“Gee whiz, it’s all off now, for fair,” thought Patsy. “I’m booked for all I’ve invited, unless the chief shows up.”
There certainly were indications of it. Gridley snatched the paper from Magill and read it himself, then uttered a terrible oath.
“This does settle it,” he fiercely muttered. “A detective—that’s what he is!”
“Sure thing,” snarled Magill.
“Search him from head to foot, Phelan. We must find out who he is and where we stand. See if that hair is his own and—ah, it’s not his own, eh? Off with it, Phelan, the whole business.”
Phelan set to work with vicious zest, and in a very few moments he not only had Patsy stripped of his disguise, but also the contents of his pockets spread upon the table—handcuffs, searchlight, two revolvers, a well-filled pocketbook, a handkerchief, keys, and other minor articles.
None of them bore his name and address, however, nor did Nick’s brief, though very significant note, bear his signature.
A cry of increasing rage broke from Magill when the truth thus was forced upon him, but Gridley checked him with a gesture, saying sternly:
“You keep quiet, Turk, and let me handle this fellow.”
“But, blast him——”