It was as if a great burden had been removed from his shoulders. Leaving the window and stepping back into the room, Travers Gladwin stretched his arms above his head and exhaled a long breath of satisfaction.
“Now I can sit down and await developments,” he said to himself, slipping into a chair and stretching out his legs, “and it will only remain for Michael Phelan to turn up or to fail to turn up and the mystery of the escape is explained. Poor Phelan, he must be a terrific simpleton, and I suppose I am partly to bla”–––
His gaze had wandered to the great chest, the lid of which was distinctly rising.
Before Gladwin could jump to his feet the lid was thrown back and there sat the subject of his soliloquy in his shirt sleeves, jerking his head about like a jack-in-the-box.
“Where in blazes am I?” he groaned as his eyes made out Travers Gladwin.
“You seem to be in the chest,” replied the young man, covering his mouth with his hand.
“Howly murther! me uniform is gone again!” exploded Phelan, struggling to his feet and examining his shirt sleeves as if he feared he were the victim of witchcraft.
He climbed out of the chest and turned a vindictive glance upon Gladwin, who composed his features and said:
“Not guilty this time, Officer.”