When he came to the great white square mansion of Travers Gladwin, he paused and studied it shrewdly with his eye. It was one of the most important functions of his patrol to study the fronts of all unoccupied dwellings and see that every window was down and every door was closed. First he looked into the areaway of the Gladwin home and then his eye travelled up the wide balustraded stoop to the ornamental bronze doors.
“What’s this!” he gasped in astonishment. “Sure, I read in the papers on’y this morning that Travers Gladwin was in Agypt. ’Tis a bold thafe who’ll go in the front door in broad day, so here’s where Mary Phelan’s son makes the grand pinch he’s been dreamin’ on this six months back and gets his picture in the papers.”
CHAPTER VII.
THE LITTLE BROWN JAP.
Patrolman Phelan wrapped his sinewy fist about the handle of his club with a vicious grip as he proceeded cautiously up the steps. The heavy bronze door had been left ajar, and he squeezed through without opening it further, then paused in the vestibule and listened. What he heard seemed no more than the tread of a spider, and the thought rushed into his head:
“’Tis one of that felt-soled kind. ’Tis tip-toes for Phelan.”
He had noted that even the inside door was open, and he swiftly divined from this that the thief had left it open for his own convenience or for some other purpose connected with the mysteries of burglar alarms. Inch by inch the policeman moved across the vestibule and wriggled through the door into the richly carpeted hallway.
It was with a distinct sense of relief that he felt his heavy boots sink noiselessly into the deep ply of a precious Daghestan rug. One of Phelan’s boots had a bad creak in it, and he knew that the master 45 crook who would attempt such a robbery as this would have an acute sense of hearing.