“You’re very disagreeable,” Gladwin charged him; then to Helen, “I’m awfully sorry I cannot go with you, but I think you can find the way yourself. Just go out through the hall, and”–––
“She’ll stay right here with the rest o’ yez,” was Phelan’s ultimatum, as he squared himself in the doorway with the heroic bearing of a bridge-defending Horatius.
The only member of that tense little tableau who really had anything to fear from the spectre of the law embodied in the person of Officer 666 had waited for Gladwin to play his poor hand and, conceiving that this was the psychological moment, sauntered across the room and said with easy assurance:
“Officer, if there’s anything further you want of me, you’ll have to be quick.”
“Yez’ll wait here, too, till I can communicate with headquarters,” Phelan gave him back, not liking the tone of command.
“Then hurry up, because it won’t go well with you if I am detained.”
“Now, don’t yez threaten me!” exploded Phelan. “I’m doin’ me duty by the book.”
“Threaten you! Why, I can show you that you have been helping to rob my house.”
This was a new current of thought––a sudden 232 inspiration––but this peer of bluffers managed to crowd a volume of accusation in the slow emphasis with which he said it.
“Your house!” gasped Phelan, rocked clear off the firm base he had scarcely planted himself on. “What do ye mean––who are yez?”