Arriving at the stoop of his home he reconnoitered the avenue in both directions and then looked up at the black windows of the house. A sudden lull had come upon the neighborhood and there seemed not a soul stirring. He sped lightly up the stoop and let himself in. He was surprised to find the lights burning brilliantly in the drawing-room and no sign of Barnes. The heavy curtains, he saw, were carefully arranged to prevent the merest ray of light from showing outside. He took the further precaution, however, of turning off all but the single globe in one lamp.
He speculated on the disappearance of Barnes until he heard a stealthy step approaching through the corridor that led to the kitchen. Without noise he glided to the window and concealed himself behind the curtains.
He had scarcely hidden himself when the hinged 163 panel that answered for a door opened slowly and the countenance of Michael Phelan protruded itself into the room. The Phelan shoulders and embonpoint, still in negligee, followed. Taking a cautious step forward he uttered behind his hand:
“Pst! Pst! Hey, youse there!”
There was no answer, and Phelan worked his head round like a wary weazel, muttering:
“Who was that woman, I wonder? She must have took that Slim Jim away with her. Musha! Musha! If they should call the police. Bad cess to that feller an’ his five hundred dollar bill. Murther! Murther! I’m done fer!”
Travers Gladwin had stepped out of the folds of the curtain.
“Hey, there!” he blurted. “What are youse up to?”
“Howly Saint Pathrick! I’m gone now, sure!” groaned Phelan, and trembled where he stood.
“Come, come, Officer 666,” laughed Gladwin, “I’m only your ghost.”