A pink-cheeked gentleman with a crêpe mustache arose from a chair in the extreme background. He leveled a menacing finger, with Bosworth as the object of its concern.
"Move back from that table, gents," remarked the vivified object near the windows. The Messrs. Van Pycke fell back several paces, still staring blankly at the figure.
Bosworth gulped. "Are you--alive?" he demanded, putting his fingers to his temple.
"Alive? What do you think I am? A corrupse?" exclaimed the figure.
"I meant to say, are you the only live one in--in the crowd?"
The man looked about him, perplexed. Then he understood. "Oh, you mean these freaks? Say, my disguise must be all right. I look like a waxwork, do I? I--"
Mr. Van Pycke had recovered his dignity. "What the devil is the meaning of all this, sir? Explain yourself."
The man picked his way carefully through the group of wax figures. He was a sturdy person whose evening clothes did not fit him, now that one observed him carefully. When he was clear of the group, he calmly turned back the lapel of his coat, revealing a nickel-plated star.
"Does that star signify anything, gents? It says I'm here on this job, that's all. Just to see that nobody walks off with the sparklers. I'm from Wilkerson's Private Detective Agency. See? Now, I'd like to know when and how you got into this room."
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Bosworth, turning quite red.
"Just what I say, young feller. When did you come in here?"
"You say you are a detective!" sneered Bosworth.
The man from Wilkerson's blinked his eyes suddenly. "I--I guess I dropped off to sleep for a couple of minutes. Up for three nights--"
"Do you recognize these trousers?" demanded the young man, pointing to his father's ridiculous legs.
The detective peered rather closely. Mr. Van Pycke drew back and glared at him through his glasses.
"By thunder, they _don't_ fit him, do they? Say, there's something wrong with you guys. Where'd you get them pants, you?"
"I'll have you pitched from this house, you impertinent scoundrel!" roared Mr. Van Pycke, threatened with apoplexy.
"Where'd you get them pants?" repeated the sleuth, steadily. "And them shoes! Say, this has a queer look. I'll have to--here! What's the matter with you? What you laughin' at? It won't be so blamed funny, young feller, let me tell you that. You guys can't--"