“Now, officer, is there anything I can do for you?”
“Thank you, Mr. Gladwin––I got to get the patrol wagon here some way.”
If Bateato had entered into an inflexible contract with himself not to utter another syllable before the break of day at least he might have eased Phelan’s mind on that score and informed him that something ominously like a patrol wagon was rounding the corner at that moment. And if the art collector had not been so keenly amused at his facile conquest of the gullible bluecoat his alert ears might have warned him to say something entirely different from this:
“I’d call the wagon for you, officer, only I’m afraid these people might overpower you and get away with that trunk of pictures. You see what a nice mess they’ve been making of my picture gallery. Why, if I hadn’t happened in to-night they would have walked off with half a million dollars’ worth of paintings.”
“You call the wagon, Mr. Gladwin,” returned Phelan, grimly. “I kin handle the lot of o’ them an’ ten more like them.”
“All right, officer, but be very careful––I shan’t be long.”
And turning with a mocking bow to Travers Gladwin, he sauntered out into the hallway and walked into the arms of Police Captain Stone and ten reserves.