“I’m caught, Hunt—­Gavegan’s coming,” he gasped, and ran up the stairs, Hunt following and stuffing his scribblings into a pocket.  As Larry passed the open studio door he saw Casey sitting up.  “Down on the floor with you, Casey!  Hunt, work over him to bring him to—­and stall Gavegan for a while if you can.”

With that Larry sprang to a ladder at the end of the little hall, ran up it, unhooked and pushed up the trap, scrambled through upon the roof, and pushed the trap back into place.

Fortune, or rather the well-wishing wits of friends below, gave Larry a few precious moments more than he had counted on.  He was barely out on the rain-greased tin roof, with the trap down, when Gavegan came thumping up the stairs and into the studio.  At sight of the recumbent Casey, head limply on Hunt’s knees, and his loose face being laved by a wet towel in Hunt’s hands, Gavegan let out another roar: 

“Hell’s bells!  What the hell’s this mean?”

“I tried to nab Brainard,” Casey mumbled feebly, “and he knocked me out cold—­the same as he did you, Gavegan.”

“Hell!” snorted Gavegan, his wrath increased by this reference.  “You there”—­to Hunt and the Duchess—­“where’d Brainard go?  He’s in this house some place!”

“I don’t know,” said Hunt.

“Yes, you do!  Leave that boob side-kick of mine sleep it off, and help me find Brainard or you’ll feel my boot!”

The big painter stood up facing the big detective and his left hand gripped the latter’s wrist and his right closed upon the detective’s throat just as it had closed upon the lean throat of Old Jimmie on the day of Larry’s return—­only now there was nothing playful in the noose of that big hand.  He shook Gavegan as he might have shaken a pillow, with a thumb thrusting painfully in beneath Gavegan’s ear.

“I’ve done nothing, and that bully stuff doesn’t go with me!” he fairly spat into Gavegan’s face.  “You talk to me like a gentleman and apologize, or I’ll throw you out of the window and let your head bounce off one of its brother cobblestones below!”

Gavegan choked out an apology, whereat Hunt flung him from him.  The detective, glowering at the other, pulled aside curtains, peered into corners; then made furious and fruitless search of the rooms below, bringing up at last at Maggie’s door, which the Duchess had slipped ahead of him and locked.  When he demanded the key, the Duchess told him of Maggie’s departure and her carrying the key with her.  It was a solid door, with strong lock and hinges; and two minutes of Gavegan’s battering shoulders were required to make it yield entrance.  Not till he found the room empty did Gavegan think of the trap and the roof.