he was satisfied that
every avenue of escape was covered he turned to Phelan with the sharp
query:
“What’s all this, Phelan?”
“I caught them trying to get away with Mr. Gladwin’s”–––
“Yes, it was by the luckiest chance,” broke in Travers Gladwin.
“Is this Mr. Gladwin?” the captain stopped him, curtly.
“No, the other one, captain,” replied Phelan, indicating the thief; whereupon
that gentleman bowed.
“Why, captain, I’m––” the real Gladwin started again. 237

“You’ve done well here, Phelan,” the captain complimented him, ignoring
the young millionaire.
“Thank ye, sorr,” blushed Phelan.
“I should say he has done well.” The thief came forward, with an approving
nod toward the now ecstatic Officer 666.
“If it hadn’t been for him,” pursued the thief, “these thieves would have
carried off my pictures. I would suggest, captain, that he be properly

rewarded.”
“Thank ye, sorr.” Phelan’s voice shook with gratitude.
“I’ll see that he gets full credit in my report,” said Captain Stone stiffly.
“Now, Phelan, you go to the station for the patrol wagon. I sent it back, as
one of the horses threw a shoe and got a bad fall. Tell the driver to get
another horse at Murphy’s stable and hurry back.”
“Yes sorr.”
Phelan went out, walking on air and humming to himself, “Sergt. Michael
Phelan, no less,” utterly forgetful of the sorry plight he was in not a half
hour before.
Travers Gladwin was almost beside himself with chagrin. Again he made an
impassioned plea to be heard.
“Now see here, Captain, I am Travers Gladwin”–––
“Oh, you are, eh?” sneered the captain, scarcely deigning to look at him. 238

“Well, we’ll see about that. Where is the little Jap who notified me of this?”
Bateato had concealed himself behind a heavy piece of furniture and was
yanked out into the open by a burly policeman.
“Here you,” growled the captain, shaking his hand at the Jap, “you’re Mr.
Gladwin’s servant, you said––which one of these men is your master?”
Bateato locked his teeth together and refused even to smile.
“Which is your master? Answer me!” demanded Captain Stone.
“The poor little devil is frightened to death,” interposed the thief with a
commiserating nod toward the Jap. He was playing his bluff to the limit.
“What scared him like that?” asked the captain.
“Oh, this gang here––some of the others got away––threatened to kill him.”
“Now look here, Captain––” broke in Gladwin, making furious, yet vain,
gestures at Bateato.
“Silence!” Captain Stone cut him off again.
“I admire this chap’s nerve, Captain,” laughed the thief. “It’s monumental.
He very nearly succeeded in bluffing Officer Phelan, but I guess you can

take care of him all right––I must hurry off and get an expert to repair the
damage done to these valuable paintings. Of course, you’ll leave a man or
two on guard.”
Once more he gathered up his stick and overcoat and once more his exit
239

was blocked––this time by Whitney Barnes.
It was only natural for that young man to misread the situation and conceive
that Mrs. Elvira Burton had succeeded in her object of arresting his friend.
So he blurted breathlessly:
“By Jove, Travers, I see I’m too late. I’ve been all over the city trying to
warn you––I knew the police were on your track.”
“Who the devil are you?” Captain Stone cut in on him.
“Another of the gang,” responded the thief promptly. “He’s got some story
trumped up that he thinks will get him off.”
“Well, we’ll let him tell it then, and you”––indicating the thief––“had better
wait and hear it.”
There was something in the thief’s manner that had fired a spark of
suspicion in the officer’s mind.
“Not a word about the girl,” Travers managed to whisper to Barnes in the
moment Captain Stone had turned to address the thief.
“I won’t”––Barnes was replying when the Captain flung round on him.
“Stop that whispering, and come over here where I can get a good look at
you. Which one of these men is the real Gladwin?”
“He is, of course!” Barnes nodded toward his friend. The truth of the
situation had at last dawned upon him.
The thief smiled at Captain Stone and shook his head as if in compliment240of
the nerve of some criminals.
“H’m,” said the captain, turning to Barnes again. “And when did you find
out that there was some one else who claimed to be Travers Gladwin?”
“Why,” replied Barnes briskly, “when Gladwin and I were here together this
afternoon. The doorbell rang and two”–––
His friend shook a vigorous warning. Barnes stopped.

“Yes, and two what?”
“Well, you see, the doorbell rang”–––
“Yes, you said that!” snapped Captain Stone. “The doorbell rang and
two”–––
“Yes, and two minutes after that it rang again––rang in an extraordinary
kind of way, you know, as if whoever was ringing it––was ringing it
because––because they wanted to come in––come in in a hurry, you see.
Well, I went to the door”–––
“Why did you go to the door?” demanded Captain Stone.
“Well, you see, the bell rang”–––
“Don’t go back to that again! Why did you go to the door?”
“Well, I can’t at this minute remember exactly, but I’m under the
impression I went to––to find out who was ringing the bell, just like that, as
it were.”
“That’s enough of you,” snorted Captain Stone. “Ryan (to one of his men)
241

take this one and slip the nippers on him.”
“See here, Captain, I can explain this.”––Travers Gladwin essayed again, as
he saw his friend struggling in the grip of a blue-coated giant and
spluttering his protests against being handcuffed.
“You can’t explain anything to me,” was the best he got from Captain
Stone.
During this spirited dialogue the thief had gone to the side of Helen Burton,
who had remained motionless where she had risen from her chair, playing
the part of a helpless victim in the seemingly hopeless tangle.
“Now then, Helen,” he said to her in his old tone of endearment, “we can
go. You see where this impostor stands.”
“With you––no!”
There was no mistaking the uncompromising emphasis of her denial.
Captain Stone set out to distribute his prisoners, motioning to one
policeman to take care of Gladwin and to another to look after the Jap, who
would be needed as a witness.

He came last to Helen just as she had repulsed the man she was to have
eloped with that night. Captain Stone had had experience enough with
women to be able to distinguish between types. He was on the point of
ordering another of his men to take charge of Helen when he paused and
studied her more closely. His men were starting for the door with their
242

prisoners when he signalled them to stop.
“Wait,” he said, “I wish to question this lady.”
He turned to Helen, when there came swiftly into the room Lieutenant
Detective Kearney of the Central Office.
Kearney was every inch a Central Office man, and had been long enough at
Headquarters to lose the heavy bovine set of the man who pounds the
pavement. A strapping big fellow, with graying hair and a pair of round
bullet eyes that searched you with needle points, his very appearance was
sufficient corroboration of all the thrilling stories the newspapers printed of
his skill and courage.
“Hello, Kearney! What do you want?” Captain Stone addressed him as he
stopped in the doorway and surveyed the remarkable scene before him.
“I’m looking for Travers Gladwin,” replied the detective shortly.
“I’m Travers Gladwin,” spoke up the thief, easily, but holding his head so
that Kearney could see only the profile.
“That’s my name!” exclaimed Travers Gladwin in the same breath with the
impostor.
Kearney looked from one to the other, fairly pistolling his scrutiny.
“Oh, both of you named Travers Gladwin?” he asked with a puzzled
expression.
“That one’s a fake,” interposed Captain Stone, pointing to the real Gladwin.
243

“This”––nodding toward the impostor––“is the real Travers Gladwin.”
Kearney’s face showed no more expression than if it had been cut for a
cameo, but when the thief asked him with perfect self-command: “What can
I do for you?” he came on into the room and stopped directly in front of
him.

“I have a warrant for your arrest,” he said, abruptly, and stuck his hand in
his pocket for the document.
“My arrest! For what?” said the thief with a beautifully feigned amazement
and a little laugh of incredulity.
“Cradle snatching––abduction,” jerked out Kearney, unfolding the paper.
“That is rich!” laughed the thief.
“I got the warrant from”––Kearney stopped and his little bullet eyes went to
work on the thief from the ground up. He was measuring every inch of the
man with an eye that had been trained for years to keep tabs on a multitude
of marked and measured men.
“Would you mind coming over here––a step or two closer, Mr.––Gladwin?”
he said tensely.
The thief stepped toward him and directly under the electrolier, while the
others in the room stood like statues, looking on.
As Kearney continued his searching examination of the unflinching and still
smiling man, whose head was on a level with his and whose body was 244

every inch as big and well set up, Captain Stone broke in nervously:
“What is it, Kearney?”
“I think there’s some mistake, sir,” said the detective, grimly. “Are you sure
this man is Travers Gladwin?”
“You seem to be in some doubt about it,” said the thief, dropping his
thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat and raising his chin a little. Whatever
was going on inside him, his eyes were twinkling with amusement.
“I am,” Kearney retorted; then to Captain Stone, “What is this case
Captain?”
“Picture robbery.”
“Picture robbery! I was sure of it! You’ve made a mistake, Captain. I know
this man!”
The sentences came out like a succession of pistol shots, while his eyes
never left the face of the thief.

“I know you,” he attacked the smile again. It was a bullet-proof smile and
never wavered.
“Well, who is he?” interrupted the real Travers Gladwin, eagerly.
“He’s the greatest picture expert in––the world!”
“You flatter me,” said the thief with a bow, and a side glance at Helen
Burton, who was gazing at him as if both fascinated and repelled.
“You admit it then,” said Kearney roughly, unable to disguise the triumph
he felt at this identification of a man he had never seen before.
“I am not so egotistical,” the other bowed, “but I will go along with you
245

with pleasure and see what you are able to prove.”
“Are you sure about this, Kearney?” asked Captain Stone, still doubting and
hating to admit he had been led into an egregious blunder.
“Certain,” retorted the detective. “He’s been fooling them on the other side
for several years, but they nearly got him in Scotland Yard two months ago.
I got a full report on him from his straight eyebrows and gray eyes down to
the cut of his vest, with picture and measurement attached. His real name is
Alf Wilson––there were a hundred men on his trail, but he made a
getaway.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any use trying to deny all this now,” said Wilson,
without the slightest change of tone, shoving his hands into his trousers
pockets and lifting his head in contemplation of the pictures on the wall.
“Not the slightest,” returned the detective, snatching a pair of handcuffs
from his coat pocket.
“Wait just a moment, officer,” interrupted Travers Gladwin. “I’d like to ask
this man one question.”
“Delighted,” cried the picture expert, turning and showing all his teeth in a
mocking smile.
Travers Gladwin pointed to the portrait of “The Blue Boy.”
“How did you know I bought that picture in London upon certain
misrepresentations?”
“I was the man behind the gun––think it over.” 246

He swung round to face the spurious Gainsborough. As he did so something
caught his eye and he moved toward the portrait. Gladwin followed and
inquired:
“But you not only knew it was a fake, but when I bought it and what I paid
for it.”
“I knew about it,” came the jaunty reply, “because I painted it.”
He moved another step nearer the painting as Gladwin gasped.
“Yes,” he went on lightly, running his hand along the bottom of the frame,
“according to this gentleman,” and he nodded over his shoulder to Kearney,
who had kept pace with him, backing to cover the doorway, “your ‘Blue
Boy’ was painted by the greatest picture expert in the world!”
As the last word came laughingly from his lips the room was plunged in
darkness.

247

CHAPTER XXXVI.
REPARTEE AND A REVOLVER MUZZLE.

The inky blackness fell upon the room with palpable suddenness––like a
blinding flash, numbing for a moment the senses of all who had been taken
by surprise. The reflex of the shock was manifested in a very babel of
incoherent shouts, jostlings and stumblings and sharp collisions with the
furniture.
“Turn up the lights,” shouted Captain Stone, amid the tumult.
Travers Gladwin made a blind dive toward the wall and stumbled headlong
over the great antique chest which stood to one side of where he and the
thief had stood contemplating “The Blue Boy.” In stumbling against the
chest he felt something that was a revelation to him by the time he found
the switch button and brought back a flood of light.
“Quick, men, cover the doors––don’t let any one get out,” yelled Captain
Stone, pivoting on his heel as his eyes vainly sought the picture expert.
“He’s gone!” cried Kearney.
“Yes, up the stairs––I hear him,” yelled Gladwin. “There are two back
stairways and the roof. There are two basement exits––post your men 248 out
there, and down through that hallway on the left––the panel door––that
leads to the kitchen. Barnes, you and Bateato take the young lady up to my
study––quick!––I’ll look after this room.”
The most remarkable thing about it was that every command the young man
shouted was obeyed. Even Kearney was fooled and rushed headlong up the
stairs, followed by two policemen and Barnes, who was yelling: “Hey!
come back here and unlock me! How can I hunt that chap with these
handcuffs on?”
He might as well have appealed to the moon.

Bateato fairly dragged Helen up the stairs after him and guided her to the
magnificently furnished study and den to the right of the staircase, when he
switched on the lights and became furiously active in the interest of the
young girl’s comfort.
Captain Stone had rushed out into the street and posted men on the stoop
and at the basement exits; then, followed by the last lone patrolman of his
squad, he darted through the alley at the side of the mansion which led to
the rear yard.
The emptying of the room was accomplished in a few seconds, whereupon
Gladwin hastened to the doorway, reached for the folding doors and hauled
them to, fastening the latch. Next he shut the door to the kitchen hallway
and fastened that, when, with a sigh of relief, he walked to the long carved
oak table that flanked the window, hoisted himself on it, produced his gold
249

cigarette case, took out a cigarette, set fire to it, snapped the case and
returned it to his pocket.
While he inhaled a deep breath of stimulating smoke his eyes were fixed
upon the great chest directly in front of him.
He was sitting easily on the table, kicking his legs, and he continued just in
that attitude when the lid of the chest lifted a few inches and a small
brilliantly nickelled revolver came out and covered him.
“I’m waiting for yez, Misther Gladwin,” chuckled the young man.
By some strange psychologic freak he was not in the least dismayed by the
ominous menace of that shining muzzle, which gradually came further out
as the arm and head of the picture expert followed it.
Once the thief had glimpsed the young man and made out that they had the
room to themselves he came out of the chest as lightly and noiselessly as he
had enveloped himself in it. But his smile was gone now and in its place
there was the wariness of the hunted animal. Still covering Gladwin and
surveying the room he said in low, level tones:
“If you move it’ll be the last act of your life, McGinty.”
“Murphy, sorr,” purred Gladwin, his face abeam.
“I like your nerve, young un.”

“I’ve been taking lessons from the man who invented nerve.”
“Well, you don’t seem anxious to give the alarm,” said Wilson, toying with
250

the little automatic and turning it over in the expanse of his palm.
“No, I’m afraid it might make you nervous.”
“Might make me so nervous that this gun would go off, eh?”
A shadow of the old smile came back as he went stealthily to the door and
listened.
“You seem to enjoy smoking,” said the peer of art collectors, turning his
back to Gladwin.
“Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Have you time to smoke a cigar?”
“Is it a good one?”
“I don’t know––it’s the one you gave me while I was Officer 666.”
Gladwin tossed the cigar to the thief, who caught it deftly and inserted it
between his lips. “And here’s some more of your possessions,” added the
young man, drawing out the bribe money he had accepted while he
masqueraded in the officer’s uniform.
“Thanks,” said Wilson, as he caught the money, “and here’s your little
yellow boy, though I wish that intellectual giant of a cop were here so I
could hire his uniform for a bit.”
“You amaze me by your generosity,” murmured Gladwin as he pocketed the
$500 bill.
“Oh,” said the other easily, while he again listened at the door. “I’m not a
regular crook––I’m in the picture business.”
“Still, if you kept that bill it might help you get better accommodations
251

when you reach Sing Sing.”
“If I don’t need it till then I won’t need it for a long, long time.”
“You mean you think you’re going to escape?”

Gladwin slid down from the table and leaned against it, making no effort to
conceal the admiration he experienced for this man’s superhuman aplomb.
“And with guards all around the house and policemen tearing thirty rooms
apart upstairs and camping on the roof scuttle––yes, and more coming,
maybe.”
“I venture to hope so,” chuckled the other. “I admit it’s close enough to be
interesting.”
“Well, I’ll say one thing for you,” the young millionaire said earnestly,
“you’re the coolest chap I ever hope to meet. You’re a marvel.”
“Built to order to work in story books, eh? Well, to be candid with you,
McGinty, there are times when I’m not so cool as I look. I’m almost
human.”
“Those cops will finish their work soon––then they’ll come in here,”
Gladwin warned him.
“I’m listening for them,” said Wilson softly, putting his ear to the door
again.
“Just because your pistol prevents me from calling them now, don’t
think”–––
“This gun isn’t stopping you,” came the short reply. “If you wanted to call
them you’d take a chance––I’ve found that out in the last hundred seconds
or so.”
“Thank you for the compliment, but I”––– 252

“Well, I’ll prove it,” the thief intervened, and tossed the gun to Gladwin,
who caught it as if it were something hot. “Go ahead and call them.”
“How do you know I wouldn’t call them?” the young man asked,
examining the automatic and finding it empty.
“Don’t be a child,” shrugged the other. “You closed these doors, and you
butted in about the ‘Blue Boy’ just as that Central Office owl produced his
jewelry. Yes, and you stumbled against the chest and knew that I was in it.”
“But I say,” asked Gladwin, abruptly. “How did you come to use my
name?”

“It wasn’t safe to use mine, and when I met Miss–––that girl––your name
was in my mind––I borrowed it.”
“That’s the thing I can’t forgive you for,” said Gladwin, regretfully––“to
deceive her as you did. That was rotten.”
“I don’t care for your opinion on that,” said the picture expert, warmly.
“How can a man like you understand a man like me? It can’t be done.
We’re further apart than the poles.”
“But you must see, Wilson––that’s the name, isn’t it?”
“It will do for the nonce, kind sir.”
“But you must see that the game is up. If you take my advice you won’t
even try to escape.”
“Then I won’t take your advice,” said Wilson, softly. 253

“But all these policemen know you’re a big prize. If they find you and you
break for it, they’ll shoot––and shoot to kill if necessary.”
The thief flung round on him and his face was suddenly drawn and serious.
“Death, my dear Gladwin, is the very least of my troubles, if it will only
come like that.”
“By Jove! I like you––and I hope you escape!”
“I know you do,” said Wilson, shaking his head, “but not altogether on my
account. You’re thinking of her––the girl. You don’t want it to be known
that she was going to marry me.”
“To be frank, yes. They’re coming now. Quick! Do something!”
The thief seized from the floor one of the portières he had torn down to
wrap the canvases in, wound it about him and darted behind the curtains
that screened the window. As he vanished Gladwin went to the door and
heard the voice of his friend, Whitney Barnes, demanding admission.

254

CHAPTER XXXVII.
HANDCUFFS AND LOVE.

Helen Burton could not have found a cozier place to faint in than that ultra-
luxurious den of Travers Gladwin. Every chair and divan in the place
invited one to swoon within its folds.
The young man had ordered his decorator to provide him with a chamber
wherein stiffness and formality would be impossible unless one stood erect.
The decorator had spent money with a lavish hand upon Spanish leathers
and silken stuffs from the near East and the Orient and he had laid these
trappings over the softest of swan’s down. Once you sank upon them you
could not help a sensation of utter peace and relaxation.
That final and irrevocable blasting of her ideal was a shock upon many
shocks that the young girl had experienced within the course of a few hours
and that she reached the den on her feet was due more to Bateato’s strength
and agility than to any nervous or physical force within her slender body.
The little Jap had fairly flown up the stairs with her in such fashion that she
had no distinct recollection of her feet touching any stable surface. Then255he
had turned a sharp corner while she seemed to stream behind him like a
fluttering pennant, and next she had felt herself sink into a soft, delicious
embrace, when her senses left her and she seemed to drop pleasantly
through fathomless space.
It was a great crimson chair embroidered with yellow poppies into which
Bateato had dropped his burden, then switched on a myriad of tiny lamps
suspended from the ceiling by slim chains of different lengths or gleaming
from dark niches and embrasures in the tapestry-hung walls.
All these subdued and colored lights mingled to produce a wonderfully soft
and reposeful effect, and when at last Helen opened her eyes––and her
swoon had been of only a few minutes’ duration––she was sure that the

setting was a dream and half expected some impossible creature of
phantasmagoria to rise from the floor and address her.
Then she felt an intermittent draught upon her cheek and looked up to see
Whitney Barnes fanning her with an elaborate contrivance of peacock
feathers that was alleged to have once done duty in the harem of Abdul
Hamid, one-time Sultan of Turkey.
She was not sure at first that this strange looking being who fanned her in
such an amazing fashion was the young friend of the real Travers Gladwin
who had appeared on the scene from time to time during that fateful
afternoon, for his features were far from being in repose. Positive torture
256

was written on his clean-cut boyish face as he wielded that fast fan in his
handcuffed hands as if it were a task imposed upon him by some evil spirit.
Certainly there was no grace in the savage gestures of his arms as his wrists
twisted and writhed in their shackles, but he stuck to his task desperately,
now and then hissing over his shoulder at Bateato to learn why in thunder
he didn’t find smelling salts or whiskey or brandy or something with which
to restore the young lady to consciousness.
And on his part, Bateato was racing about like a scared mouse, diving into
mysterious chests and cabinets or under divans or climbing up the walls to
explore recessed shelves. His activities were confined to that one chamber,
for a big, implacable policeman stood at the entrance, with orders to keep
his eye on the young woman and the Jap and see that they did not escape or
attempt to assist the vanished picture expert in concealing himself or getting
away.
As Helen’s dazed faculties gradually resumed their normal activities and
she realized that Whitney Barnes was a reality, the humor of the situation
suddenly struck her fancy and she smiled. She was smiling with eyes and
lips when young Barnes turned back his head from another reproach of
Bateato and looked to see how she was coming on.
“Thank heaven!” he exclaimed. “I thought you were dead. I wanted to go
out for a doctor, but these confounded policemen wouldn’t let me––yes, and
257

they wouldn’t unlock me. Have I fanned enough? I’m pretty well tuckered
out, and these feathers get in one’s nose so. Then this is an extraordinary

kind of a fan––they use them in harems or something of the sort, and I’ve
never fanned in harems.”
“Please stop, then,” laughed Helen, “and I’m a thousand times obliged to
you. If I could only have a glass of water I think I would be myself again.”
Bateato had at last pried into a cabinet that contained a decanter of brandy
and strange looking Moorish goblets, and from some curtained enclosure he
obtained cold water from a faucet. A sip of the potent brandy and draught of
water brought the color back to the girl’s cheeks and the light to her eyes.
The change was so reassuring that Whitney Barnes actually beamed and for
a few moments dropped all thought of his handcuffs.
“My, but you are beautiful!” he said impulsively. “I don’t blame Travers for
going daffy in the Ritz, and do you know your eyes are exactly like your
cousin’s!”
Helen laughed in spite of herself at the young man’s headlong gush of
words, then became suddenly serious.
“We haven’t time to talk about eyes now,” she said soberly. “You must
assist me in telling these policemen how I brought this terrible
embarrassment upon Mr. Gladwin.”
“Nothing of the sort,” retorted Barnes. “He wouldn’t hear of it. He’d cut 258
off
both his arms before he’d allow your name to be dragged into such a
sensation. And I’d add mine, too, willingly, with these bracelets on them.”
“But that detective said he had a warrant for Mr. Gladwin for eloping with
me,” cried Helen, blushing scarlet. “And, you know”–––
“Yes, I know you’re going to weep or faint or something else. Tell me about
your cousin––she’s not m-m-married?”
“Sadie married!” ejaculated Helen. “Why, she’s deathly afraid of men.
She’s the most timid little thing in the world.”
“Good!” cried Barnes, enthusiastically. “These handcuffs are not half bad,
now you tell me that.”
“Why, what do you mean?” asked Helen, her eyes twinkling.
“Oh, nothing,” said Barnes, trying to look unconcerned. “She’s very
young?” he added quickly.

“A year younger than I am,” said Helen, mischievously. There was
something positively fascinating about the intense seriousness that had
fallen upon the nervous features of Whitney Barnes.
“She’s not too young to marry?” was his next query.
“N-no,” Helen hesitated, “though I suppose you’d have to ask Auntie.”
“Well, you didn’t have to do that,” he said in alarm. “Oh, I beg your
259

pardon,” he added quickly, “please forgive me.”
“You are forgiven,” said Helen, with a catch in her breath; then resolutely,
“but that is all over with. It wasn’t really real––only a bad dream.”
“Of course, it wasn’t real,” sympathized Barnes. “That fellow just
hypnotized you––and my eye, but he’s a wonderful looking chap––sort of a
Hercules and Adonis all thrown into one. But to get back to Sadie––I’m
going to marry her.”
“You are!” Helen half started from her chair.
“Be calm; be calm,” and he waved her down with his shackled hands.
“When I say I’m going to marry her I merely state a fond belief I have been
cherishing since, m’m––well since a very long time ago to-day or yesterday,
for to-day is to-morrow by this time, you know. Now don’t stop me––I say I
am going to marry your cousin because I believe in Destiny with a big D.
Do you?”
“I did,” said Helen grimly, “but now I don’t.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” Barnes breezed on. “You may not think that you believe
you do, but you really do, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the destiny
you thought out––as far as the name goes––Travers Gladwin, I mean––
comes true after all. But to come back to Sadie and my Destiny. I have
really got to marry her––orders from headquarters!”
“Orders from headquarters!” gasped Helen.
“Exactly! My governor––that is, my dad––that is, the pater––wrung260 a
promise from me, issued a command, a ukase, an ultimatum––said:
‘Whitney Barnes, you go right out and get married and bring home a lot of
grand-children.’ No; that wasn’t it exactly––now let me think a moment.

Yes, I’ve got it––he said: ‘You’ve simply got to marry and settle down or
I’ll turn you out into the street.’”
“Wasn’t that enough to take the wind out of you, when you’d never given
the idea of marriage a thought. Simply bowled me over. At first I refused
point blank, but when I saw how cut up the poor old dad was about it I
shook his hand and said: ‘Pater, done––I’ll go right out and find a wife.’
And I did.”
“What!” said Helen faintly. “You went right out and got married?”
“No, no, no, my dear cousin. I simply found Sadie.”
“And have you asked her? Not surely while we were here this afternoon.”
“Oh, I saw her later––when she came to-night with your aunt, while your
aunt was searching all over the place for you. Not that I really asked her
then, but we looked at each other, you know, and I think we liked each
other––and that’s a big start. I just know we’ll get married––we’re soul-
mates! There isn’t any doubt of it.”
“Well, it strikes me,” said Helen severely, “that you’re a trifle conceited.”
“Indeed I am,” was his startling response. “You’ve got to be, in love. If you
261

don’t think you’re pretty fine how are you going to convince anybody else
that you are? But you’ll have to excuse me for a moment––these bracelets
are cutting my wrists to pieces. I must find that man who locked me up. You
must stay here till I come back––I won’t be a minute,” and the young man
darted out of the room with a ludicrous diving motion of his arms as he
parted the heavy crimson silk hangings at the doorway and caromed against
the big policeman on guard.

262

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
KEARNEY MEETS HIS MATCH.

There was no turning Whitney Barnes away with a soft answer. His appeals
for admission were rising to a strident pitch when his friend opened the
door and yanked him in.
“Have you seen him?” demanded Barnes, looking about wildly.
“No,” Gladwin returned. “I think he escaped.”
“Oh, I don’t mean the robber Johnny,” complained Barnes, shaking out his
handcuffed wrists. “I mean the damned idiot who locked these things on
me.”
“He’s searching the house,” said Gladwin, smiling at his friend’s tragic
earnestness.
Detective Kearney came into the room alert as a race horse.
“We’ve been through the house from cellar to roof,” he spat out while his
eyes searched every corner of the room.
“I say––look here,” said Barnes, “can you unlock me?”
“No!” Kearney would not even look at him.
“Confound it, somebody ought to unlock me!” exclaimed the frantic 263

Barnes. “This is the most annoying position I was ever in in my life. My
valet even couldn’t undress me with these things on.”
“What’s out that way?” asked Kearney, pointing to the panel door that
opened upon the backstairs hallway.
“Kitchen,” said Gladwin, going to the door and opening it.
“Oh, yes,” said Kearney, “the captain’s back there?”

“But look here, detective,” cried Barnes again, “who was that inordinate ass
who locked me up?”
“Ryan!” said Kearney, freezing a smile as it formed on his lips.
“Where is he?”
“On the roof.”
“What the deuce is he doing on the roof?”
“Searching it.”
“Well,” stormed Barnes, “I’ll go up there and if he don’t unlock me I’ll
push him off.”
He dashed out of the room and up the stairs.
“Funny thing where that man got to, Mr. Gladwin,” mused the Central
Office man, with a keen glance from under his heavy eyebrows.
“Yes, those chaps are clever, aren’t they?” returned the young man with
affected unconcern. “I suppose he’s miles away by this time.”
“I don’t think he’s gone very far,” rejoined Kearney, his voice bristling with
suspicion. “He couldn’t have got away without the men outside seeing him. 264

We’ve got the block surrounded now. He’s here in this house, Mr.
Gladwin––I guess you know that.”
“I don’t know anything of the kind,” Gladwin denied, with a trifle too much
emphasis. A policeman appeared in the doorway and Kearney called to him,
“Ryan, I thought you were on the roof.”
“Sergeant Burke sent me down,” responded Ryan. “We’ve got the roofs
covered both way.”
“Did you see the man you put the bracelets on?” asked Kearney.
“No,” replied Ryan, “but I heard a lot of noise going up one of the back
stairways.”
“You better go and find him,” urged Travers Gladwin. “He’s in an awful
state.”
“No,” countermanded Kearney, “never mind him now.”

“But you’re wasting time here,” persisted Gladwin. “I can look after this
room.”
“Oh, no, you can’t!” Kearney flashed back.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re under arrest. I was after you when I happened to find the
other fellow. I haven’t any idea you’ll try and escape, Mr. Gladwin, but a
warrant is a warrant and duty’s duty.”
“But that warrant wasn’t meant for me.”
“No?”
Kearney’s eyes widened with surprise. “Was the girl running off with that
crook?” he asked quickly.
“No,” Gladwin corrected, realizing his break. 265

“Then you better go along with Ryan. Ryan, you take him upstairs and sit
by him till I send for you.”
“See here,” the young man began to splutter as the giant Ryan seized him
and walked him on air out of the room and up the stairs.
Kearney went to the folding doors and shut them.
“He’s in this room somewhere,” muttered the detective, going to the
portières that curtained the window leading out to the balcony.
He was almost touching Wilson when the latter suddenly enveloped him in
the portière he had wrapped around himself and hurled the big detective to
the floor. As Kearney was untangling himself Wilson darted between the
portières, glanced out the window and saw that a leap from the balcony
would land him in the arms of three patrolmen. He shook open the window
and then shrank back into the far corner of the embrasure.
Kearney was on his feet again and sprang out to the balcony.
“He came out this way,” he yelled to the men below. “Did he jump off?”
Kearney darted back into the room, looked everywhere, ran to the folding
doors and flung them open. Then he looked back at the panel door, noticed
that it was ajar and dived for it.

“He’s hiding somewhere in this black alley,” he said with an oath, and
disappeared.
A moment later Wilson peeked out and re-entered the room. He had 266

scarcely left his place of concealment when Officer No. 666 burst in.
“Oh, there ye are, Mr. Gladwin!” said Phelan, with a lovely grin.
“Yes, I’m here,” nodded Wilson.
“I just come back with another bunch of cops,” said Phelan, “but I hear the
crook got away. He’s a smooth snake fer ye.”
“No, I think he’s still in the house,” laughed Wilson, “and I’d like to have
you get the credit of catching him, Phelan. You go outside and report to the
captain, then come back here. Maybe I can help you find him.”
“Thank ye, sorr,” said Phelan, obeying the suggestion.
“Here comes another one,” breathed the thief, hearing a heavy tread and
crossing the room to the big ornamental fireplace which had never known a
spark or speck of soot. There was a mammoth opening in the chimney and
Wilson vanished up it as Kearney plunged back into the room.
As the detective entered through the panel door, Watkins in full chauffeur
regalia appeared from the hallway.
“Well, who sent you?” Kearney pounced on him.
“I don’t know,” Watkins returned. “Some man––Gladwin, I think, is the
name. I was sent here for a lady.”
“Well, you sit out in the hall and wait,” snapped Kearney, who again
267

proceeded to explore the room, muttering and cursing.
The voice of Travers Gladwin in heated argument upstairs with Officer
Ryan became audible.
“I’ll settle that fresh kid!” Kearney ejaculated, and made a break for the
stairs.
His departure was Wilson’s cue to let himself down from the chimney. He
signalled Watkins, who was sitting in the hall. Watkins glided in.
“By George!” exclaimed Wilson, “we are going it some in here. You
certainly are taking big chances butting in. I didn’t think you had the nerve.

It’s a hundred to one against me, but I’ve beaten bigger odds than that. You
get up that chimney and I’ll plant myself in the chest. Quick, they’re
coming down again.”
Watkins went up the chimney with the sinuous speed of a snake, and the
picture expert went into the chest with the agility of a wolf spider ducking
into its trap.
They were coming from all directions this time––Gladwin down the stairs,
about fourteen jumps ahead of Kearney, proclaiming that he would
telephone his lawyer and that he could put up $5,000,000 in bonds for bail
if need be. Phelan was coming through the front door and Captain Stone
through the hallway from the kitchen.
Glimpsing Gladwin, Phelan made a flying dive for him, yelling, “I got him!
I got him!”
They rolled on the floor in a heap. 268

“Have you got him, Phelan?” cried Captain Stone, rushing through the
room and into the hallway.
“I have, sorr,” responded Phelan, proudly, getting to his feet and pulling up
his captive.
“What the devil’s this,” bawled Captain Stone, recognizing Gladwin.
“The thief, sorr,” responded Phelan.
“The thief, hell! That’s Mr. Gladwin!”
“W-w-w-what?” stuttered Phelan. Once again he entered into a condition of
complete mental paralysis.
“Has he hurt you, sir?” asked the captain, solicitously, noticing that
Gladwin’s face was writhing.
“Nothing mortal,” winced the young man.
“What’s the matter with you, Phelan,” the captain jumped on him. “Have
you been drunk to-day?”
“No, sorr,” gurgled Phelan, “I”–––
“Don’t try to stop me, officer, I’ve come for my niece,” crashed the shrill
voice of Mrs. Elvira Burton. She had seized a dramatic moment for her re-

entry.

269

CHAPTER XXXIX.
PILING ON PHELAN’S AGONY.

Mrs. Burton would have arrived much earlier into the midst of the
maelstrom of events at the Gladwin mansion had not Fate in the shape of a
tire-blowout intervened.
She had set out from Police Headquarters with Detective Kearney as a
passenger and she had urged her red-headed chauffeur to pay not the
slightest heed to speed laws or any other laws. He had obeyed with such
enthusiasm that the blowout had occurred at the intersection of Fifth avenue
and Forty-second street.
Late as the hour was there was a large crowd gathered to hear the society
leader of Omaha deliver a lecture in strange French and caustic English.
Kearney had transshipped to a taxicab, which accounted for his earlier
arrival.
“Who’s in charge here?” cried Mrs. Burton, sweeping into the room with all
sails set and drawing to the storm.
“I am,” replied Captain Stone, none too pleasantly as the gold lorgnettes
were waved under his nose.
“Well, I came for my niece––produce her at once,” insisted the panting
270

woman.
“You’ll have to wait a few minutes,” answered Captain Stone, grimly.
“We’re otherwise engaged at present.”
“But I have a warrant––I’ve ordered Mr. Gladwin’s arrest!” she shrilled.
“We’ll attend to that later,” snapped the captain. “We’re looking for a thief
who broke in here to-night.”
“A thief!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. “Well, I saw him.”

“What?” asked the amazed officer.
“Yes, when I was here before, and there he is now, only he’s got a
policeman’s uniform on.”
Mrs. Burton pointed an accusing finger at Michael Phelan, who proceeded
to turn livid.
“You saw that man here before?” asked the wondering captain.
“Yes. He was in his shirt sleeves and when he saw me he ran away to hide.”
“Are you sure about this?” asked Captain Stone slowly, turning and
scowling at the condemned Phelan.
“I should say I am,” declared the relentless Mrs. Burton. “How could I ever
forget that face?”
“C-c-c-captain, I-I-I w-w-want to explain”––chattered Phelan.
“There’ll be time enough for that,” the captain checked him. “For 271 the
present you camp right here in this room. Don’t you budge an inch from it.
That thief is somewhere in this house and we’ve got to find him.”
“Give me my niece first,” cried Mrs. Burton.
Captain Stone ignored the request and shouted to Kearney and the three
men who had followed him into the room:
“Come, we are wasting time. This house must be searched again and
searched thoroughly. I don’t believe you have half done it. Lead the way,
Kearney, we’ll begin on the next floor.”
As they went out Sadie Burton timidly approached Whitney Barnes, who
was still making the rounds of every policeman in the house and pleading to
be unlocked.
“How do you do––what is the matter?” she said timidly, looking up into
Barnes’s distressed face.
“I don’t do at all,” replied Barnes, tragically, folding his arms in an effort to
conceal the handcuffs.
“Why, you seem to have a chill,” Sadie sympathized, with real concern in
her voice.

“I should say I have,” gasped Barnes, “a most awful chill. But it may pass
off. Excuse me, here’s a new policeman I haven’t asked yet.” The young
man crossed the room to Phelan.
“Have you got a key to these infernal shackles?” he asked, while Sadie
looked wonderingly after him.
“I’ve got a key to nothin’,” growled Phelan. “Don’t talk to me––I’d like to
kill some of yez.”

Barnes retreated, backing into Mrs. Burton, who turned and seized him. 272
“Do you know where my niece is?” she demanded.
“Oh, yes, she’s here, only you’re breaking my arm.”
“Where is she and where is that fiend Gladwin?”
“Oh, the fiend Gladwin just went upstairs to her. She’s upstairs asleep.”
“Asleep!”
“Oh, I don’t know––go up and find her, that is––I beg your pardon––I’ll
lead the way––come, Miss Sadie.”
The handcuffed youth led the procession up the stairs, leaving Officer 666
as solitary sentinel in the great drawing room and picture gallery.
“Well, I guess I’m dished fer fair,” groaned Phelan as he mournfully
surveyed the deserted room and allowed his eyes to rest on the portrait of a
woman who looked out at him from mischievous blue eyes.
“An’ all fer a pair o’ them eyes,” he added, wistfully. “’Tis tough.”
He might have gone on at some length with this doleful soliloquy had not a
hand suddenly closed over his mouth with the grip of a steel trap.
Alf Wilson had come out of the chest as noiselessly as he had originally
entered it and good fortune favored him to the extent of placing Phelan with
his back to him while his troubled mind was steeped in a mixture of love
and despair.
As the thief pounced upon the ill-fated Officer 666 he uttered, “Pst! Pst!
273

Watkins!”
That sinuous individual writhed out of the fireplace and came to his
assistance.
“Get his elbows and put your knee in his back,” instructed the thief, “while
I reach for my ether-gun. Thank God! Here it is in my pocket.”
Phelan struggled in a fruitless effort to tear himself free, but Wilson’s grip
was the grip of unyielding withes of steel and the slim and wiry Watkins
was just as muscular for his weight.

It was the task of a moment for the picture expert to bring round the little
silver device he called his ether-gun. Phelan was gasping for breath through
his nostrils, and Wilson had only to press the bulb once or twice before the
policeman’s muscles relaxed and he fell limply into Watkins’s arms.
“That’ll hold him for ten minutes at least,” breathed Wilson. “That’s right,
Watkins, prop him up while I get his belt and coat off––then into the chest.”
Phelan was completely insensible, but his weight and the squareness of his
bulk made it a strenuous task to support him and at the same time remove
his coat. Only a man of Wilson’s size and prodigious strength could have
accomplished the feat in anything like the time required, and both he and
Watkins were purple and breathless when they lowered the again unfrocked
Officer 666 into the chest and piled portières and a small Persian rug on top
of him.
While Watkins held up the lid the thief tore off his claw-hammer coat and274

stuffed that down into the chest. In another instant he had forced his
shoulders into the uniform coat, donned the cap and buckled on the belt.
“Now break for it, Watkins,” he gasped, fighting the buttons into the
buttonholes. “Take it easy out the front door. I’ll go out on the balcony and
call down to the men in the street that it’s all right. Start the engine in the
car and keep it going till I can make my getaway. Now!”
Watkins vanished out the door at the psychological moment. Captain Stone
and Kearney were coming down the stairs engaged in earnest conversation.
So engrossed were they when they entered the room that they failed to
notice the absence of Officer 666, whose uniform was strutting on the
balcony while he himself lay anæsthetized in the chest.
“How could he have been hiding in those portières, Kearney?” Captain
Stone was saying. “I looked through them before I left the room.”
“I don’t know how, Captain,” replied Kearney, “but he was and Gladwin
knew it.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Positive.”
“I say, captain, do you know where Mr. Ryan is?” intervened the roving
Barnes, who seemed to have bobbed up from nowhere in particular with

Sadie in his train.
“He may be in the cellar and he may be on the roof,” snapped the captain.
275

“Don’t bother me now!”
“But I must bother you, by Jove,” persisted the frantic Barnes. “I demand
that you send that man to unlock me. I’m not a prisoner or that sort of
thing.”
Captain Stone ignored him, addressing Kearney:
“Well, if he isn’t out now––he can’t get out without an airship. Still we had
better search some more below stairs. Where’s that man Phelan gone? Look
out on the balcony, Kearney.”
Kearney stepped to the curtains, pulled them back, dropped them, and
nodded, “He’s out there.”
“Very well, let’s go down into the cellar and work up. There isn’t a room in
the house now that isn’t guarded.”
“But, dammit, Captain,” exploded Barnes again, rattling his handcuffs.
“Don’t annoy me––can’t you see I’m busy,” was all the satisfaction he got
as the captain and the Central Office man left the room.
Sadie came forward shyly as the policemen left.
“Did you find out where he is?” she asked anxiously.
“In the cellar or on the roof. When I get to the roof he is in the cellar, and
when I reach the cellar he is on the roof. He’s more elusive than a ghost.”
“Whoever are you talking about?” cried Sadie.
“Mr. Ryan, of course.”
“But I don’t mean Mr. Ryan––I mean the chauffeur who came for Helen.
276
I
heard Mr. Kearney speaking about him upstairs.”
“Oh, there’s a chauffeur after her, too?” said Barnes, enigmatically.
“Yes, and wasn’t it fortunate that the police arrived just in time to save her.”
“The police!” sniffed Barnes in disgust. “A lot they had to do with saving
her.”

“Didn’t they really?”
“They did not. They bungled the whole thing up horribly. Why they’d have
brought in a parson to marry them if it hadn’t been”––Barnes managed to
blush.
“Then who did prevent the elopement?” asked Sadie, eagerly. “I can’t get a
word out of Helen on account of Auntie El.”
“Can’t you guess?” said Barnes, mysteriously, looking down upon her with
a sudden return of ardor.
“Oh, did you do it?” and Sadie looked up at him from under her lashes.
“Didn’t I tell you I’d do it?” swelled Barnes.
Sadie thanked him with her wonderfully expressive eyes.
“Oh, it was nothing,” shrugged Barnes.
“You’re the nicest man I ever met,” blurted Sadie, with astounding
frankness.
“Do you mean that?” cried Barnes, rapturously.
“Indeed I mean it,” admitted Sadie, timidly, backing away from his burning
glances.
“Then you won’t mind my saying,” said Barnes fervently, “that you’re 277
the
nicest ma’––I mean girl––I ever met. Why, would you believe it––confound
it, here’s that man Gladwin again. Please come upstairs and I’ll finish,
handcuffs or no handcuffs.”

278

CHAPTER XL.
STRIKING WHILE THE IRON IS HOT.

As Travers Gladwin skimmed up the stairs to warn Helen of the arrival of
her aunt, he was thinking on four sides of his brain at the same time and
revolving together so many lightning plans, that the result was a good deal
of a jumble. In consequence, he was wild-eyed, out of breath and more than
a trifle incoherent when he parted the crimson curtains of the den and
precipitately entered.
“Your aunt,” he began as he checked his momentum and stopped against a
table beside which Miss Burton was seated, “but don’t get up––and don’t be
frightened. She need never know. I’ll take the blame for everything. I am
the Travers Gladwin you were going to elope with, and I’ll go to jail if
necessary.”
He paused for breath, while Helen rose from her chair and protested.
“Impossible, Mr. Gladwin. I”–––
“Nothing of the sort,” the young man stopped her. “It is perfectly possible,
and I only wish that I were the man you had chosen to elope with. I’d elope
with you now––in a minute––aunt or no aunt.”
“You must not talk that way,” cried the young girl, her face aflame. “You 279

are only saying this out of politeness, a sense of chivalry, and while I
appreciate all you are doing for me I could not accept any such sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice!” he retorted, with increasing ardor. “Call it blessing; call it
heavenly boon; call it the pinnacle of my desire, the apogee of my hopes––
call it anything in the world but sacrifice.”
“Oh, you must not talk to me this way!” exclaimed the girl, sinking back
into her chair and covering her face with her hands.

“But I certainly must,” the young man reeled on. “It is the truth, the whole
truth and nothing but the truth. It has come upon me like a stroke of
lightning––it may not seem reasonable––it may not seem sane. I can’t help
that. It is here––inside of me”–––
“Stop,” Helen interposed again, her voice faint and tremulous. “You are
taking advantage of my helpless situation. Why, you hardly know me!” she
added, with a swift change of tone as if she had made a sudden discovery.
Taking her hands from her face she looked up at him through widening eyes
misty with tears.
The young man bit his lip and turned his head away.
“Pardon me,” he said bitterly, after a moment’s pause. “I had not thought of
it in that light. It does seem as if I were taking advantage of you.” 280He
looked at her steadily a moment until she dropped her eyes.
“Can you think I am that sort of a man?” he asked abruptly and the
tenseness of his voice made her glance up at him again.
Helen made another remarkable discovery––that he had fine eyes and a
splendid mouth and nose.
“Can you think I am that sort of a man?” he repeated slowly, forcing her to
continue to yield her eyes to his earnest regard.
“No, no,” Helen returned hastily. “I did not mean it that way––only I cannot
quite understand it. You never saw me till a few hours ago, and then––and
then I was engaged”–––
She paused and shuddered.
“But that was a case of hypnotism,” burst out the young man, letting
himself go again. “He is a marvelous man. I wish I had half of his strength
of will and––and good looks. It is past belief that he is what he is, with all
his talents, his appearance and his magnificent courage. If it is in my power
the police shall not reach him.
“At first my only object was to save you from the dreadful position of
becoming the wife of such a man, and also from the scandal that must have
followed if your elopement were discovered and he were arrested. But now
I must confess that the man compels my admiration, and that I want to see
him free for his own sake.”

“And he is still in the house?” said Helen, anxiously. 281

“Yes, yes, and here comes your aunt. Now, I pray you, let me take the brunt
of this storm. I will ask nothing more of you. I am Travers Gladwin and we
were to have eloped––do you promise? For here she is.”
“Yes,” Helen whispered, and then the storm burst.
“So here you are at last, Helen Burton,” came the first roll of thunder from
the doorway.
It was not as terrifying a rumble as it might have been had not the
statuesque and tightly laced Mrs. Burton lost a good deal of breath in
coming up the stairs. She came on into the room with tragic step, followed
by Whitney Barnes and Sadie, the latter keeping very close to Barnes as if
she feared that her cousin would cover her with reproaches for having
revealed the secret of the projected elopement.
“Calm yourself, madam; calm yourself,” began Travers Gladwin, as he
stepped between her and her niece.
“And who are you, pray?” asked the majestic woman, haughtily.
“I am to blame for it all,” he cried. “I am Travers Gladwin.”
“What! You are Travers Gladwin! You are the wretch who sought to steal
off in the dead of night with my niece and ward. You! You!”
Mrs. Burton looked unutterable threats and maledictions. Travers Gladwin
282

could not resist a smile, which he hid by bowing low and stammering:
“I must humbly confess to being myself and plead guilty of the crime of
falling passionately in love with your niece. I”–––
Helen rose quickly to her feet and confronted her aunt. There was fire in the
young girl’s eye as she said:
“Aunt Ella, it is all a mistake, this”–––
“Now, Helen,” Gladwin turned and took the young girl’s hand, “please let
me explain. You promised.”
“She promised what?” flared Mrs. Burton.
“She foolishly promised to elope with me,” said Gladwin sweetly, “but
when she got here and thought of the shock and grief that her dear aunt

might suffer she suddenly changed her mind. I had everything arranged––
car waiting, parson waiting, marriage license in my pocket, everything! You
see madam, I am the only guilty party. Your niece was the innocent victim
of my wiles.”
Mrs. Burton looked from one to the other in complete bewilderment. Helen
could only blush and look confused. The immensity of Gladwin’s lie struck
her dumb. Sadie was staring at him in open-mouthed amazement. Even
Whitney Barnes blinked his eyes and forgot his handcuffs.
Travers Gladwin met Mrs. Burton’s frowning and perplexed stare with a
fatuous smile. At last she turned to Whitney Barnes and asked:
“Is he telling the truth?”

“HE’S ALMOST AS MADLY IN LOVE WITH HER AS I AM.”

“Oh, yes,” said Barnes, readily, “and if it hadn’t been for me he might have
283

kidnapped her. He’s almost as madly in love with her as I am––you will
have to excuse me a moment, I think I see that man Ryan.”
The shackled young man suddenly darted out of the room, followed by
Sadie, who seemed irresistibly drawn in his wake.
Mrs. Burton looked after them helplessly. A suspicion suddenly flashed in
her brain and she turned back to Gladwin.
“I feel sure that you are deceiving me,” she charged him, “and that that
other young man is Travers Gladwin. You can’t tell me that his wrists were
not handcuffed, for I just saw them.”
“You are entirely mistaken,” Gladwin returned soberly. “If you will kindly
step out into the music room I will show you a modest portrait of myself
that was painted three years ago by an eminent American artist. Helen you
will pardon us for just a moment,” and he turned with a broad smile that
won him a smile in return, for the humor of the situation had gradually
beaten down whatever other emotions stirred in the girl’s breast.
Like one reluctantly led in a dream, Mrs. Burton allowed Gladwin to escort
her into the music room outside and conduct her to a painting that hung in
an obscure corner of the room.
“Do you think it flatters me?” he asked, as she regarded it dumbly.
She looked at him curiously and then back at the portrait, then shook 284
her
head and muttered:
“There’s a mystery here somewhere. You are all banded together in a
conspiracy. I do not know whom to believe. But it has gone far enough. We
will go back to Omaha to-morrow. I had no idea New York was such a
terrible place. Why are all these policemen running about?”
“Mainly in your interest,” responded Gladwin quickly, “but if you will
consent not to send me to jail I will get them out of the house and keep the
unhappy termination of my romance out of the newspapers.”
“Of course, it must not get in the newspapers,” cried the horrified Mrs.
Burton.

“Then, madam, if you will go back to Helen and promise not to be too hard
with her I will attend to it.”
“Was your father’s name Edwin Gladwin?” asked Mrs. Burton, looking at
him with a swift change of expression as he led her back to the room he
called his den.
“Yes,” said the young man, “but if you will excuse me I will endeavor to get
rid of all these policemen.”
He suddenly darted from her and descended the stairs.

285

CHAPTER XLI.
THE ESCAPE.

While he had not the slightest notion where the picture expert had managed
to conceal himself during his own enforced absence from the scene of the
chase, Travers Gladwin was confident that the man was capable of
outwitting an army of the sort of man-hunters who were swarming within
and without the aristocratic premises.
When he caught sight of Whitney Barnes and Sadie in a tender confab that
was just about to frond out into the full foliage of a romantic climax, it was
on his tongue to bid them carry their hearts upstairs and string them
together in a more secluded spot. They beat him to his own suggestion, and
were gone before he could utter a syllable.
He had the great drawing room and picture gallery to himself and was
scanning every corner of it when a voice punctuated the silence.
“Ah, Mr. Gladwin!”
The young man turned quickly and saw what he at first mistook for a
uniformed constable emerge from the portières that screened the window.
“Well, if it isn’t”––he began in gaping surprise. 286

“Murphy, sorr, only a tighter fit.” Wilson stepped through the curtains
twirling his club.
“So you are 666 now, eh?” Gladwin blurted. “And Phelan”–––
“The gentleman who belongs in this tight-fitting frock? Oh, he’s still
about.”
“And you managed to bribe him?”
“Not exactly that, Mr. Gladwin––say I persuaded him.”

“My hat is off to you again,” exclaimed the young man, “but don’t waste
any time. You can get away easily in that uniform––quick, and good luck.”
“I never hurry in these cases,” returned the thief, with an air of calm
indifference. “You see, I have an idea that the Captain and Kearney are
waiting for me at the front door, for they made a loud declaration that they
were going to search the cellar. I have had similar experiences, my young
friend.”
“But they won’t leave the front door, and they may burst in here at any
moment,” protested Gladwin.
“But they will leave the front door when I want them to,” said the other,
softly.
“By jove, you’re a wonderful chap!”
“I’ve got to be to keep out of jail.”
“It’s a shame that you misdirect your energies and genius,” said the young
man, earnestly.
“But you must acknowledge that I work hard for what I get.”
“Yes, I do.” 287

“And I really love pictures.”
“For themselves?”
“H’m, yes––for themselves.”
Travers Gladwin stood frowning at the floor for a moment, then looked up
quickly.
“See here, then––you’ve worked mighty hard for my pictures and I’m going
to give you a few of the best of them. Here!” And Gladwin stepped over to
the corner of the room where the trunk had been dropped and picked up a
bundle of canvases.
The picture expert wore a broad grin as the young man came toward him.
He waved aside the proffered bundle and said:
“Those are not the best of them. Just a minute.”

He reached behind him and pulled down from under his belted coat a
similar carefully rolled bundle.
“These are the gems of your collection,” he said grimly, offering the slim
roll of canvases. “I can’t keep them now––you’ve been too white about this
whole thing. I couldn’t even accept ‘The Blue Boy.’”
Gladwin refused to accept the paintings and the thief laid them down on the
table. Stepping closer to the young man, he bent down and said low and
earnestly:
“When a man goes wrong, Gladwin, and the going leans against the lines of
least resistance, it’s easier to keep on going than to stop and switch off into
the hard and narrow path. He is always hoping that something will take 288

hold of him and set him right, and that hope usually involves a woman.
“I’ve been dreaming lately that I wanted something to set me going in the
right direction, but it seems that you have beaten me to that, or are on the
fair road to do it. The trouble is that I have forgotten how to go about a
clean thing cleanly.”
“I’m mighty sorry, but”–––Gladwin started.
“But you’re also mighty glad.”
“I shall always remember you, Wilson, and here’s my hand on it that I shall
always be willing to help you up and out of the––the”–––
“The muck!” supplied the thief, accepting Gladwin’s hand and gripping it.
“However, we are wasting time and keeping the ladies up till an
unconscionable hour. If you will get your little Jap down here without
making a noise about it, I can use him and bid you good-night.”
Gladwin went warily out into the hallway, reconnoitered the front door and
vestibule, then went to the stairway and uttered a short, sharp whistle.
Bateato came down as if on winged feet and halted as if turned to stone
between the big man in the uniform of Officer 666 and his master.
“Come here,” said Wilson, and plucked the Jap by the arm.
Bateato trembled with apprehension.
“Would you like to catch the thief?” the picture expert asked him.

289
“Ees, sair.”
Bateato looked at his master, who nodded reassuringly.
“Well, the thief is in your master’s room,” said Wilson, impressively. “Go
up there and bang on the door––take that poker out of the fireplace and
make all the noise you can. Do you understand me?”
“Ees, sair,” and Bateato’s long lost grin returned. “I make bang, bang.”
“Yes, and yell, ‘Police––quick, quick, quick––catch thief.’”
“Ees, sair, big much pleece come and tief run. Bateato run too and pleece
find all empty.”
“Good––hurry!” and Wilson gave the Jap an unnecessary push toward the
fireplace, for the little Oriental fairly flew on his errand.
A moment later there burst upon the stillness of the mansion a frightful
uproar. The noise was distinctly audible in the street, as Wilson had slipped
to the door and opened it, then concealed himself behind a curtain.
It was only a matter of seconds before Captain Stone, Kearney and the
entire outside patrol rushed in and piled up the stairs.
Travers Gladwin had not stirred from where he stood in the drawing-room
when Bateato got his instructions. He was intensely excited and feared that
some slip might spoil this inspired plan.
“Good-by,” came a muffled hail from the hallway. Then there was silence
both within and without.
“Gad, I hope he makes it!” cried the young man and rushed to the window.
290

He had hardly reached there when the stillness was punctured by a crash of
shifting gears and the racket of a sixty horsepower engine thrown into
sudden, furious action.
“He’s gone!” Gladwin breathed, as he saw a touring car hurl itself athwart
his vision. He recognized his former servant, Watkins, at the wheel.

291

CHAPTER XLII.
MICHAEL PHELAN’S PREDICAMENT.

It was as if a great burden had been removed from his shoulders. Leaving
the window and stepping back into the room, Travers Gladwin stretched his
arms above his head and exhaled a long breath of satisfaction.
“Now I can sit down and await developments,” he said to himself, slipping
into a chair and stretching out his legs, “and it will only remain for Michael
Phelan to turn up or to fail to turn up and the mystery of the escape is
explained. Poor Phelan, he must be a terrific simpleton, and I suppose I am
partly to bla”–––
His gaze had wandered to the great chest, the lid of which was distinctly
rising.
Before Gladwin could jump to his feet the lid was thrown back and there sat
the subject of his soliloquy in his shirt sleeves, jerking his head about like a
jack-in-the-box.
“Where in blazes am I?” he groaned as his eyes made out Travers Gladwin.
“You seem to be in the chest,” replied the young man, covering his mouth
with his hand.
“Howly murther! me uniform is gone again!” exploded Phelan, struggling 292

to his feet and examining his shirt sleeves as if he feared he were the victim
of witchcraft.
He climbed out of the chest and turned a vindictive glance upon Gladwin,
who composed his features and said:
“Not guilty this time, Officer.”
Phelan stared at him stupidly for a second and then let his arms and
shoulders go limp. He was a lugubriously pathetic figure as he turned up his
eyes and muttered:

“Now, I remember––they took it off me and drugged me an’ rammed me
into the chest. Wurra! Wurra! I’m a goner now for shure.”
Gladwin was about to speak when there was a run of feet on the stairs and
in burst Captain Stone and Detective Kearney. At the sight of Phelan, the
captain recoiled and his jaw dropped. Kearney likewise regarded him in
blank astonishment.
“Where’s your uniform, Phelan?” roared Captain Stone when he could get
his breath.
“They took it off me––drugged me an’ half murthered me––eight of ’em,”
whined Phelan.
“Eight of ’em!” yelled the captain. “There was only one of them, you
numskull.”
“I hope to croak if there wasn’t two of ’em with the stren’th of eight,”
rejoined Phelan, wiping his dripping forehead and rolling his eyes. “An’
they chloroformed me an’ stuffed me into the chest. You can ask Mr. 293

Gladwin.”
“If you let that thief escape in your uniform, Mike Phelan,” stormed the
infuriated captain, “I’ll break you to-morrow. And as for you, Mr. Gladwin,
if you had a hand in this”–––
“Calm yourself, captain,” returned the young man, “I am unable to claim
the honor. I just happened in here as Mr. Phelan was coming out of the
chest.”
“Why did that Jap make such a thundering racket upstairs?” broke in
Kearney. “The whole thing looks to me like a frame-up.”
Travers Gladwin shrugged his shoulders and said easily:
“Considering the number of policemen on the job, does it not also take on
the aspect of a slip-up? It would make rather amusing reading in the
newspapers, but if you prefer, gentlemen, we can let the matter drop right
here.”
Captain Stone and Kearney looked at each other and found no comfort in
each other’s countenances.

“Even though he got away with one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of my
paintings, slipping out from under your very noses,” Gladwin pressed his
advantage, “I may, for the sake of avoiding notoriety, decide that it is best to
keep the thing quiet. Of course, it is in your power to compel publicity.”
“Not against your wishes, sir,” said Captain Stone, meekly.
“And you, Mr. Kearney,” smiled the young man, looking up into 294
the
frowning visage of the much advertised Central Office man.
“Captain Stone is my superior officer,” said Kearney shortly, through
compressed lips.
“Very well, then, Captain,” Gladwin ran on, “we will just drop the incident
from our minds. You will oblige me by calling off your men at once.”
Captain Stone bowed and left the room, followed by Kearney.
“Well, Phelan,” said Gladwin, turning to that distressed individual, “the
evening’s entertainment seems at an end.”
“’Tis a divvil of an intertainment fer me––I’ll be broke to-morrer.”
“Oh, no, Phelan,” and the young man walked over and patted him on the
shoulder, “not broke––you’ll resign.”
“A swell chance I’ve got to resign––with no shield to turn in. It’ll break the
heart of me poor ould mother.”
There were tears in Michael Phelan’s voice and his woe-begone expression
was pitiable. Young Gladwin hastened to cheer him up.
“I will take it upon myself to see that you are honorably discharged, Phelan.
I can almost swear that a little note to Captain Stone with an inclosure of
say four figures will put through your resignation.”
“But I’ll be out of a job, won’t I?” flared Phelan.
“Not for a minute. I am going to give you a job for life.” 295

“What?”
“Yes, and at twice the salary you were getting. I’m going to appoint you my
private watchman to guard my picture gallery.”

“Sure, an’ this ain’t one o’ your jokes?” Phelan asked, with a dismal effort
to summon a grin.
“Indeed, it is not, and here is that five hundred dollar bill you so foolishly
surrendered to my friend the picture expert. Now, as all your fellow officers
seem to have departed you can begin your duties by going upstairs and
telling the ladies that the blockade has been raised.”
By the time Michael Phelan got the crisp saffron bill tucked away in his
jeans he was in full and glorious grin and made for the stairway with an
agility that was a distinct revelation of hidden resources. A few minutes
later Mrs. Burton entered the room, followed by her two nieces.
As her now calmer eye took in the room and the empty picture frames, Mrs.
Burton exclaimed:
“Whatever have you been doing here?”
“Some of my canvases need cleaning,” was the ready response, with a wink
at Whitney Barnes, who was hovering about Sadie, “so I took the most
valuable ones out of the frames to send them to the cleaners.”
Mrs. Burton swallowed the fib and began a tour of inspection of the room.
“Your father collected some of these, didn’t he?” she said after a pause. 296

“Your father and my father were very good friends. I remember not so long
ago hearing him tell of that portrait of your ancestor,” indicating the Stuart.
“Now I like this one––a Gainsborough, isn’t it?” She had stopped in front of
“The Blue Boy.”
“Do you like that one?” cried the young man.
“It’s charming,” gushed Mrs. Burton.
“It’s yours.”
“Mine! Why, I couldn’t think of it.”
“Please do me the honor of accepting it.”
“After what has occurred to-night? Why, I”–––Mrs. Burton couldn’t take
her eyes from the picture, and seemed thrilled with an ecstasy of
admiration.
“I will have it packed and shipped to you to-morrow.”

Mrs. Burton wheeled upon him with an expression that fairly took him to
her arms.
“You dear, generous boy,” she cried; “if Helen had only confided in me––
here is my card; come to me to-morrow and we will have a family
conference. I”–––
“Auntie,” interposed Helen in alarm.
“I will take charge of all the wedding arrangements,” ran on Auntie, fairly
bubbling over. “Come early in the afternoon, Mr. Gladwin. I must get my
girls to bed. Good night––come, girls.”
Mrs. Burton started for the door and Helen lingered behind.
“Oh, whatever shall I do?” she whispered to Gladwin. 297

“Whatever your heart dictates,” he whispered in reply.
“And did he escape?” came the frightened query, as she dropped her eyes
and blushed.
“Yes, and they will never get him.”
“Thank you!” She gave him her hand for a moment and was gone.

298

CHAPTER XLIII.
THE CIRCUMVENTION OF AUNTIE.

Sadie sat up with a start and rubbed her eyes.
“All right, Nanette,” she said sleepily. “I’m awake.”
The trim, rosy-cheeked maid smiled and swiftly left the room.
She had deposited one armful of fluffy things on a chair beside Sadie’s bed
and another armful of fluffy things on a chair beside Helen’s bed. She had
also performed other mysterious little offices noiselessly before going to the
side of Sadie’s bed.
“And sleeping like an innocent babe,” said the comely Nanette to herself
with a depth of affection in her tone. Then she bent down and called in
Sadie’s ear:
“Ten o’clock, Miss Sadie.”
She had to repeat the whispered call several times before Sadie’s eyelids
fluttered and she stirred into life. The maid had vanished by the time the
younger of the two sleeping beauties had removed the cobwebs from her
eyes.
The twin rosewood beds lay side by side enveloped by the transparent 299

silken hangings of a single canopy. The room was exquisitely done in pink
and everywhere were evidences that the two lucky mortals who slumbered
therein were coddled and pampered to the limit of modern luxury.
Sadie’s robe de nuit, as the fashion magazines put it, was a creation of laces
and ribbons and mighty becoming. She had admitted this to herself as she
surveyed her reflection in the tall oval mirror only five hours before. She
admitted it again as she hopped out of bed and confronted herself in the
same mirror. Then she turned and ran quickly to the side of Helen’s bed.
She bent down and kissed her cousin.

“Get up, Helen,” Sadie urged, as the blue eyes reluctantly opened. “Get up
and dress, dear––we haven’t much time.”
“Much time for what?” asked Helen, sitting up and going through the
ceremony of rubbing her eyes.
“Much time before Auntie wakes.”
A roseate blush spread up from the ribbons at Sadie’s throat to the roots of
her fair hair.
Helen’s eyes were wide open now and she looked at her cousin in frowning
puzzlement.
“And Mr. Hogg is expected,” said Sadie, with swift inspiration.
“Whatever are you driving at?” asked Helen.
“Are you anxious to greet Mr. Hogg?” pouted Sadie.
“No,” was the vehement response. 300

“Then we must be out when he comes––and I have an important
engagement at eleven.”
Helen shot two little pink feet out of the covers and planked them down on
the velvety rug.
“Whom have you an engagement with, Sadie Burton?” she asked, with
breathless eagerness.
“I have an engagement to elope!”
This time Sadie turned her head to hide her blushes.
Helen seemed actually paralyzed. There was an intense pause before Sadie
wheeled round, flung her head defiantly and said with more fire than she
had ever in her life displayed:
“With Mr. Whitney Barnes––and you are going to assist me––you and Mr.
Gladwin.”
“You––cannot––be––serious, Sadie?” said the older cousin, slowly.
“I am, though!” was the passionate rejoinder. “Nanette and I packed my
steamer trunk after you and Auntie went to bed. Hurry now, Helen, dear, for

we must be at the Little Church Around the Corner at eleven o’clock. I am
going to wear my gray travelling dress and you your brown.”
“Why, you dreadful little minx, you!” cried Helen. “If you are poking fun at
me I will never forgive you.”
“I am not poking fun,” retorted Sadie with the same ardor and almost in
tears. “It is all planned and arranged. Whitney promised to have everything
301

ready at the church, including Travers Gladwin. He said he couldn’t wait
another minute after eleven o’clock––that the suspense would kill him––
and he was so terribly in earnest about it that I believe him.”
“You goose!” exclaimed Helen, but now she was smiling and there was a
happy light in her eyes.
“Do you mean to tell me, Sadie Burton,” she added, “that you fell in love
with that young man in a few hours––you, the man-hater!”
“Y-y-yes,” admitted Sadie, her cheeks again on fire.
“And a man you don’t know anything about––a perfect stranger!”
This brought the fire into the timid miss’s eyes and she returned warmly:
“I know everything about him, Helen Burton––his whole family history,
and he is only obeying orders in rushing the ceremony.”
“Obeying orders?”
“Yes, his father commanded him to marry me at once––and if he doesn’t
obey he will be disinherited and have to become a plumber or something to
make a living. His father is Joshua Barnes, the mustard king––you must
have heard of him. When I told Auntie who he was she almost collapsed
and said something about Joshua Barnes buying and selling twenty hogs––I
suppose she meant Jabez Hogg.”
“Why, I never heard of such a thing, Sadie. Mr. Barnes could not have been
serious. His father never saw you in his life.”
“Oh, but he telephoned his father all about it before he proposed to me. 302
He
was sure I would say yes. He is a wonderful mind-reader and believes in
mysteries and Fate. He said the minute he saw me he knew I was his Fate.”

Once more the modest Sadie was in a state bordering on conflagration.
Helen’s eye sobered as she looked at and beyond Sadie.
“That was the very thing Travers Gladwin––I mean the real one––said to
me,” she mused.
“He did!”
“Yes, and the way things have turned out it would seem”–––
Helen stopped and covered her face with her hands. Sadie ran to her and put
her arms about her.
“You are going to help us, aren’t you, Helen dear?” said Sadie, tremulously.
“I would tell Auntie about it only she would want a tremendous wedding
and all that. Whitney and I both hate big weddings. I am too timid and he is
too nervous––says he might swallow the ring and choke to death. You will
now, Helen darling?”
There was a little sob in Sadie’s voice and Helen surrendered.
“You are doing a very rash thing, Sadie,” Helen lectured, striving to draw
her brows into an expression of impressive solemnity. “My own terrible
experience should have been a lesson to you––a warning––a”–––
“But it was Whitney Barnes who saved you, Helen!” cried Sadie, exultantly.
303

“You owe it all to him and that is why I began to love him!”
“Nonsense!” retorted Helen sharply. “Mr. Barnes had nothing whatever to
do with it. All he did was to get himself handcuffed and run about absurdly
trying to be unlocked.”
“But he was on watch and planned and planned,” Sadie defended her hero.
“Sadie Burton, I say that Whitney Barnes had nothing whatever to do with
it. He was merely an instrument. Travers Gladwin did it all. I owe
everything to him––everything! He would have gone to jail for me,
sacrificed all his wonderful paintings––oh, Sadie, it was wonderful of him!”
It was Sadie who was thunderstruck now by the ardor in her cousin’s voice.
Her amazement soon gave way to a beaming smile, and she mumbled as
she turned to her dressing table, “I do believe she is in love with him.”

304

CHAPTER XLIV.
MISS FEATHERINGTON’S SHATTERED DREAM.

Marietta Featherington couldn’t seem to concentrate her mind upon that
thirteenth chapter of “Lily the Lovely Laundress.” The handsome rat-
catcher had just beaten the aristocratic villain to a pulp and would have
finished the job neatly and thoroughly had not Lily raised her lovely fair
hand and cried with the imperiousness of an empress:
“Pause, Giovanni! Pause! He may have a mother!”
Ordinarily Miss Featherington would have raced through the pages
hungrily, avidly. Not so on this fair November afternoon. Whether it was
the mince pie and melted cheese she had partaken of a bare hour before, or
whether it was the even-more-so-than-usual grumpy mood of her employer,
Joshua Barnes, she could not tell. Perhaps it was neither. She refused to
analyze it. Whatever the cause, she felt heavy and wistful and sad.
From time to time the emotional Miss Featherington allowed Whitney
Barnes to flit through the corridors of her imagination. He had walked
heavily through her dreams the night before. His strange words of yesterday
305

had strangely moved her. Desperately she had striven to solve the mystery.
Were they words of love? If so, how would Old Grim Barnes accept the
declaration from his son’s lips that he loved the humble though, yes, though
beautiful stenographer lady of the Barnes Mustard Company, Limited?
Miss Featherington had half expected to walk into Joshua Barnes’s presence
that morning and meet with a torrent of abuse. She had rehearsed a cold and
haughty retort. But her employer had greeted her with a gruff, “Good-
morning,” and an expression that was equivalent to a smile.
Alas! the prince had not spoken.
Marietta pounded out forty-two letters containing references to as many
different kinds of assorted and selected mustard before she succeeded in

dismissing the heir to the mustard millions from her romantic thoughts and
creating a new hero in his stead. The new hero some way fell down and she
picked up “Lily the Lovely Laundress.” But even the “Lovely Lily” failed
to thrill and she laid the book aside.
A long sigh was escaping from the depressed maiden’s bosom when the
door of the anteroom opened and who should enter but Whitney Barnes.
Marietta swallowed her sigh and clasped her hand over her palpitating
heart.
The young man was not alone, however, and he did not deign Miss
306

Featherington a glance as he held the door open and cried:
“Come in, children!”
The children were none other than Helen and Sadie and Travers Gladwin.
Nor did they deign Miss Featherington a glance as they assembled in a little
group, talking in hushed tones and punctuating their talk with suppressed
laughter.
By the time Whitney Barnes did turn to Marietta that young lady’s nose was
elevated to an excruciating angle––so much so that she was unable to fulfill
her desire to sniff. There was cold hauteur in her stare as she met the smile
of Whitney Barnes and replied to his query:
“Yes, Mr. Barnes, your father is in and alone.”
“Thank you, Miss Featherington,” cried the young man, gaily, and an
instant later the little party of four had vanished behind a mahogany portal.
Joshua Barnes was bent over his desk writing, as the door opened
noiselessly and the four young people entered. When he looked up his son,
Travers Gladwin and Helen were lined up beside his chair, the two young
men smiling sheepishly and the girls blushing crimson and looking down at
the floor.
“Hello, Pater,” opened Whitney Barnes, “you remember Travers Gladwin.
This is Mrs. Gladwin, a bride of sixty-seven minutes!”
Old Grim Barnes was on his feet in an instant with a gallant bow to Helen
and a hearty handshake for the bridegroom.
307

For a second or two he failed to descry Sadie, who, as per rehearsal, was
hidden behind the two young men. As, with a look of surprise, he spied her,
Helen drew Sadie to her and managed to stammer:
“And this is my cousin Sadie, Mr. Barnes.”
Sadie dropped a timid courtesy, her face on fire.
“How do you do, Miss––er”–––
Joshua Barnes was feasting his eyes on Sadie’s shy beauty and smiling
benignly.
“I didn’t catch the name,” he added, turning to Helen.
“B-b-b,” she began, when Whitney Barnes came to her rescue.
“Barnes, pater––Mrs. Sadie; that is, Mrs. Whitney Barnes––a bride of
seventy-seven minutes.”
Whitney Barnes beamed upon his father and put his arm about the old
gentleman’s shoulders to support him.
“How do you like my choice, dad?––isn’t she a darling? Why don’t you ask
to kiss the bride?”
Joshua Barnes breathed with difficulty for a moment and his eyes blinked.
Slowly he looked for confirmation in the faces of the newlywed Gladwins,
and when they both nodded and smiled, he returned his glance to Sadie,
who had turned very pale and was beginning to tremble.
The mustard king shook off his son’s arm and gathered Sadie to him with a
bear hug.
He kissed her ten times in succession and then let her down in his chair and
308

patted her shoulder. Joshua Barnes was so happy that tears glistened in his
eyes. He continued to look at Sadie for a long moment before he turned to
his son and gulped:
“Whitney Barnes, you scoundrel––have you been keeping this from me?”
“Why no, dad,” came the laughing answer. “I telephoned you about it last
night, and you called me”–––
“For the first time in my life I made a mistake, Whitney Barnes,” his father
checked him, “and you both have my blessing a thousandfold––provided

you will take me in as a boarder.”
“Done!” exclaimed Whitney Barnes.

THE END

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Iron Trail, The Rex Beach
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Mediator The Roy Norton
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