“On guard, is it?” snorted Phelan. “On guard an’ snorin’ like a bazoo. ’Tis a fine night watchman ye’d make. But, say, hain’t ye seen nothin’ o’ Mr. Gladwin since?”
“Now, I told you, Officer,” returned Barnes severely, “that I would let you know just as soon as he returned. I have been keeping guard here, and no one could enter the house without my knowing it. You will kindly return to the kitchen and wait.”
“An’ you got no word from him?” asked Phelan, in manifest distress.
“No,” with emphasis.
“Oh, my! oh, my!” complained Phelan bitterly. “Sure this is the worst muddle I ever got mesilf into! The sergeant will find him in that uniform, sure. It’ll cost me me job, that’s what it will! How late is it now?”
Barnes consulted his watch.
“Five minutes past ten.”
“Howly Moses! If I ever get out of this scrape I pity the mon that offers me money fer the lind o’ me uniform agin. I’ll grab him by the”–––
A sharp ring at the doorbell cut him short and wrote another chapter of tragedy in his countenance.
“Hello! there’s some one at the door,” spoke up Barnes. “You’d better go and see who it is, Officer.”