"Not on the aven-oo, Mr. Parkinson. You've got too bad a record. But if ye'll run the machine over into Central Park where there ain't so many sergeants roamin' round we might effict a sittlemint." A smile of great gladness illuminated the features of Johnny Parkinson. He let in the clutch with a bang and it was only a matter of seconds before the ninety horsepower car glided in through the Seventy-second street entrance to Central Park and swung into the dark reaches of the East Drive. Slowing down again the young man at the wheel turned and said anxiously: "The smallest I've got is a century and I really need some of that." "That's aisy," rejoined Gladwin. "Sure'n I change hundred dollar bills ivry day. Slip me the paper an' here's a fifty, which is lettin' ye off aisy, seein' ye're an ould offinder." The transfer of bills was made swiftly, whereupon Gladwin commanded: "Now run me back to me peg post an' drop me off, on'y take it slow an' gradual or I might have to pinch yez again." A few minutes later Gladwin heard the young girl say passionately: "Oh, Johnny, how could you give him the money? He's no better than a thief. I hope you've taken his number." "It wouldn't do any good, dearest," said Johnny, sadly. "They're all in together and I'd only get the worst of it. But did you notice, Phyllis, that he looks a lot like Travers Gladwin?" "Impossible!" retorted the girl. "Travers Gladwin is good looking, and this man's nothing but an Irish monster." The girl was about to speak again when she was sure she heard muffled laughter behind her. Then the car sped on into the avenue and just missed colliding with a Fifth avenue motor 'bus. Officer 666 was put 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."