tective Tim Feeney never
cooled. That he got off with a light sentence of one day's fine did
not in the least improve his humor. He knew he was a marked man from
that day, and it was all his mother could do to urge him to stay on
the force.

In the course of time, however, the sting had worn off and the young
patrolman learned to smile again. His hollow cheeks had filled out
amazingly during the period of the brewery beat and on that late
autumn day when he stepped into the pages of this narrative he looked
mighty good, not only to the raven-haired Rosalind O'Neill but to a
host of other pretty nursemaids who were wheeling their aristocratic
little charges up and down The Avenue.

Nor was Michael Phelan at all unconscious of this as he sauntered
along the broad pavement and gracefully twirled his baton. His chest
jutted out like the breast of a pouter pigeon and he wore the solemnly
self-conscious expression of a peacock on parade.

When he came to the great white square mansion of Travers Gladwin, he
paused and studied it shrewdly with his eye. It was one of the most
important functions of his patrol to study the fronts of all
unoccupied dwellings and see that every window was down and every door
was closed. First he looked into the areaway of the Gladwin home and
then his eye travelled up the wide balustraded stoop to the ornamental
bronze doors.

"What's this!" he gasped in astonishment. "Sure, I read in the papers
on'y this morning that Travers Gladwin was in Agypt. 'Tis a bold thafe
who'll go in the front door in broad day, so here's where Mary
Phelan's son makes the grand pinch he's been dreamin' on this six
months back and gets his picture in the papers."

CHAPTER VII.

THE LITTLE BROWN JAP.

Patrolman Phelan wrapped his sinewy fist about the handle of his club
with a vicious grip as he proceeded cautiously up the steps. The heavy
bronze door had been left ajar, and he squeezed through without
opening it further, then paused in the vestibule and listened. What he
heard seemed no more than the tread of a spider, and the thought
rushed into his head:

"'Tis one of that felt-soled kind. 'Tis tip-toes for Phelan."

He had noted that even the inside door was open, and he swiftly
divined from this that the thief had left it open for his own
convenience or for some other purpose connected with the mysteries of
burglar alarms. Inch by inch the policeman moved across the vestibule
and wriggled through