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<h2>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> <h3>OLD GRIM BARNES GETS A THRILL.</h3> 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?” <div></div> “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, and at last Phelan ceased his mutterings and accepted from Barnes an armful of cook books with which to regale himself until he was summoned to resume his uniform. Returning to the big silent rooms above, Whitney Barnes was utterly at a loss how to occupy himself. The thundering stillness got on his nerves and he found himself thinking of a dozen different things at once. But as idea pursued idea the image of the shy and winsome Sadie persisted in intervening. So he dropped Travers Gladwin, or rather the two Travers Gladwins, Helen, Phelan and all the others from his mind and gave himself up to the beatific contemplation of the picture that was most soothing to his spirits. For a while he lolled back in one of the great chairs, shut his eyes and revolved pleasant visions. Suddenly he thought of his father and sprang to his feet. “By Jove! I’ll break the news to the pater,” he cried. “There’s a telephone somewhere in this house, and I’ll call him up at his club.” He fairly danced out into the hallway, switching on lights wherever he could find a button to press. Presently he located the phone in a secluded alcove and slumped down on a divan with the instrument in his lap. As a matter of fixed routine, it happened that this particular hour found Joshua Barnes, mustard magnate, settled down to his cigar and coffee, in which he found immense comfort after a hearty meal. To be disturbed at this most luxurious moment of the day was, to a man of his temperament, about as pleasant a sensation as being stung by a rattlesnake. <div></div> He sent the club attendant back to the phone with a savage growl and the message to his son to call him up in an hour or to come to the club in person. The attendant crept back with the report that Barnes junior insisted that there could be no delay––that he had a vastly important matter to report on. Old Grim Barnes flung down his cigar, gulped his coffee till he choked and stamped off to the telephone booth. “Well?” he bellowed. ––That you, pater––sorry to disturb you, but–– ––Of course it’s important and no damn nonsense about it, I––– ––No, I haven’t been arrested and am not in a police station. ––Then what the devil––– ––No devil, nothing of the sort. On the contrary, quite the opposite! I’ve called you up to report progress––– ––You know better than that, dad. I’ve only had two drinks. ––I’d better take four more and sober up? Now, Father Barnes, will you oblige me by cooling off for an instant? You recall that this afternoon you gave me a year within which to find a wife. Well, I’ve found one already. ––Now you know I’m intoxicated? Was my voice ever soberer––now listen. ––You won’t listen? But you must. This is all up to you. You commanded. I obeyed. Say, dad, she’s an angel. I’m madly in love with her. ––Who is she? Well, er, I really don’t know––that is, her first name is Sadie. I––– ––Sadie what? Sadie Omaha––I mean she lives in Omaha. ––What is her last name and who are her people? To tell you the truth I haven’t found that out yet. I––– ––I’m an ass?––a blankety, blank ass? Just wait till you see her! I met her up at Travers Gladwin’s, and––– ––Travers is in Egypt! No, yes, of course he is, but––– The final outburst of paternal expletive fairly hurled Whitney Barnes from the phone. “There, by thunder! He’s rung off in a rage.” “There’s the ungrateful parent for you!” he muttered as he made his way back to Gladwin’s drawing room. “Here I’ve gone and broken my neck to fall in love for him and that’s all the thanks I get for it. Well, I’ll marry her in spite of him, if he doesn’t leave me a dollar. I could starve in a garret with her, and if I got too dreadfully hungry I could eat her. Hi, ho! but, say, Mr. Whitney Barnes, you had better switch off some of these lights. This house isn’t supposed to be occupied.” He left just one heavily shaded bronze lamp abeam. Then he carefully drew all the curtains across the windows and tiptoed about the room with the air of a sinister conspirator. He stopped in front of the great, mysterious-looking chest to one side of the entrance to the hallway, lifted the heavy lid and looked in. “Here’s where we will put our dead,” he said, with a lugubrious grin, let down the lid softly and crossed abruptly to the roomiest and coziest chair beside the curtained window. After another sweeping glance about the room he stretched his arms and yawned. “Reckon I better sleep off that jag the pater presented me over the wire,” he chuckled, and down he slid into the soft upholstery, raising his long legs upon another chair and sighing with deep contentment. His eyes roved about the room for a moment, when he smiled suddenly and quoted: <table summary=""><tr><td> Why, let the stricken deer go weep;  The hart ungalled play, For some must watch, while some must sleep:  So runs the world away. </td></tr></table> And upon the suggestion of the immortal bard he chose the sleeper’s end of it and passed away. <hr class="toprule" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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