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. 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’.”