Whiteside was there; gagged and bound to the same chair that had held Crenshaw.
The rooms were in confusion. Everything had been gone through; clothes were scattered over the floor, papers were strewn about, drawers stood open.
They released Whiteside, and presently he was able to talk.
“When did it happen?” Ranleigh asked.
“About five o’clock this afternoon, sir,” Whiteside replied, in a most apologetic tone. He knew there was no sympathy and no excuse for the detective who let his prisoner escape. “The bell rang. I went to the door—and was shot senseless by a chemical revolver. When I came to, I had exchanged places with the prisoner, and he and another man were just departing. ‘My compliments to Mr. Harleston when he returns,’ said Crenshaw, as he went out.”
“Describe the other man!” said Ranleigh.
“Medium sized, slender, dark hair and eyes, good features, looked like a gentleman, wore a blue sack-suit, black silk tie, and stiff straw hat.”
“It’s Sparrow,” Harleston remarked. “Did they take anything with them?”
“Nothing whatever that I saw, sir.”
“You’re excused until morning,” said the Chief curtly.