“What’s the matter?” cried Michael, while Lambart busied himself with making the room tidy and replacing overturned chairs.
“This man,” said Denby, still panting from his efforts, “tried to break in, and Miss Cartwright and I got him.”
“Good Lord!” Michael ejaculated.
“How splendid of you!” Alice cried. “Ethel, you’re a heroine, my dear.”
Taylor, who had not been put out by the blow, scrambled to his feet and was pushed into a chair. Denby stood conveniently near with the revolver a foot from his heart.
“I never saw a more typical criminal,” Michael said, severely looking at the captive; “every earmark of it. I could pick him out of a thousand. Now, Denby, we want to hear all about it.”
“He’s crazy,” Taylor shouted indignantly. “Don’t you believe him. He’s the crook. I’m an agent of the United States Customs and I came here to get Denby.”
“That’s a pretty poor bluff,” Denby scoffed. “This porch climber was one of the two who held up Monty and Miss Rutledge in the grounds to-night.”
“I said they’d break in!” Alice cried, and believed her statement. “And how fortunate Ethel moved her room. This man looks like the sort who wouldn’t stop short of murder, Michael.”
“The lowest human type!” Michael cried. “Look at his eyes and ears, and nose!”