"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."

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.



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.

"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. "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 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 compliment of 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) 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 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. "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 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 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."

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.



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 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 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 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 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"——

"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.

"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 portieres 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.



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. Then he 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 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 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 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 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—wrung 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 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.



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 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. 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.

"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 portieres that curtained the window leading out to the balcony.

He was almost touching Wilson when the latter suddenly enveloped him in the portiere he had wrapped around himself and hurled the big detective to the floor. As Kearney was untangling himself Wilson darted between the portieres, 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 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 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.

"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.



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 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 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.

"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! 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 portieres and a small Persian rug on top of him.

While Watkins held up the lid the thief tore off his claw-hammer coat and 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 anaesthetized in the chest.

"How could he have been hiding in those portieres, 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. "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. 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 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."



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 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." He 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.

"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 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?"



"Oh, yes," said Barnes, readily, "and if it hadn't been for me he might have 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 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.



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 portieres that screened the window.

"Well, if it isn't"—he began in gaping surprise.

"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."

"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 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.

"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. 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.



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 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. 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 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."

"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. "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.

"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.



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 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.

"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 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. 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. "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."



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 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 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.

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: