“Easy, son––easy. I don’t like to have little boys talk to me like that,” and turning to the doorway behind him he beckoned. The obedient Watkins sidled in and stopped with head averted from Gladwin, who started with surprise at seeing him.
Stepping forward and making sure there could be no mistake, Gladwin turned to the thief and exclaimed:
“Oh, now I understand how you knew all about my house. This is what I get for not sending this man to jail where he belonged.”
“Don’t bother with him, Watkins,” snarled the big fellow, as he noted his companion’s complexion run through three shades of yellow.
“There’s no time to bother with him,” he went on, and reaching out he caught Travers Gladwin by 218 the shoulder and whirled him half way across the room.
The young man spun half a dozen times as he reeled across the carpet and he had to use both hands to stop himself against a big onyx table. As he pulled himself up standing he saw that Watkins had lifted the trunk on his shoulders and was headed for the hallway.
“Phelan!” he gasped out. “Here, quick!”
Officer 666 came out with the snort and rush of a bull.
“Stop that man,” cried the thief, pointing to Watkins, “he’s trying to get out of here with a trunkful of pictures.”
The man’s hair-trigger mind had thought this out before Phelan was half way round the table. One lightning glance at the thickness of the patrolman’s neck and the general contour of his rubicund countenance had translated to him the sort of man he had to deal with.