"Yes, sir."
"And there"s no other way out save through the front door or by way of this balcony behind those curtains?"
"No, sir."
"And," still running his finger over the diagram, "on the floor above are Gladwin"s apartments."
"Yes, sir, at the head of the stairs--first door to the left."
"H"m, very good," slipping the diagram back into his pocket and lifting his eyes to the great portrait of the ancestral Gladwin.
"Ah!" he exclaimed suddenly and with palpable relish, "that"s a Stuart! Is that the great-grandfather, Watkins?"
"Yes, sir," responded Watkins, without any of his companion"s enthusiasm.
"H"m," with the same grim emphasis, and off came the overcoat to be carelessly tossed across his hat and stick. His eye fell upon the great antique chest by the wall.
He lifted the lid to inspect its void interior. Glancing up above it, he motioned to Watkins and said:
"Here, help me get this out of the way."
Watkins glided to one end of the chest and together they hauled it clear of the wall. This done, he addressed Watkins as if he were but a creature to command:
"I can manage alone in here, but I want to be ready to leave by the time Miss Burton arrives. You go outside and wait in the car--and keep a sharp lookout."
Watkins bowed himself out with his stereotyped, "Yes, sir," and the door clicked gently after him.
The now lone invader returned to his interested survey of the paintings that covered the walls, turning easily on his heel until his line of vision embraced "The Blue Boy."
From his difficult peephole Travers Gladwin could see the sharp, stern features wrinkle with smiles before the intruder laughed lightly and breathed with seeming great enjoyment:
"Ha! The Blue Boy."
The smile went out as swiftly as it had come and was replaced by an utterly different expression as he swung about and visualized the Rembrandt on the wall above where the great empty chest had stood.
There was reverence and quick admiration in every feature as he bowed and exclaimed with a long sigh:
"Rembrandt! Rembrandt! G.o.d!--to paint like that!"
The emotions of this remarkable young man came and went with the quickness of his eye.
While still in the act of outpouring his admiration he whipped from the tail of his dress coat a flat fold of a dozen or more sheets of wrapping paper, shook them out and laid them on the lid of the chest.
With another swift gesture he produced a knife, sprang the thin gleaming blade and walked up to the Rembrandt.
He raised the knife to the canvas with the ease of a practiced hand, when he heard a movement behind him, and turned his head.
Travers Gladwin had stepped from the sheltering screen of portieres and stopped abruptly.
Whatever shock this sudden apparition of a uniformed policeman was to the man caught in the act of cutting a priceless canvas from its frame he managed to conceal by taking tight grip of every muscle in his body.
His eyes revealed nothing. There was no rush of color to or from his face. His first change of expression was to smile.
Dropping the arm that poised the knife, he let himself down easily from tiptoe and turned squarely to Gladwin.
"Good evening, Officer," he said without a tremor, showing his teeth in as engaging a smile as Travers Gladwin had ever looked upon.
"Evenin"!" said Gladwin, shortly, with an admirable affectation of Phelan"s brogue.
"Do you find something on the balcony that interests you?" said the other slowly, still holding his smile and his amazingly confident bearing.
"You climbed up there to enjoy the moonlight, perhaps?" he added, even more softly, gaining rea.s.surance from the wooden expression that Gladwin had forced upon his features.
"No, not the moonlight," responded the uniformed similitude of Officer 666, "the other light. I seen "em go on. This house has been closed for months."
"Oh, yes, to be sure," the other shrugged. "You"re most alert, Officer--right on the job, as they say. I congratulate you."
"I"ve been watching this house ever since Mr. Gladwin went away," said Gladwin slowly, unable to make up his mind whether to call Phelan or to continue the intensely interesting dialogue.
His visitor decided the situation for him by coolly lighting a cigar, taking a few deliberate puffs and turning it over in his fingers to inspect it as if it were the only object worth attention in the room.
Gladwin read this elaborate by-play for what it was worth--an effort to decide just how best to play his part--and was pleasantly thrilled with the realization that he himself was so well disguised in the uniform of Officer 666.
So he clung to his own role and forgot Michael Phelan.
"H"m," said the invader, reflectively. "That"s very good of you, Officer. Let me offer you this as a slight token of my appreciation."
His left hand slid into his trousers pocket and brought up a roll of bills. His nonchalance was a perfect mask as he stripped off one of the bills and held it out carelessly to Gladwin.
On his part, Gladwin"s expression was superbly blank as he reached for the bill, pocketed it and said with his purring brogue:
"Thank ye, sorr! And might I ask who ye are?"
"H"m, that"s good," chuckled the other, now thoroughly master of himself and utterly confident.
"Now, who do you suppose, Officer, would come to the front door--unlock it--walk in and turn up the lights?--a thief?"
"They do sometimes," said Gladwin, c.o.c.king his head to one side with an air of owlish wisdom.
The other raised his eyebrows to express surprise.
"Do they really?" he drawled. "You amaze me, Officer. I"ve always supposed they broke in somehow and used dark lanterns."
"Not always," said Gladwin, obstinately.
The big man shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, puffed his cigar for a moment and said indulgently:
"Well, I"m sorry, Officer, to deprive you of the pleasure you would evidently derive in catching a thief and making an arrest. Now," with a light laugh, "who might you imagine I was?"