“Less noise,” said the detective sharply. “Get back!” he snapped, as the other took a step forward.
“Do you know who I am?” thundered McEachern.
“No,” said the detective. “And that’s just why you’re wearing those bracelets. Come, now, don’t be a fool, the game’s up; can’t you see that?”
McEachern leaned helplessly against the billiard-table. He felt weak. Everything was unreal. Had he gone mad? he wondered.
“That’s right,” said the detective—“stay there. You can’t do any harm there. It was a pretty little game, I’ll admit. You worked it well—meeting your old friend from New York and all, and having him invited to the castle. Very pretty. New York, indeed! Seen about as much of New York as I have of Timbuctoo. I saw through him.”
Some inkling of the truth began to penetrate McEachern’s consciousness. He had become so obsessed with the idea that, as the captive was not Spike, it must be Jimmy, that the possibility of Mr. Galer being the subject of discussion only dawned upon him now.
“What do you mean?” he cried. “Who is it that you have arrested?”
“Blest if I know. You can tell me that, I should think, seeing he’s an old Timbuctoo friend of yours. Galer’s the name he goes by here.”
“Galer!”
“That’s the man. And do you know what he had the impudence, the gall, to tell me? That he was in my own line of business. A detective! He said you had sent for him to come here.”