t
down a block from his own home and resumed the patrolling of the
immediate precincts of the Gladwin mansion. His only parting salute
from Johnny Parkinson's car was a flashing glance of contempt from the
girl, whose identity he strove in vain to place.

CHAPTER XXIII.

OLD GRIM BARNES GETS A THRILL.

The precipitate departure of Travers Gladwin left Whitney Barnes and
the shirt-sleeved Michael Phelan staring blankly at each other. The
unfrocked policeman was anything but an imposing figure and the
contortions of distress in his rubicund countenance were grotesque
enough to kindle the sense of humor in a far less volatile mind than
that of Whitney Barnes. His smile came to the surface and spread out
in full blossom. But it failed to find reflection in the features of
Mrs. Phelan's son.

"What the divvil are ye grinnin' at?" snarled Phelan. "Ye wouldn't
see no fun in it if it mint your job an' your pension an' your
silf-respect. Now, what is it all about?"

"There you have me, officer," responded the young man, lightly. "The
riddle is dark on all four sides. You and I are in the same
boat--guardians of the castle against the mysterious foe. While you
guard the moat from the kitchen I will operate the portcullis."

"Talk sinse, will yez?" hissed Phelan. "What in blazes has moats an'
portcollars to do with it?"

"Only in a way of speaking," laughed Barnes. "But calm yourself, Mr.
Phelan, my friend is both wise and discreet. He will do no dishonor to
your cloth, and together we will see that you suffer no material
damage in this life. I am unable to explain further without uttering
more confusion, so kindly take yonder tray down into the kitchen. That
little door on the extreme right I believe opens the way to the lower
regions. I am sure Bateato left the lights on."

"May the blessed saints presairve ye if it's a trap ye're riggin' fer
Michael Phelan," breathed that gentleman, shaking his head dubiously.
"'Tis not a step I'll go down into that kitchen till yez lead me the
way, and if there's any more ravin' maniacs down in them quarters I
warn ye it's shootin' I'll be after doin'."

And Phelan patted the bulge in his hip pocket as he swung around.

Barnes led the way through the long, narrow corridor to the rear of
the house, while Phelan followed, muttering and grumbling every inch
of the way. There was no further conversation between them while they
investigated the elaborate quarters below stairs,