He got up and walked slowly to the visitors' room again, while Peter, with a studiously unconscious expression, held the portières open. He entered, prepared for the worst. As he did so, Conville sprang to his feet, leaving a pool of water in front of the sofa and tossing little drops of rain from the ends of his mustache. "Look here, Mr. McAllister, there's been enough of this. Where's Welch, the crook, who ran in here a few moments ago? Oh, he's here fast enough! I've got your club covered, front and behind. Don't try to con _me_!" McAllister slowly adjusted his monocle, smiled affably, and sank comfortably into an armchair. "Why, it's you, Baron, isn't it! How are you? Won't you have a little nip of something warm? No? A cigar, then. Here, Peter, bring the gentleman an Obsequio. Well, to what do I owe this honor?" Conville glared at him enraged. However, he restrained his wrath. A wise detective never puts himself at a disadvantage by giving way to useless emotion. When Peter returned with the cigar, Barney took it mechanically and struck a match, meanwhile keeping one eye upon the door of the club. "I suppose," he presently remarked, "you think you're smart. Well, you're mistaken. I had you wrong last night, I admit--that is, so far as your identity was concerned. You're a real high-roller, all right, but that ain't the whole thing, by a long shot. How would you like to wander down to Headquarters as an accomplice?" A few chills played hide-and-seek around the base of the clubman's spine. "Don't be an ass!" he finally managed to ejaculate. "Oh, I can't connect you with the necklace! You're safe enough there," Barney continued. "But how about this little game right here in this club? You're aiding in the escape of a felon. That's _felony_. You know that yourself. Besides, when you locked me in the bath-room last night you assaulted an officer in the performance of his duty. I've got you dead to rights, _see_?" McAllister laughed lightly. "By jiminy!" he exclaimed, "I _thought_ you were crazy all the time, and now I _know_ it. What in thunder are you driving at?" Conville knocked the ashes off his cigar impatiently. "Drivin' at? Drivin' at? Where's Welch--Fatty Welch, that ran in here five minutes ago?" McAllister assumed a puzzled expression. "Welch? No one ran in here except myself. _I_ came in about that time. Got off the L at Fiftieth Street, footed it pretty fast up Sixth Avenue, and then through Fifty-third Street to the club. I got mighty well wet, too, I tell you!" "Don't think you can throw that game into _me_!" shouted Conville. "You can't catch me twice _that_ way. It was _Welch_ I saw, not you." "You don't believe me?" McAllister pressed the bell and Peter entered. "Peter, tell this gentleman how many persons have come into the club within the hour." "Why, only _you_, sir," replied Peter, without hesitation. "Your clothes was wringin' wet, sir. No one else has entered the club since twelve o'clock."