“Who do you suppose I am? Travers Gladwin, of course.”
Even the fear-numbed Helen Burton was startled into animation by this amazingly nervy declaration and half rose from the chair she had been guided to and forced into by Gladwin when she seemed on the verge of swooning at Phelan’s refusal to permit her to depart.
Phelan expressed wonder and alarm in every feature and his arms flopped limply at his side as he muttered:
“Travers Gladwin––youse!”
“Don’t listen to him, Phelan,” cried Gladwin.
“Shut up!” Phelan turned on him.
“When I came home to-night,” the thief pressed his advantage, “this man was here––robbing my house, dressed in your uniform––yes, and you yourself were helping him.”
“But I didn’t know,” whined the distressed Phelan, yielding himself utterly to the toils of the master prevaricator.
“I don’t think you did it intentionally––but why did you do it?” the thief let him down with a little less severity of emphasis.