Phelan wrung his hands and took a turn around the room. Now and again he stopped and shook 149 his fist at the ceiling, and at last, beside himself, he made 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 150 wide-awake and getting on his feet. “Why, I’m keeping watch at the window––on guard as it were.”