“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.
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.”