Phelan stared at him stupidly for a second and then let his arms and shoulders go limp. He was a lugubriously pathetic figure as he turned up his eyes and muttered:
“Now, I remember––they took it off me and drugged me an’ rammed me into the chest. Wurra! Wurra! I’m a goner now for shure.”
Gladwin was about to speak when there was a run of feet on the stairs and in burst Captain Stone and Detective Kearney. At the sight of Phelan, the captain recoiled and his jaw dropped. Kearney likewise regarded him in blank astonishment.
“Where’s your uniform, Phelan?” roared Captain Stone when he could get his breath.
“They took it off me––drugged me an’ half murthered me––eight of ’em,” whined Phelan.
“Eight of ’em!” yelled the captain. “There was only one of them, you numskull.”
“I hope to croak if there wasn’t two of ’em with the stren’th of eight,” rejoined Phelan, wiping his dripping forehead and rolling his eyes. “An’ they 293 chloroformed me an’ stuffed me into the chest. You can ask Mr. Gladwin.”
“If you let that thief escape in your uniform, Mike Phelan,” stormed the infuriated captain, “I’ll break you to-morrow. And as for you, Mr. Gladwin, if you had a hand in this”–––
“Calm yourself, captain,” returned the young man, “I am unable to claim the honor. I just happened in here as Mr. Phelan was coming out of the chest.”
“Why did that Jap make such a thundering racket upstairs?” broke in Kearney. “The whole thing looks to me like a frame-up.”