“Ah! That’s very interesting,” said Average Jones with a keen glance. “Of course when I examined it and found no locks, I guessed that it was a trick chain, and that there were invisible springs in the wrist loops.”
“But why should any one chain Mr. Greene to his bed with a trick chain?” questioned Mrs. Hale, whose mind had been working swiftly.
“He chained himself,” explained Jones, “for excellent reasons. As there is no regular trade in these things, I figured that he probably bought it from some juggler whose performance had given him the idea. So,” continued Jones, producing a specimen of his advertisements in the theatrical publications, “I set out to find what professional had sold a ‘prop’, to an amateur. I found the sale had been made at Marsfield, Ohio, late in November of last year, by a ‘Slippery Sam,’ termed ‘The Elusive Edwardes.’ On November twenty-eighth of last year Mr. Harvey M. Greene, of Richmond, Virginia, was registered at the principal, in fact the only decent hotel, at Barsfield. I wrote to him and here he is.”
“Yes; but where is my necklace?” cried Mrs. Hale.
“On my word of honor, madam, I know nothing of your necklace,” asserted Greene, with a painful contraction of his features. “If this gentleman can throw any more light—”
“I think I can,” said Average Jones. “Do you remember anything of that night’s events after you broke off the bedpost and left your room—the meeting with a guest who questioned you in the hall, for example?”
“Nothing. Not a thing until I awoke and found myself on the fire-escape.”
“Awoke?” cried Kirby. “Were you asleep all the time?”
“Certainly. I’m a confirmed sleep-walker worst type. That’s why I go under an alias. That’s why I got the trick handcuff chain and chained myself up with it, until I found it drove me fighting’, crazy in my sleep when I couldn’t break away. That’s why I slept in my dressing-gown that night at the Denton. There was a red light in the hall outside and any light, particularly a colored one, is likely to set me going. I probably dreamed I was escaping from a locomotive—that’s a common delusion of mine—and sought refuge in the first door that was open.”
“Wait a minute,” said Average Jones. “You—er—say that you are—er—peculiarly susceptible to—er—colored light.”