“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.