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The Intrusion Of Jimmy
By
P.G. Wodehouse
Contents
CHAPTER
II - PYRAMUS AND THISBE
CHAPTER
V - A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
CHAPTER
VI - AN EXHIBITION PERFORMANCE
CHAPTER
VII - GETTING ACQUAINTED
CHAPTER
IX - FRIENDS, NEW AND OLD
CHAPTER
X - JIMMY ADOPTS A LAME DOG
CHAPTER
XI - AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD
CHAPTER
XIV - CHECK AND A COUNTER MOVE
CHAPTER
XV - MR. MCEACHERN INTERVENES
CHAPTER
XVI - A MARRIAGE ARRANGED
CHAPTER
XVII - JIMMY REMEMBERS SOMETHING..
CHAPTER
XVIII - THE LOCHINVAR METHOD
CHAPTER
XX - A LESSON IN PICQUET
CHAPTER
XXII - TWO OF A TRADE DISAGREE
CHAPTER
XXIV - THE TREASURE SEEKER
CHAPTER
XXVI - STIRRING TIMES FOR SIR THOMAS.
CHAPTER
XXVII - A DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.
CHAPTER
XXVIII - SPENNIE'S HOUR OF CLEAR VISION..
CHAPTER I - JIMMY MAKES A=
BET
The main smoking-room of the Stroll=
ers'
Club had been filling for the last half-hour, and was now nearly full. In m=
any
ways, the Strollers', though not the most magnificent, is the pleasantest c=
lub in
New York. Its ideals are comfort without pomp; and it is given over after
eleven o'clock at night mainly to the Stage. Everybody is young, clean-shav=
en,
and full of conversation: and the conversation strikes a purely professional
note.
Everybody in the =
room
on this July night had come from the theater. Most of those present had been
acting, but a certain number had been to the opening performance of the lat=
est better-than-Raffles
play. There had been something of a boom that season in dramas whose heroes
appealed to the public more pleasantly across the footlights than they might
have done in real life. In the play that had opened to-night, Arthur Miffli=
n,
an exemplary young man off the stage, had been warmly applauded for a serie=
s of
actions which, performed anywhere except in the theater, would certainly ha=
ve
debarred him from remaining a member of the Strollers' or any other club. I=
n faultless
evening dress, with a debonair smile on his face, he had broken open a safe,
stolen bonds and jewelry to a large amount, and escaped without a blush of
shame via the window. He had foiled a detective through four acts, and held=
up
a band of pursuers with a revolver. A large audience had intimated complete
approval throughout.
"It's a hit =
all
right," said somebody through the smoke.
"These
near-'Raffles' plays always are," grumbled Willett, who played bluff
fathers in musical comedy. "A few years ago, they would have been scar=
ed
to death of putting on a show with a crook as hero. Now, it seems to me the
public doesn't want anything else. Not that they know what they DO want,&qu=
ot;
he concluded, mournfully.
"The Belle of
Boulogne," in which Willett sustained the role of Cyrus K. Higgs, a
Chicago millionaire, was slowly fading away on a diet of paper, and this
possibly prejudiced him.
Raikes, the chara=
cter
actor, changed the subject. If Willett once got started on the wrongs of the
ill-fated "Belle," general conversation would become impossible.
Willett, denouncing the stupidity of the public, as purely a monologue arti=
ste.
"I saw Jimmy
Pitt at the show," said Raikes. Everybody displayed interest.
"Jimmy Pitt?
When did he come back? I thought he was in Italy."
"He came on =
the Lusitania,
I suppose. She docked this morning."
"Jimmy
Pitt?" said Sutton, of the Majestic Theater. "How long has he been
away? Last I saw of him was at the opening of 'The Outsider' at the Astor.
That's a couple of months ago."
"He's been
traveling in Europe, I believe," said Raikes. "Lucky beggar to be
able to. I wish I could."
Sutton knocked the
ash off his cigar.
"I envy
Jimmy," he said. "I don't know anyone I'd rather be. He's got much
more money than any man except a professional 'plute' has any right to. He'=
s as
strong as an ox. I shouldn't say he'd ever had anything worse than measles =
in
his life. He's got no relations. And he isn't married."
Sutton, who had b=
een
married three times, spoke with some feeling.
"He's a good
chap, Jimmy," said Raikes.
"Yes," =
said
Arthur Mifflin, "yes, Jimmy is a good chap. I've known him for years. I
was at college with him. He hasn't got my brilliance of intellect; but he h=
as
some wonderfully fine qualities. For one thing, I should say he had put more
deadbeats on their legs again than half the men in New York put together.&q=
uot;
"Well,"
growled Willett, whom the misfortunes of the Belle had soured, "what's
there in that? It's mighty easy to do the philanthropist act when you're ne=
xt
door to a millionaire."
"Yes," =
said
Mifflin warmly, "but it's not so easy when you're getting thirty dolla=
rs a
week on a newspaper. When Jimmy was a reporter on the News, there used to b=
e a
whole crowd of fellows just living on him. Not borrowing an occasional doll=
ar,
mind you, but living on him--sleeping on his sofa, and staying to breakfast=
. It
made me mad. I used to ask him why he stood for it. He said there was nowhe=
re
else for them to go, and he thought he could see them through all right--wh=
ich
he did, though I don't see how he managed it on thirty a week."
"If a man's =
fool
enough to be an easy mark--" began Willett.
"Oh, cut it
out!" said Raikes. "We don't want anybody knocking Jimmy here.&qu=
ot;
"All the
same," said Sutton, "it seems to me that it was mighty lucky that=
he
came into that money. You can't keep open house for ever on thirty a week. =
By
the way, Arthur, how was that? I heard it was his uncle."
"It wasn't h=
is
uncle," said Mifflin. "It was by way of being a romance of sorts,=
I
believe. Fellow who had been in love with Jimmy's mother years ago went Wes=
t,
made a pile, and left it to Mrs. Pitt or her children. She had been dead so=
me
time when that happened. Jimmy, of course, hadn't a notion of what was comi=
ng
to him, when suddenly he got a solicitor's letter asking him to call. He ro=
lled
round, and found that there was about five hundred thousand dollars just
waiting for him to spend it."
Jimmy Pitt had now
definitely ousted "Love, the Cracksman" as a topic of conversatio=
n.
Everybody present knew him. Most of them had known him in his newspaper day=
s;
and, though every man there would have perished rather than admit it, they =
were
grateful to Jimmy for being exactly the same to them now that he could sign=
a
check for half a million as he had been on the old thirty-a-week basis. Inh=
erited
wealth, of course, does not make a young man nobler or more admirable; but =
the
young man does not always know this.
"Jimmy's had=
a
queer life," said Mifflin. "He's been pretty much everything in h=
is
time. Did you know he was on the stage before he took up newspaper-work? On=
ly
on the road, I believe. He got tired of it, and cut it out. That's always b=
een
his trouble. He wouldn't settle down to anything. He studied law at Yale, b=
ut
he never kept it up. After he left the stage, he moved all over the States,=
without
a cent, picking up any odd job he could get. He was a waiter once for a cou=
ple
of days, but they fired him for breaking plates. Then, he got a job in a
jeweler's shop. I believe he's a bit of an expert on jewels. And, another t=
ime,
he made a hundred dollars by staying three rounds against Kid Brady when the
Kid was touring the country after he got the championship away from Jimmy
Garwin. The Kid was offering a hundred to anyone who could last three round=
s with
him. Jimmy did it on his head. He was the best amateur of his weight I ever
saw. The Kid wanted him to take up scrapping seriously. But Jimmy wouldn't =
have
stuck to anything long enough in those days. He's one of the gypsies of the
world. He was never really happy unless he was on the move, and he doesn't =
seem
to have altered since he came into his money."
"Well, he can
afford to keep on the move now," said Raikes. "I wish I--"
"Did you ever
hear about Jimmy and--" Mifflin was beginning, when the Odyssey of Jim=
my
Pitt was interrupted by the opening of the door and the entrance of Ulysses=
in
person.
Jimmy Pitt was a
young man of medium height, whose great breadth and depth of chest made him
look shorter than he really was. His jaw was square, and protruded slightly;
and this, combined with a certain athletic jauntiness of carriage and a pai=
r of
piercing brown eyes very much like those of a bull-terrier, gave him an air=
of aggressiveness,
which belied his character. He was not aggressive. He had the good-nature as
well as the eyes of a bull-terrier. Also, he possessed, when stirred, all t=
he
bull-terrier's dogged determination.
There were shouts=
of
welcome.
"Hullo,
Jimmy!"
"When did you
get back?"
"Come and sit
down. Plenty of room over here."
"Where is my
wandering boy tonight?"
"Waiter! Wha=
t's
yours, Jimmy?"
Jimmy dropped int=
o a
seat, and yawned.
"Well,"=
he
said, "how goes it? Hullo, Raikes! Weren't you at 'Love, the Cracksman=
'? I
thought I saw you. Hullo, Arthur! Congratulate you. You spoke your piece
nicely."
"Thanks,&quo=
t;
said Mifflin. "We were just talking about you, Jimmy. You came on the
Lusitania, I suppose?"
"She didn't
break the record this time," said Sutton.
A somewhat pensive
look came into Jimmy's eyes.
"She came mu=
ch
too quick for me," he said. "I don't see why they want to rip alo=
ng
at that pace," he went on, hurriedly. "I like to have a chance of
enjoying the sea-air."
"I know that
sea-air," murmured Mifflin.
Jimmy looked up
quickly.
"What are you
babbling about, Arthur?"
"I said
nothing," replied Mifflin, suavely.
"What did you
think of the show tonight, Jimmy?" asked Raikes.
"I liked it.
Arthur was fine. I can't make out, though, why all this incense is being bu=
rned
at the feet of the cracksman. To judge by some of the plays they produce no=
w,
you'd think that a man had only to be a successful burglar to become a nati=
onal
hero. One of these days, we shall have Arthur playing Charles Peace to a
cheering house."
"It is the
tribute," said Mifflin, "that bone-headedness pays to brains. It
takes brains to be a successful cracksman. Unless the gray matter is surging
about in your cerebrum, as in mine, you can't hope--"
Jimmy leaned back=
in
his chair, and spoke calmly but with decision.
"Any man of
ordinary intelligence," he said, "could break into a house."=
Mifflin jumped up=
and
began to gesticulate. This was heresy.
"My good man,
what absolute--"
"_I_
could," said Jimmy, lighting a cigarette.
There was a roar =
of
laughter and approval. For the past few weeks, during the rehearsals of
"Love, the Cracksman," Arthur Mifflin had disturbed the peace at =
the
Strollers' with his theories on the art of burglary. This was his first rea=
lly
big part, and he had soaked himself in it. He had read up the literature of
burglary. He had talked with men from Pinkerton's. He had expounded his vie=
ws
nightly to his brother Strollers, preaching the delicacy and difficulty of =
cracking
a crib till his audience had rebelled. It charmed the Strollers to find Jim=
my,
obviously of his own initiative and not to be suspected of having been subo=
rned
to the task by themselves, treading with a firm foot on the expert's favori=
te
corn within five minutes of their meeting.
"You!" =
said
Arthur Mifflin, with scorn.
"I!"
"You! Why, y=
ou
couldn't break into an egg unless it was a poached one."
"What'll you=
bet?"
said Jimmy.
The Strollers beg=
an
to sit up and take notice. The magic word "bet," when uttered in =
that
room, had rarely failed to add a zest to life. They looked expectantly at
Arthur Mifflin.
"Go to bed,
Jimmy," said the portrayer of cracksmen. "I'll come with you and =
tuck
you in. A nice, strong cup of tea in the morning, and you won't know there =
has
ever been anything the matter with you."
A howl of disappr=
oval
rose from the company. Indignant voices accused Arthur Mifflin of having a
yellow streak. Encouraging voices urged him not to be a quitter.
"See! They s=
corn
you," said Jimmy. "And rightly. Be a man, Arthur. What'll you
bet?"
Mr. Mifflin regar=
ded
him with pity.
"You don't k=
now
what you're up against, Jimmy," he said. "You're half a century b=
ehind
the times. You have an idea that all a burglar needs is a mask, a blue chin,
and a dark lantern. I tell you he requires a highly specialized education. =
I've
been talking to these detective fellows, and I know. Now, take your case, y=
ou
worm. Have you a thorough knowledge of chemistry, physics, toxicology--&quo=
t;
"Sure."=
"--electrici=
ty
and microscopy?"
"You have
discovered my secret."
"Can you use=
an
oxy-acetylene blow-pipe?"
"I never tra=
vel
without one."
"What do you
know about the administration of anaesthetics?"
"Practically
everything. It is one of my favorite hobbies."
"Can you make
'soup'?"
"Soup?"=
"Soup,"
said Mr. Mifflin, firmly.
Jimmy raised his
eyebrows.
"Does an
architect make bricks?" he said. "I leave the rough preliminary w=
ork
to my corps of assistants. They make my soup."
"You mustn't
think Jimmy's one of your common yeggs," said Sutton. "He's at the
top of his profession. That's how he made his money. I never did believe th=
at
legacy story."
"Jimmy,"
said Mr. Mifflin, "couldn't crack a child's money-box. Jimmy couldn't =
open
a sardine-tin."
Jimmy shrugged his
shoulders.
"What'll you
bet?" he said again. "Come on, Arthur; you're earning a very good
salary. What'll you bet?"
"Make it a
dinner for all present," suggested Raikes, a canny person who believed=
in
turning the wayside happenings of life, when possible, to his personal prof=
it.
The suggestion was
well received.
"All
right," said Mifflin. "How many of us are there? One, two, three,
four--Loser buys a dinner for twelve."
"A good
dinner," interpolated Raikes, softly.
"A good
dinner," said Jimmy. "Very well. How long do you give me, Arthur?=
"
"How long do=
you
want?"
"There ought=
to
be a time-limit," said Raikes. "It seems to me that a flyer like
Jimmy ought to be able to manage it at short notice. Why not tonight? Nice,
fine night. If Jimmy doesn't crack a crib tonight, it's up to him. That suit
you, Jimmy?"
"Perfectly.&=
quot;
Willett interpose=
d.
Willett had been endeavoring to drown his sorrows all the evening, and the =
fact
was a little noticeable in his speech.
"See here,&q=
uot;
he said, "how's J-Jimmy going to prove he's done it?"
"Personally,=
I
can take his word," said Mifflin.
"That be
h-hanged for a tale. Wha-what's to prevent him saying he's done it, whether=
he
has or not?"
The Strollers loo=
ked
uncomfortable. Nevertheless, it was Jimmy's affair.
"Why, you'd =
get
your dinner in any case," said Jimmy. "A dinner from any host wou=
ld
smell as sweet."
Willett persisted
with muddled obstinacy.
"Thash--thash
not point. It's principle of thing. Have thish thing square and 'bove board,
_I_ say. Thash what _I_ say."
"And very
creditable to you being able to say it," said Jimmy, cordially. "=
See
if you can manage 'Truly rural'."
"What _I_ say
is--this! Jimmy's a fakir. And what I say is what's prevent him saying he's
done it when hasn't done it?"
"That'll be =
all
right," said Jimmy. "I'm going to bury a brass tube with the Stars
and Stripes in it under the carpet."
Willett waved his
hand.
"Thash quite
sh'factory," he said, with dignity. "Nothing more to say."
"Or a better
idea," said Jimmy. "I'll carve a big J on the inside of the front
door. Then, anybody who likes can make inquiries next day. Well, I'm off ho=
me.
Glad it's all settled. Anybody coming my way?"
"Yes," =
said
Arthur Mifflin. "We'll walk. First nights always make me as jumpy as a
cat. If I don't walk my legs off, I shan't get to sleep tonight at all.&quo=
t;
"If you think
I'm going to help you walk your legs off, my lad, you're mistaken. I propos=
e to
stroll gently home, and go to bed."
"Every little
helps," said Mifflin. "Come along."
"You want to
keep an eye on Jimmy, Arthur," said Sutton. "He'll sand-bag you, =
and
lift your watch as soon as look at you. I believe he's Arsene Lupin in
disguise."
CHAPTER II - PYRAMUS AND
THISBE
The two men turned up the street. T=
hey
walked in silence. Arthur Mifflin was going over in his mind such outstandi=
ng
events of the evening as he remembered--the nervousness, the relief of find=
ing that
he was gripping his audience, the growing conviction that he had made good;
while Jimmy seemed to be thinking his own private thoughts. They had gone s=
ome
distance before either spoke.
"Who is she,
Jimmy?" asked Mifflin.
Jimmy came out of=
his
thoughts with a start.
"What's
that?"
"Who is
she?"
"I don't know
what you mean."
"Yes, you do!
The sea air. Who is she?"
"I don't
know," said Jimmy, simply.
"You don't k=
now?
Well, what's her name?"
"I don't
know."
"Doesn't the
Lusitania still print a passenger-list?"
"She does.&q=
uot;
"And you
couldn't find out her name in five days?"
"No."
"And that's =
the
man who thinks he can burgle a house!" said Mifflin, despairingly.
They had arrived =
now
at the building on the second floor of which was Jimmy's flat.
"Coming
in?" said Jimmy.
"Well, I was
rather thinking of pushing on as far as the Park. I tell you, I feel all on
wires."
"Come in, and
smoke a cigar. You've got all night before you if you want to do Marathons.=
I
haven't seen you for a couple of months. I want you to tell me all the
news."
"There isn't
any. Nothing happens in New York. The papers say things do, but they don't.
However, I'll come in. It seems to me that you're the man with the news.&qu=
ot;
Jimmy fumbled with
his latch-key.
"You're a br=
ight
sort of burglar," said Mifflin, disparagingly. "Why don't you use
your oxy-acetylene blow-pipe? Do you realize, my boy, that you've let yours=
elf
in for buying a dinner for twelve hungry men next week? In the cold light of
the morning, when reason returns to her throne, that'll come home to you.&q=
uot;
"I haven't d=
one anything
of the sort," said Jimmy, unlocking the door.
"Don't tell =
me
you really mean to try it."
"What else d=
id
you think I was going to do?"
"But you can=
't.
You would get caught for a certainty. And what are you going to do then? Sa=
y it
was all a joke? Suppose they fill you full of bullet-holes! Nice sort of fo=
ol
you'll look, appealing to some outraged householder's sense of humor, while=
he
pumps you full of lead with a Colt."
"These are t=
he
risks of the profession. You ought to know that, Arthur. Think what you went
through tonight."
Arthur Mifflin lo=
oked
at his friend with some uneasiness. He knew how very reckless Jimmy could be
when he had set his mind on accomplishing anything, since, under the stimul=
us
of a challenge, he ceased to be a reasoning being, amenable to argument. An=
d,
in the present case, he knew that Willett's words had driven the challenge =
home.
Jimmy was not the man to sit still under the charge of being a fakir, no ma=
tter
whether his accuser had been sober or drunk.
Jimmy, meanwhile,=
had
produced whiskey and cigars. Now, he was lying on his back on the lounge,
blowing smoke-rings at the ceiling.
"Well?"
said Arthur Mifflin, at length.
"Well,
what?"
"What I meant
was, is this silence to be permanent, or are you going to begin shortly to
amuse, elevate, and instruct? Something's happened to you, Jimmy. There was=
a
time when you were a bright little chap, a fellow of infinite jest, of most
excellent fancy. Where be your gibes now; your gambols, your songs, your
flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table in a roar when you wer=
e paying
for the dinner? Yon remind me more of a deaf-mute celebrating the Fourth of
July with noiseless powder than anything else on earth. Wake up, or I shall=
go.
Jimmy, we were practically boys together. Tell me about this girl--the girl=
you
loved, and were idiot enough to lose."
Jimmy drew a deep
breath.
"Very
well," said Mifflin complacently, "sigh if you like; it's better =
than
nothing."
Jimmy sat up.
"Yes, dozens=
of
times," said Mifflin.
"What do you
mean?"
"You were ju=
st
going to ask me if I had ever been in love, weren't you?"
"I wasn't,
because I know you haven't. You have no soul. You don't know what love
is."
"Have it your
own way," said Mifflin, resignedly.
Jimmy bumped back=
on
the sofa.
"I don't
either," he said. "That's the trouble."
Mifflin looked
interested.
"I know,&quo=
t;
he said. "You've got that strange premonitory fluttering, when the hea=
rt
seems to thrill within you like some baby bird singing its first song,
when--"
"Oh, cut it
out!"
"--when you =
ask
yourself timidly, 'Is it? Can it really be?' and answer shyly, 'No. Yes. I
believe it is!' I've been through it dozens of times; it is a recognized ea=
rly
symptom. Unless prompt measures are taken, it will develop into something a=
cute.
In these matters, stand on your Uncle Arthur. He knows."
"You make me
sick," Jimmy retorted.
"You have our
ear," said Mifflin, kindly. "Tell me all."
"There's not=
hing
to tell."
"Don't lie,
James."
"Well,
practically nothing."
"That's
better."
"It was like
this."
"Good."=
Jimmy wriggled
himself into a more comfortable position, and took a sip from his glass.
"I didn't see
her until the second day out."
"I know that
second day out. Well?"
"We didn't
really meet at all."
"Just happen=
ed
to be going to the same spot, eh?"
"As a matter=
of
fact, it was like this. Like a fool, I'd bought a second-class ticket."=
;
"What? Our y=
oung
Rockerbilt Astergould, the boy millionaire, traveling second-class! Why?&qu=
ot;
"I had an id=
ea
it would be better fun. Everybody's so much more cheery in the second cabin.
You get to know people so much quicker. Nine trips out of ten, I'd much rat=
her
go second."
"And this was
the tenth?"
"She was in =
the
first-cabin," said Jimmy.
Mifflin clutched =
his
forehead.
"Wait!"=
he
cried. "This reminds me of something--something in Shakespeare. Romeo =
and
Juliet? No. I've got it--Pyramus and Thisbe."
"I don't see=
the
slightest resemblance."
"Read your
'Midsummer Night's Dream.' 'Pyramus and Thisbe,' says the story, 'did talk
through the chink of a wall,'" quoted Mifflin.
"We
didn't."
"Don't be so
literal. You talked across a railing."
"We
didn't."
"Do you mean=
to
say you didn't talk at all?"
"We didn't s=
ay a
single word."
Mifflin shook his
head sadly.
"I give you
up," he said. "I thought you were a man of enterprise. What did y=
ou
do?"
Jimmy sighed soft=
ly.
"I used to s=
tand
and smoke against the railing opposite the barber's shop, and she used to w=
alk
round the deck."
"And you use=
d to
stare at her?"
"I would loo=
k in
her direction sometimes," corrected Jimmy, with dignity.
"Don't quibb=
le!
You stared at her. You behaved like a common rubber-neck, and you know it. =
I am
no prude, James, but I feel compelled to say that I consider your conduct t=
hat
of a libertine. Used she to walk alone?"
"Generally.&=
quot;
"And, now, y=
ou
love her, eh? You went on board that ship happy, careless, heart-free. You =
came
off it grave and saddened. Thenceforth, for you, the world could contain but
one--woman, and her you had lost."
Mifflin groaned i=
n a
hollow and bereaved manner, and took a sip from his glass to buoy him up.
Jimmy moved
restlessly on the sofa.
"Do you beli=
eve
in love at first sight?" he asked, fatuously. He was in the mood when a
man says things, the memory of which makes him wake up hot all over for nig=
hts
to come.
"I don't see
what first sight's got to do with it," said Mifflin. "According to
your own statement, you stood and glared at the girl for five days without
letting up for a moment. I can quite imagine that you might glare yourself =
into
love with anyone by the end of that time."
"I can't see myself settling down," said Jimmy, thoughtfully. "And, until you = feel that you want to settle down, I suppose you can't be really in love."<= o:p>
"I was saying
practically that about you at the club just before you came in. My somewhat
neat expression was that you were one of the gypsies of the world."
"By George,
you're quite right!"
"I always
am."
"I suppose i= t's having nothing to do. When I was on the News, I was never like this."<= o:p>
"You weren't=
on
the News long enough to get tired of it."
"I feel now I
can't stay in a place more than a week. It's having this money that does it=
, I
suppose."
"New York,&q=
uot;
said Mifflin, "is full of obliging persons who will be delighted to
relieve you of the incubus. Well, James, I shall leave you. I feel more like
bed now. By the way, I suppose you lost sight of this girl when you
landed?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Well, there
aren't so many girls in the United States--only twenty million. Or is it fo=
rty
million? Something small. All you've got to do is to search around a bit.
Good-night."
"Good-night.=
"
Mr. Mifflin clatt=
ered
down the stairs. A minute later, the sound of his name being called loudly =
from
the street brought Jimmy to the window. Mifflin was standing on the pavement
below, looking up.
"Jimmy."=
;
"What's the
matter now?"
"I forgot to
ask. Was she a blonde?"
"What?"=
"Was she a
blonde?" yelled Mifflin.
"No,"
snapped Jimmy.
"Dark, eh?&q=
uot;
bawled Mifflin, making night hideous.
"Yes," =
said
Jimmy, shutting the window.
"Jimmy!"=
;
The window went up
again.
"Well?"=
"Me for
blondes!"
"Go to
bed!"
"Very well.
Good-night."
"Good-night.=
"
Jimmy withdrew his
head, and sat down in the chair Mifflin had vacated. A moment later, he ros=
e,
and switched off the light. It was pleasanter to sit and think in the dark.=
His
thoughts wandered off in many channels, but always came back to the girl on=
the
Lusitania. It was absurd, of course. He didn't wonder that Arthur Mifflin h=
ad treated
the thing as a joke. Good old Arthur! Glad he had made a success! But was i=
t a
joke? Who was it that said, the point of a joke is like the point of a need=
le,
so small that it is apt to disappear entirely when directed straight at
oneself? If anybody else had told him such a limping romance, he would have
laughed himself. Only, when you are the center of a romance, however limpin=
g,
you see it from a different angle. Of course, told badly, it was absurd. He
could see that. But something away at the back of his mind told him that it=
was
not altogether absurd. And yet--love didn't come like that, in a flash. You
might just as well expect a house to spring into being in a moment, or a sh=
ip,
or an automobile, or a table, or a--He sat up with a jerk. In another insta=
nt,
he would have been asleep.
He thought of bed=
, but
bed seemed a long way off--the deuce of a way. Acres of carpet to be crawled
over, and then the dickens of a climb at the end of it. Besides, undressing!
Nuisance--undressing. That was a nice dress the girl had worn on the fourth=
day
out. Tailor-made. He liked tailor-mades. He liked all her dresses. He liked
her. Had she liked him? So hard to tell if you don't get a chance of speaki=
ng!
She was dark. Arthur liked blondes, Arthur was a fool! Good old Arthur! Gla=
d he
had made a success! Now, he could marry if he liked! If he wasn't so restle=
ss,
if he didn't feel that he couldn't stop more than a day in any place! But w=
ould
the girl have him? If they had never spoken, it made it so hard to--
At this point, Ji=
mmy
went to sleep.
CHAPTER III - MR. McEACHE=
RN
At about the time when Jimmy's
meditations finally merged themselves in dreams, a certain Mr. John McEache=
rn,
Captain of Police, was seated in the parlor of his up-town villa, reading. =
He
was a man built on a large scale. Everything about him was large--his hands=
, his
feet, his shoulders, his chest, and particularly his jaw, which even in his
moments of calm was aggressive, and which stood out, when anything happened=
to
ruffle him, like the ram of a battle-ship. In his patrolman days, which had
been passed mainly on the East side, this jaw of his had acquired a reputat=
ion
from Park Row to Fourteenth Street. No gang-fight, however absorbing, could
retain the undivided attention of the young blood of the Bowery when Mr. Mc=
Eachern's
jaw hove in sight with the rest of his massive person in close attendance. =
He
was a man who knew no fear, and he had gone through disorderly mobs like an
east wind.
But there was ano=
ther
side to his character. In fact, that other side was so large that the rest =
of
him, his readiness in combat and his zeal in breaking up public disturbance=
s,
might be said to have been only an off-shoot. For his ambition was as large=
as
his fist and as aggressive as his jaw. He had entered the force with the si=
ngle
idea of becoming rich, and had set about achieving his object with a strenu=
ous
vigor that was as irresistible as his mighty locust-stick. Some policemen a=
re
born grafters, some achieve graft, and some have graft thrust upon them. Mr.
McEachern had begun by being the first, had risen to the second, and for so=
me
years now had been a prominent member of the small and hugely prosperous th=
ird class,
the class that does not go out seeking graft, but sits at home and lets gra=
ft
come to it.
In his search for
wealth, he had been content to abide his time. He did not want the trifling=
sum
that every New York policeman acquires. His object was something bigger, an=
d he
was prepared to wait for it. He knew that small beginnings were an annoying=
but
unavoidable preliminary to all great fortunes. Probably, Captain Kidd had
started in a small way. Certainly, Mr. Rockefeller had. He was content to
follow in the footsteps of the masters.
A patrolman's
opportunities of amassing wealth are not great. Mr. McEachern had made the =
best
of a bad job. He had not disdained the dollars that came as single spies ra=
ther
than in battalions. Until the time should arrive when he might angle for
whales, he was prepared to catch sprats.
Much may be done,
even on a small scale, by perseverance. In those early days, Mr. McEachern's
observant eye had not failed to notice certain peddlers who obstructed the
traffic, divers tradesmen who did the same by the side-walk, and of restaur=
ant
keepers not a few with a distaste for closing at one o'clock in the morning.
His researches in this field were not unprofitable. In a reasonably short s=
pace
of time, he had put by the three thousand dollars that were the price of his
promotion to detective-sergeant. He did not like paying three thousand doll=
ars
for promotion, but there must be sinking of capital if an investment is to
prosper. Mr. McEachern "came across," and climbed one more step up
the ladder.
As
detective-sergeant, he found his horizon enlarged. There was more scope for=
a
man of parts. Things moved more rapidly. The world seemed full of
philanthropists, anxious to "dress his front" and do him other li=
ttle
kindnesses. Mr. McEachern was no churl. He let them dress his front. He
accepted the little kindnesses. Presently, he found that he had fifteen
thousand dollars to spare for any small flutter that might take his fancy.
Singularly enough, this was the precise sum necessary to make him a captain=
.
He became a capta=
in.
And it was then that he discovered that El Dorado was no mere poet's dream,=
and
that Tom Tiddler's Ground, where one might stand picking up gold and silver,
was as definite a locality as Brooklyn or the Bronx. At last, after years of
patient waiting, he stood like Moses on the mountain, looking down into the=
Promised
Land. He had come to where the Big Money was.
The captain was n=
ow
reading the little note-book wherein he kept a record of his investments, w=
hich
were numerous and varied. That the contents were satisfactory was obvious a=
t a
glance. The smile on his face and the reposeful position of his jaw were pr=
oof
enough of that. There were notes relating to house-property, railroad share=
s, and
a dozen other profitable things. He was a rich man.
This was a fact t=
hat
was entirely unsuspected by his neighbors, with whom he maintained somewhat
distant relations, accepting no invitations and giving none. For Mr. McEach=
ern
was playing a big game. Other eminent buccaneers in his walk of life had be=
en
content to be rich men in a community where moderate means were the rule. B=
ut
about Mr. McEachern there was a touch of the Napoleonic. He meant to get in=
to
society--and the society he had selected was that of England. Other people =
have
noted the fact--which had impressed itself very firmly on the policeman's
mind--that between England and the United States there are three thousand m=
iles
of deep water. In the United States, he would be a retired police-captain; =
in
England, an American gentleman of large and independent means with a beauti=
ful
daughter.
That was the ruli=
ng
impulse in his life--his daughter Molly. Though, if he had been a bachelor,=
he
certainly would not have been satisfied to pursue a humble career aloof from
graft, on the other hand, if it had not been for Molly, he would not have f=
elt,
as he gathered in his dishonest wealth, that he was conducting a sort of ho=
ly
war. Ever since his wife had died, in his detective-sergeant days, leaving =
him
with a year-old daughter, his ambitions had been inseparably connected with
Molly.
All his thoughts =
were
on the future. This New York life was only a preparation for the splendors =
to
come. He spent not a dollar unnecessarily. When Molly was home from school,
they lived together simply and quietly in the small house which Molly's tas=
te
made so comfortable. The neighbors, knowing his profession and seeing the m=
odest
scale on which he lived, told one another that here at any rate was a polic=
eman
whose hands were clean of graft. They did not know of the stream that poured
week by week and year by year into his bank, to be diverted at intervals in=
to
the most profitable channels. Until the time should come for the great chan=
ge,
economy was his motto. The expenses of his home were kept within the bounds=
of
his official salary. All extras went to swell his savings.
He closed his book
with a contented sigh, and lighted another cigar. Cigars were his only pers=
onal
luxury. He drank nothing, ate the simplest food, and made a suit of clothes
last for quite an unusual length of time; but no passion for economy could =
make
him deny himself smoke.
He sat on, thinki=
ng.
It was very late, but he did not feel ready for bed. A great moment had arr=
ived
in his affairs. For days, Wall Street had been undergoing one of its period=
ical
fits of jumpiness. There had been rumors and counter-rumors, until finally =
from
the confusion there had soared up like a rocket the one particular stock in
which he was most largely interested. He had unloaded that morning, and the
result had left him slightly dizzy. The main point to which his mind clung =
was
that the time had come at last. He could make the great change now at any m=
oment
that suited him.
He was blowing cl=
ouds
of smoke and gloating over this fact when the door opened, admitting a
bull-terrier, a bull-dog, and in the wake of the procession a girl in a kim=
ono
and red slippers.
"Why, Molly," said the
policeman, "what are you doing out of bed? I thought you were
asleep."
He placed a huge =
arm
around her, and drew her to his lap. As she sat there, his great bulk made =
her
seem smaller than she really was. With her hair down and her little red sli=
ppers
dangling half a yard from the floor, she seemed a child. McEachern, looking=
at
her, found it hard to realize that nineteen years had passed since the mome=
nt when
the doctor's raised eyebrows had reproved him for his monosyllabic receptio=
n of
the news that the baby was a girl.
"Do you know
what the time is?" he said. "Two o'clock."
"Much too la=
te
for you to be sitting here smoking," said Molly, severely. "How m=
any
cigars do you smoke a day? Suppose you had married someone who wouldn't let=
you
smoke!"
"Never stop =
your
husband smoking, my dear. That's a bit of advice for you when you're
married."
"I'm never g=
oing
to marry. I'm going to stop at home, and darn your socks."
"I wish you
could," he said, drawing her closer to him. "But one of these days
you're going to marry a prince. And now run back to bed. It's much too
late--"
"It's no goo=
d,
father dear. I couldn't get to sleep. I've been trying hard for hours. I've
counted sheep till I nearly screamed. It's Rastus' fault. He snores so!&quo=
t;
Mr. McEachern reg=
arded
the erring bull-dog sternly.
"Why do you =
have
the brutes in your room?"
"Why, to keep
the boogaboos from getting me, of course. Aren't you afraid of the boogaboos
getting you? But you're so big, you wouldn't mind. You'd just hit them. And
they're not brutes--are you, darlings? You're angels, and you nearly burst
yourselves with joy because auntie had come back from England, didn't you?
Father, did they miss me when I was gone? Did they pine away?"
"They got li=
ke
skeletons. We all did."
"You?"<= o:p>
"I should say
so."
"Then, why d=
id
you send me away to England?"
"I wanted yo=
u to
see the country. Did you like it?"
"I hated bei=
ng
away from you."
"But you lik=
ed
the country?"
"I loved
it."
McEachern drew a
breath of relief. The only possible obstacle to the great change did not ex=
ist.
"How would y=
ou
like to go back to England, Molly?"
"To England!
When I've just come home?"
"If I went,
too?"
Molly twisted aro=
und
so that she could see his face better.
"There's
something the matter with you, father. You're trying to say something, and I
want to know what it is. Tell me quick, or I'll make Rastus bite you!"=
"It won't ta=
ke
long, dear. I've been lucky in some investments while you were away, and I'm
going to leave the force, and take you over to England, and find a prince f=
or
you to marry--if you think you would like it."
"Father! It'=
ll
be perfectly splendid!"
"We'll start fair in England, Molly. I'll just be John McEachern, from America, and, if anybody wants to know anything about me, I'm a man who has made money on Wa= ll Street--and that's no lie--and has come over to England to spend it."<= o:p>
Molly gave his ar=
m a
squeeze. Her eyes were wet.
"Father,
dear," she whispered, "I believe you've been doing it all for me.
You've been slaving away for me ever since I was born, stinting yourself and
saving money just so that I could have a good time later on."
"No, no!&quo=
t;
"It's
true," she said. She turned on him with a tremulous laugh. "I don=
't
believe you've had enough to eat for years. I believe you're all skin and b=
one.
Never mind. To-morrow, I'll take you out and buy you the best dinner you've
ever had, out of my own money. We'll go to Sherry's, and you shall start at=
the
top of the menu, and go straight down it till you've had enough."
"That will m=
ake
up for everything. And, now, don't you think you ought to be going to bed?
You'll be losing all that color you got on the ship."
"Soon--not j=
ust
yet. I haven't seen you for such ages!" She pointed at the bull-terrie=
r.
"Look at Tommy, standing there and staring. He can't believe I've real=
ly
come back. Father, there was a man on the Lusitania with eyes exactly like
Tommy's--all brown and bright--and he used to stand and stare just like Tom=
my's
doing."
"If I had be=
en
there," said her father wrathfully, "I'd have knocked his head
off."
"No, you
wouldn't, because I'm sure he was really a very nice young man. He had a ch=
in
rather like yours, father. Besides, you couldn't have got at him to knock h=
is
head off, because he was traveling second-class."
"Second-clas=
s? Then,
you didn't talk with him?"
"We couldn't.
You wouldn't expect him to shout at me across the railing! Only, whenever I
walked round the deck, he seemed to be there."
"Staring!&qu=
ot;
"He may not =
have
been staring at me. Probably, he was just looking the way the ship was goin=
g,
and thinking of some girl in New York. I don't think you can make much of a
romance out of it, father."
"I don't want
to, my dear. Princes don't travel in the second-cabin."
"He may have
been a prince in disguise."
"More likely=
a drummer,"
grunted Mr. McEachern.
"Drummers are
often quite nice, aren't they?"
"Princes are
nicer."
"Well, I'll =
go
to bed and dream of the nicest one I can think of. Come along, dogs. Stop
biting my slipper, Tommy. Why can't you behave, like Rastus? Still, you don=
't
snore, do you? Aren't you going to bed soon, father? I believe you've been
sitting up late and getting into all sorts of bad habits while I've been aw=
ay.
I'm sure you have been smoking too much. When you've finished that cigar, y=
ou're
not even to think of another till to-morrow. Promise!"
"Not one?&qu=
ot;
"Not one. I'm
not going to have my father getting like the people you read about in the
magazine advertisements. You don't want to feel sudden shooting pains, do
you?"
"No, my
dear."
"And have to
take some awful medicine?"
"No."
"Then,
promise."
"Very well, =
my
dear. I promise."
As the door close=
d,
the captain threw away the stump he was smoking, and remained for a moment =
in
thought. Then, he drew another cigar from his case, lighted it, and resumed=
the
study of the little note-book. It was past three o'clock when he went to his
bedroom.
CHAPTER V - A THIEF IN THE
NIGHT
How long the light had been darting=
about
the room like a very much enlarged firefly, Jimmy did not know. It seemed t=
o him
like hours, for it had woven itself into an incoherent waking dream of his;=
and
for a moment, as the mists of sleep passed away from his brain, he fancied =
that
he was dreaming still. Then, sleep left him, and he realized that the light,
which was now moving slowly across the bookcase, was a real light.
That the man behi=
nd
it could not have been there long was plain, or he would have seen the chair
and its occupant. He seemed to be taking the room step by step. As Jimmy sa=
t up
noiselessly and gripped the arms of the chair in readiness for a spring, the
light passed from the bookcase to the table. Another foot or so to the left,
and it would have fallen on Jimmy.
From the position=
of
the ray, Jimmy could see that the burglar was approaching on his side of the
table. Though until that day he had not been in the room for two months, its
geography was clearly stamped on his mind's eye. He knew almost to a foot w=
here
his visitor was standing. Consequently, when, rising swiftly from the chair=
, he
made a football dive into the darkness, it was no speculative dive. It had a
conscious aim, and it was not restrained by any uncertainty as to whether t=
he
road to the burglar's knees was clear or not.
His shoulder bump=
ed
into a human leg. His arms closed instantaneously on it, and pulled. There =
was
a yelp of dismay, and a crash. The lantern bounced away across the room, and
wrecked itself on the reef of the steam-heater. Its owner collapsed in a he=
ap
on top of Jimmy.
Jimmy, underneath=
at
the fall, speedily put himself uppermost with a twist of his body. He had e=
very
advantage. The burglar was a small man, and had been taken very much by
surprise, and any fight there might have been in him in normal circumstances
had been shaken out of him by the fall. He lay still, not attempting to
struggle.
Jimmy half-rose, =
and,
pulling his prisoner by inches to the door, felt up the wall till he found =
the
electric-light button.
The yellow glow t=
hat
flooded the room disclosed a short, stocky youth of obviously Bowery
extraction. A shock of vivid red hair was the first thing about him that ca=
ught
the eye. A poet would have described it as Titian. Its proprietor's friends=
and
acquaintances probably called it "carrots." Looking up at Jimmy f=
rom
under this wealth of crimson was a not unpleasing face. It was not handsome=
, certainly;
but there were suggestions of a latent good-humor. The nose had been broken=
at
one period of its career, and one of the ears was undeniably of the caulifl=
ower
type; but these are little accidents which may happen to any high-spirited
young gentleman. In costume, the visitor had evidently been guided rather by
individual taste than by the dictates of fashion. His coat was of rusty bla=
ck, his
trousers of gray, picked out with stains of various colors. Beneath the coat
was a faded red-and-white sweater. A hat of soft felt lay on the floor by t=
he
table.
The cut of the co=
at
was poor, and the fit of it spoiled by a bulge in one of the pockets.
Diagnosing this bulge correctly, Jimmy inserted his hand, and drew out a di=
ngy
revolver.
"Well?"=
he
said, rising.
Like most people,=
he
had often wondered what he should do if he were to meet a burglar; and he h=
ad
always come to the conclusion that curiosity would be his chief emotion. His
anticipations were proved perfectly correct. Now that he had abstracted his
visitor's gun, he had no wish to do anything but engage him in conversation=
. A burglar's
life was something so entirely outside his experience! He wanted to learn t=
he
burglar's point of view. Incidentally, he reflected with amusement, as he
recalled his wager, he might pick up a few useful hints.
The man on the fl=
oor
sat up, and rubbed the back of his head ruefully.
"Gee!" =
he
muttered. "I t'ought some guy had t'rown de buildin' at me."
"It was only
little me," said Jimmy. "Sorry if I hurt you at all. You really w=
ant
a mat for that sort of thing."
The man's hand we=
nt
furtively to his pocket. Then, his eye caught sight of the revolver, which
Jimmy had placed on the table. With a sudden dash, he seized it.
"Now, den, b=
oss!"
he said, between his teeth.
Jimmy extended his
hand, and unclasped it. Six shells lay in the palm.
"Why
worry?" he said. "Sit down and let us talk of life."
"It's a fair
cop, boss," said the man, resignedly.
"Away with
melancholy," said Jimmy. "I'm not going to call the police. You c=
an
beat it whenever you like."
The man stared.
"I mean
it," said Jimmy. "What's the trouble? I've no grievance. I wish,
though, if you haven't any important engagement, you would stop and talk aw=
hile
first."
A broad grin spre=
ad
itself across the other's face. There was something singularly engaging abo=
ut
him when he grinned.
"Gee! If you= se ain't goin' to call de cops, I'll talk till de chickens roost ag'in."<= o:p>
"Talking,
however," said Jimmy, "is dry work. Are you by any chance on the
wagon?"
"What's dat?=
Me?
On your way, boss!"
"Then, you'll
find a pretty decent whiskey in that decanter. Help yourself. I think you'll
like it."
A musical gurglin=
g,
followed by a contented sigh, showed that the statement had been tested and
proved correct.
"Cigar?"
asked Jimmy.
"Me fer
dat," assented his visitor.
"Take a
handful."
"I eats dem
alive," said the marauder jovially, gathering in the spoils.
Jimmy crossed his
legs.
"By the
way," he said, "let there be no secrets between us. What's your n=
ame?
Mine is Pitt. James Willoughby Pitt."
"Mullins is =
my
monaker, boss. Spike, dey calls me."
"And you mak=
e a
living at this sort of thing?"
"Not so
woise."
"How did you=
get
in here?"
Spike Mullins
grinned.
"Gee! Ain't =
de
window open?"
"If it hadn't
been?"
"I'd a' bust=
ed
it."
Jimmy eyed the fe=
llow
fixedly.
"Can you use=
an
oxy-acetylene blow-pipe?" he demanded.
Spike was on the
point of drinking. He lowered his glass, and gaped.
"What's
dat?" he said.
"An
oxy-acetylene blow-pipe."
"Search
me," said Spike, blankly. "Dat gets past me."
Jimmy's manner gr=
ew
more severe.
"Can you make
soup?"
"Soup,
boss?"
"He doesn't =
know
what soup is," said Jimmy, despairingly. "My good man, I'm afraid=
you
have missed your vocation. You have no business to be trying to burgle. You
don't know the first thing about the game."
Spike was regardi=
ng
the speaker with disquiet over his glass. Till now, the red-haired one had =
been
very well satisfied with his methods, but criticism was beginning to sap his
nerve. He had heard tales of masters of his craft who made use of fearsome
implements such as Jimmy had mentioned; burglars who had an airy acquaintan=
ceship,
bordering on insolent familiarity, with the marvels of science; men to whom=
the
latest inventions were as familiar as his own jemmy was to himself. Could t=
his
be one of that select band? His host began to take on a new aspect in his e=
yes.
"Spike,"
said Jimmy.
"Huh?"<= o:p>
"Have you a
thorough knowledge of chemistry, physics--"
"On your way,
boss!"
"--toxicolog=
y--"
"Search
me!"
"--electrici=
ty
and microscopy?"
"... Nine, t=
en.
Dat's de finish. I'm down an' out."
Jimmy shook his h=
ead,
sadly.
"Give up
burglary," he said. "It's not in your line. Better try poultry-fa=
rming."
Spike twiddled his
glass, abashed.
"Now, I,&quo=
t;
said Jimmy airily, "am thinking of breaking into a house to-night.&quo=
t;
"Gee!"
exclaimed Spike, his suspicions confirmed at last. "I t'ought youse wa=
s in
de game, boss. Sure, you're de guy dat's onto all de curves. I t'ought so a=
ll
along."
"I should li=
ke
to hear," said Jimmy amusedly, as one who draws out an intelligent chi=
ld,
"how you would set about burgling one of those up-town villas. My own =
work
has been on a somewhat larger scale and on the other side of the
Atlantic."
"De odder si=
de?"
"I have done=
as
much in London, as anywhere else," said Jimmy. "A great town, Lon=
don,
full of opportunities for the fine worker. Did you hear of the cracking of =
the
New Asiatic Bank in Lombard Street?"
"No, boss,&q=
uot;
whispered Spike. "Was dat you?"
Jimmy laughed.
"The police
would like an answer to the same question," he said, self-consciously.
"Perhaps, you heard nothing of the disappearance of the Duchess of
Havant's diamonds?"
"Wasdat--?&q=
uot;
"The
thief," said Jimmy, flicking a speck of dust from his coat sleeve,
"was discovered to have used an oxy-acetylene blow-pipe."
The rapturous int=
ake
of Spike's breath was the only sound that broke the silence. Through the sm=
oke,
his eyes could be seen slowly widening.
"But about t=
his
villa," said Jimmy. "I am always interested even in the humblest
sides of the profession. Now, tell me, supposing you were going to break in=
to a
villa, what time of night would you do it?"
"I always t'=
inks
it's best either late like dis or when de folks is in at supper," said
Spike, respectfully.
Jimmy smiled a fa=
int,
patronizing smile, and nodded.
"Well, and w=
hat
would you do?"
"I'd rubber
around some to see isn't dere a window open somewheres," said Spike,
diffidently.
"And if there
wasn't?"
"I'd climb u=
p de
porch an' into one of de bedrooms," said Spike, almost blushing. He fe=
lt
like a boy reading his first attempts at original poetry to an established
critic. What would this master cracksman, this polished wielder of the
oxy-acetylene blow-pipe, this expert in toxicology, microscopy and physics
think of his callow outpourings!
"How would y=
ou
get into the bedroom?"
Spike hung his he=
ad.
"Bust de cat=
ch
wit' me jemmy," he whispered, shamefacedly.
"Burst the c=
atch
with your jemmy?"
"It's de only
way I ever learned," pleaded Spike.
The expert was
silent. He seemed to be thinking. The other watched his face, humbly.
"How would y=
ouse
do it, boss?" he ventured timidly, at last.
"Eh?"
"How would y=
ouse
do it?"
"Why, I'm not
sure," said the master, graciously, "whether your way might not d=
o in
a case like that. It's crude, of course, but with a few changes it would
do."
"Gee, boss! =
Is
dat right?" queried the astonished disciple.
"It would
do," said the master, frowning thoughtfully; "it would do quite
well--quite well!"
Spike drew a deep
breath of joy and astonishment. That his methods should meet with approval =
from
such a mind...!
"Gee!" =
he
whispered--as who would say, "I and Napoleon."
CHAPTER VI - AN EXHIBITION
PERFORMANCE
Cold reason may disapprove of wager=
s, but
without a doubt there is something joyous and lovable in the type of mind t=
hat
rushes at the least provocation into the making of them, something smacking=
of
the spacious days of the Regency. Nowadays, the spirit seems to have desert=
ed
England. When Mr. Asquith became Premier of Great Britain, no earnest forms
were to be observed rolling peanuts along the Strand with a toothpick. When=
Mr.
Asquith is dethroned, it is improbable that any Briton will allow his beard=
to
remain unshaved until the Liberal party returns to office. It is in the Uni=
ted States
that the wager has found a home. It is characteristic of some minds to dash
into a wager with the fearlessness of a soldier in a forlorn hope, and, once
in, to regard it almost as a sacred trust. Some men never grow up out of the
schoolboy spirit of "daring."
To this class Jim=
my
Pitt belonged. He was of the same type as the man in the comic opera who
proposed to the lady because somebody bet him he wouldn't. There had never =
been
a time when a challenge, a "dare," had not acted as a spur to him=
. In
his newspaper days, life had been one long series of challenges. They had b=
een
the essence of the business. A story had not been worth getting unless the
getting were difficult.
With the conclusi=
on
of his newspaper life came a certain flatness into the scheme of things. Th=
ere
were times, many times, when Jimmy was bored. He hungered for excitement, a=
nd
life appeared to have so little to offer! The path of the rich man was so
smooth, and it seemed to lead nowhere! This task of burgling a house was li=
ke
an unexpected treat to a child. With an intensity of purpose that should ha=
ve
touched his sense of humor, but, as a matter of fact, did not appeal to him=
as
ludicrous in any way, he addressed himself to the work. The truth was that
Jimmy was one of those men who are charged to the brim with force. Somehow,=
the
force had to find an outlet. If he had undertaken to collect birds' eggs, he
would have set about it with the same tense energy.
Spike was sitting=
on
the edge of his chair, dazed but happy, his head still buzzing from the
unhoped-for praise. Jimmy looked at his watch. It was nearly three o'clock.=
A
sudden idea struck him. The gods had provided gifts: why not take them?
"Spike!"=
;
"Huh?"<= o:p>
"Would you c=
are
to come and crack a crib with me, now?"
Reverential awe w=
as
written on the red-haired one's face.
"Gee,
boss!"
"Would
you?"
"Surest t'ing
you know, boss."
"Or,
rather," proceeded Jimmy, "would you care to crack a crib while I
came along with you? Strictly speaking, I am here on a vacation, but a trif=
le
like this isn't real work. It's this way," he explained. "I've ta=
ken
a fancy to you, Spike, and I don't like to see you wasting your time on coa=
rse
work. You have the root of the matter in you, and with a little coaching I
could put a polish on you. I wouldn't do this for everyone, but I hate to s=
ee a
man bungling who might do better! I want to see you at work. Come right alo=
ng,
and we'll go up-town, and you shall start in. Don't get nervous. Just work =
as
you would if I were not there. I shall not expect too much. Rome was not bu=
ilt
in a day. When we are through, I will criticize a few of your mistakes. How
does that suit you?"
"Gee, boss!
Great! An' I know where dere's a peach of a place, boss. Regular soft
proposition. A friend of mine told me. It's--"
"Very well,
then. One moment, though."
He went to the
telephone. Before he had left New York on his travels, Arthur Mifflin had b=
een
living at a hotel near Washington Square. It was probable that he was still
there. He called up the number. The night-clerk was an old acquaintance of =
his.
"Hello,
Dixon," said Jimmy, "is that you? I'm Pitt--Pitt! Yes, I'm back. =
How
did you guess? Yes, very pleasant. Has Mr. Mifflin come in yet? Gone to bed?
Never mind, call him up, will you? Good." Presently, the sleepy and
outraged voice of Mr. Mifflin spoke at the other end of the line.
"What's wron=
g?
Who the devil's that?"
"My dear Art=
hur!
Where you pick up such expressions I can't think--not from me."
"Is that you,
Jimmy? What in the name of--!"
"Heavens! Wh=
at
are you kicking about? The night's yet young. Arthur, touching that little
arrangement we made--cracking that crib, you know. Are you listening? Have =
you
any objection to my taking an assistant along with me? I don't want to do a=
nything
contrary to our agreement, but there's a young fellow here who's anxious th=
at I
should let him come along and pick up a few hints. He's a professional all
right. Not in our class, of course, but quite a fair rough workman. He--Art=
hur!
Arthur! These are harsh words! Then, am I to understand you have no objecti=
on?
Very well. Only, don't say later on that I didn't play fair. Good-night.&qu=
ot;
He hung up the
receiver, and turned to Spike.
"Ready?"=
;
"Ain't youse
goin' to put on your gum-shoes, boss?"
Jimmy frowned
reflectively, as if there was something in what this novice suggested. He w=
ent
into the bedroom, and returned wearing a pair of thin patent-leather shoes.=
Spike coughed
tentatively.
"Won't youse
need your gun?" he hazarded.
Jimmy gave a short laugh.
"I work with
brains, not guns," he said. "Let us be going."
There was a taxi-=
cab
near by, as there always is in New York. Jimmy pushed Spike in, and they dr=
ove
off. To Jimmy, New York stopped somewhere about Seventy-Second Street. Anyt=
hing
beyond that was getting on for the Middle West, and seemed admirably suited=
as
a field for the cracksman. He had a vague idea of up-town as a remote, deso=
late
district, badly lighted--if lighted at all--and sparsely dotted with sleepy
policemen.
The luxury of rid=
ing
in a taxi-cab kept Spike dumb for several miles. Having arrived at what see=
med
a sufficiently remote part of America, Jimmy paid the driver, who took the
money with that magnificently aloof air which characterizes the taxi-chauff=
eur.
A lesser man might have displayed some curiosity about the ill-matched pair.
The chauffeur, having lighted a cigarette, drove off without any display of
interest whatsoever. It might have been part of his ordinary duties to drive
gentlemen in evening clothes and shock-headed youths in parti-colored sweat=
ers
about the city at three o'clock in the morning.
"We will
now," said Jimmy, "stroll on and prospect. It is up to you, Spike.
Didn't you say something about knowing a suitable house somewhere? Are we
anywhere near it?"
Spike looked at t=
he
number of the street.
"We got some=
way
to go, boss," he said. "I wisht youse hadn't sent away de cab.&qu=
ot;
"Did you thi=
nk
we were going to drive up to the door? Pull yourself together, my dear
man."
They walked on,
striking eastward out of Broadway. It caused Jimmy some surprise to find th=
at
the much-enduring thoroughfare extended as far as this. It had never occurr=
ed
to him before to ascertain what Broadway did with itself beyond Times Squar=
e.
It was darker now
that they had moved from the center of things, but it was still far too lig=
ht
for Jimmy's tastes. He was content, however, to leave matters entirely to h=
is
companion. Spike probably had his methods for evading publicity on these
occasions.
Spike plodded on.
Block after block he passed, until finally the houses began to be more
scattered.
At last, he halted
before a fair-sized detached house.
"Dis is de
place," he said. "A friend of mine tells me of it. I didn't know =
he
was me friend, dough, before he puts me wise about dis joint. I t'ought he'd
got it in fer me 'cos of last week when I scrapped wit' him about somet'in'=
. I
t'ought after that he was layin' fer me, but de next time he seen me he put=
me
wise to dis place."
"Coals of
fire," said Jimmy. "He was of a forgiving disposition." A si=
ngle
rain-drop descended on the nape of his neck. In another moment, a smart sho=
wer
had begun.
"This matter=
has
passed out of our hands," said Jimmy. "We must break in, if only =
to
get shelter. Get busy, my lad."
There was a handy
window only a few feet from the ground. Spike pulled from his pocket a small
bottle.
"What's
that?" inquired Jimmy.
"Molasses,
boss," said Spike, deferentially.
He poured the
contents of the bottle on a piece of paper, which he pressed firmly against=
the
window-pane. Then, drawing out a short steel instrument, he gave the paper a
sharp tap. The glass broke almost inaudibly. The paper came away, leaving a=
gap
in the pane. Spike inserted his hand, shot back the catch, and softly pushe=
d up
the window.
"Elementary,=
"
said Jimmy; "elementary, but quite neat."
There was now a
shutter to be negotiated. This took longer, but in the end Spike's persuasi=
ve
methods prevailed.
Jimmy became quite
cordial.
"You have be=
en
well-grounded, Spike," he said. "And, after all, that is half the
battle. The advice I give to every novice is, 'Learn to walk before you try=
to
run.' Master the a, b, c, of the craft first. With a little careful coachin=
g,
you will do. Just so. Pop in."
Spike climbed
cautiously over the sill, followed by Jimmy. The latter struck a match, and
found the electric light switch. They were in a parlor, furnished and decor=
ated
with surprising taste. Jimmy had expected the usual hideousness, but here
everything from the wall-paper to the smallest ornaments was wonderfully we=
ll selected.
Business, however,
was business. This was no time to stand admiring artistic effects in
room-furnishing. There was that big J to be carved on the front door. If 't=
were
done, then 'twere well 'twere done quickly.
He was just movin=
g to
the door, when from some distant part of the house came the bark of a dog.
Another joined in. The solo became a duet. The air was filled with their
clamor.
"Gee!"
cried Spike.
The remark seemed
more or less to sum up the situation.
"'Tis
sweet," says Byron, "to hear the watch-dog's honest bark." J=
immy
and Spike found two watch-dogs' honest barks cloying. Spike intimated this =
by
making a feverish dash for the open window. Unfortunately for the success of
this maneuver, the floor of the room was covered not with a carpet but with
tastefully scattered rugs, and underneath these rugs it was very highly
polished. Spike, treading on one of these islands, was instantly undone. No
power of will or muscle can save a man in such a case. Spike skidded. His f=
eet
flew from under him. There was a momentary flash of red head, as of a passi=
ng
meteor. The next moment, he had fallen on his back with a thud that shook t=
he
house. Even in the crisis, the thought flashed across Jimmy's mind that this
was not Spike's lucky night.
Upstairs, the eff=
orts
of the canine choir had begun to resemble the "A che la morte" du=
et
in "Il Trovatore." Particularly good work was being done by the
baritone dog.
Spike sat up,
groaning. Equipped though he was by nature with a skull of the purest and m=
ost
solid ivory, the fall had disconcerted him. His eyes, like those of
Shakespeare's poet, rolling in a fine frenzy, did glance from heaven to ear=
th,
from earth to heaven. He passed his fingers tenderly through his vermilion
hair.
Heavy footsteps w=
ere
descending the stairs. In the distance, the soprano dog had reached A in al=
t.,
and was holding it, while his fellow artiste executed runs in the lower
register.
"Get up!&quo=
t;
hissed Jimmy. "There's somebody coming! Get up, you idiot, can't
you!"
It was characteri=
stic
of Jimmy that it never even occurred to him to desert the fallen one, and
depart alone. Spike was his brother-in-arms. He would as soon have thought =
of
deserting him as a sea-captain would of abandoning the ship.
Consequently, as
Spike, despite all exhortations, continued to remain on the floor, rubbing =
his
head and uttering "Gee!" at intervals in a melancholy voice, Jimmy
resigned himself to fate, and stood where he was, waiting for the door to o=
pen.
It opened the next
moment as if a cyclone had been behind it.
CHAPTER VII - GETTING
ACQUAINTED
A cyclone, entering a room, is apt =
to
alter the position of things. This cyclone shifted a footstool, a small cha=
ir,
a rug, and Spike. The chair, struck by a massive boot, whirled against the
wall. The foot-stool rolled away. The rug crumpled up and slid. Spike, with=
a yell,
leaped to his feet, slipped again, fell, and finally compromised on an
all-fours position, in which attitude he remained, blinking.
While these stirr=
ing
acts were in progress, there was the sound of a door opening upstairs, foll=
owed
by a scuttering of feet and an appalling increase in the canine contributio=
n to
the current noises. The duet had now taken on quite a Wagnerian effect.
There raced into =
the
room first a white bull-terrier, he of the soprano voice, and--a bad
second--his fellow artiste, the baritone, a massive bull-dog, bearing a
striking resemblance to the big man with the big lower jaw whose entrance h=
ad
started the cyclone.
And, then, in
theatrical parlance, the entire company "held the picture." Up-st=
age,
with his hand still on the door, stood the man with the jaw; downstage, Jim=
my;
center, Spike and the bull-dog, their noses a couple of inches apart, inspe=
cted
each other with mutual disfavor. On the extreme O. P. side, the bull-terrie=
r,
who had fallen foul of a wicker-work table, was crouching with extended ton=
gue
and rolling eyes, waiting for the next move.
The householder
looked at Jimmy. Jimmy looked at the householder. Spike and the bull-dog lo=
oked
at each other. The bull-terrier distributed his gaze impartially around the
company.
"A typical s=
cene
of quiet American home-life," murmured Jimmy.
The householder
glowered.
"Hands up, y=
ou
devils!" he roared, pointing a mammoth revolver.
The two marauders
humored his whim.
"Let me
explain," said Jimmy pacifically, shuffling warily around in order to =
face
the bull-terrier, who was now strolling in his direction with an ill-assumed
carelessness.
"Keep still,=
you
blackguard!"
Jimmy kept still.=
The
bull-terrier, with the same abstracted air, was beginning a casual inspecti=
on
of his right trouser-leg.
Relations between
Spike and the bull-dog, meanwhile, had become more strained. The sudden
flinging up of the former's arms had had the worst effects on the animal's
nerves. Spike, the croucher on all-fours, he might have tolerated; but Spik=
e,
the semaphore, inspired him with thoughts of battle. He was growling in a
moody, reflective manner. His eye was full of purpose.
It was probably t=
his
that caused Spike to look at the householder. Till then, he had been too bu=
sy
to shift his gaze, but now the bull-dog's eye had become so unpleasing that=
he
cast a pathetic glance up at the man by the door.
"Gee!" =
he
cried. "It's de boss. Say, boss, call off de dawg. It's sure goin' to =
nip
de hull head off'n me."
The other lowered=
the
revolver in surprise.
"So, it's yo=
u,
you limb of Satan!" he remarked. "I thought I had seen that damned
red head of yours before. What are you doing in my house?"
Spike uttered a h=
owl
in which indignation and self-pity were nicely blended.
"I'll lay for
that Swede!" he cried. "I'll soak it to him good! Boss, I've had a
raw deal. On de level, I has. Dey's a feller I know, a fat Swede--Ole Larsen
his monaker is--an' dis feller an' me started in scrapping last week, an' I
puts it all over him, so he had it in for me. But he comes up to me, like a=
s if
he's meanin' to be good, an' he says he's got a soft proposition fer me if =
I'll
give him half. So, I says all right, where is it? An' he gives me de number=
of
dis house, an' says dis is where a widder-lady lives all alone, an' has got
silver mugs and t'ings to boin, an' dat she's away down Sout', so dere ain't
nobody in de house. Gee! I'll soak it to dat Swede! It was a raw deal, boss=
. He
was just hopin' to put me in bad wit' you. Dat's how it was, boss.
Honest!"
The big man liste=
ned
to this sad story of Grecian gifts in silence. Not so the bull-dog, which
growled from start to finish.
Spike eyed it
uneasily.
"Won't you c=
all
off de dawg, boss?" he said.
The other stooped,
and grasped the animal's collar, jerking him away.
"The same
treatment," suggested Jimmy with approval, "would also do a world=
of
good to this playful and affectionate animal--unless he is a vegetarian. In
which case, don't bother."
The big man glowe=
red
at him.
"Who are
you?" he demanded.
"My name,&qu=
ot;
began Jimmy, "is--"
"Say," =
said
Spike, "he's a champion burglar, boss--"
The householder s=
hut
the door.
"Eh?" he
said.
"He's a cham=
pion
burglar from de odder side. He sure is. From Lunnon. Gee, he's de guy! Tell=
him
about de bank you opened, an' de jools you swiped from de duchess, an' de
what-d'ye-call-it blow-pipe."
It seemed to Jimmy
that Spike was showing a certain want of tact. When you are discovered by a
householder--with revolver--in his parlor at half-past three in the morning=
, it
is surely an injudicious move to lay stress on your proficiency as a burgla=
r.
The householder may be supposed to take that for granted. The side of your
character that should be advertised in such a crisis is the non-burglarious.
Allusion should be made to the fact that, as a child, you attended Sunday
school regularly, and to what the minister said when you took the divinity
prize. The idea should be conveyed to the householder's mind that, if let o=
ff
with a caution, your innate goodness of heart will lead you to reform and to
avoid such scenes in future.
With some
astonishment, therefore, Jimmy found that these revelations, so far from
prejudicing the man with the revolver against him, had apparently told in h=
is
favor. The man behind the gun was regarding him rather with interest than
disapproval.
"So, you're a
crook from London, are you?"
Jimmy did not
hesitate. If being a crook from London was a passport into citizens' parlor=
s in
the small hours, and, more particularly, if it carried with it also a
safe-conduct out of them, Jimmy was not the man to refuse the role. He bowe=
d.
"Well, you'll
have to come across, now you're in New York. Understand that! And come acro=
ss
good."
"Sure, he
will," said Spike, charmed that the tension had been relieved, and mat=
ters
placed upon a pleasant and business-like footing. "He'll be good. He's
next to de game, sure."
"Sure,"
echoed Jimmy, courteously. He did not understand; but things seemed to be
taking a turn for the better, so why disturb the harmony?
"Dis gent,&q=
uot;
said Spike respectfully, "is boss of de cops. A police-captain," =
he
corrected himself.
A light broke upon
Jimmy's darkness. He wondered he had not understood before. He had not been=
a
newspaper-man in New York for a year without finding out something of the i=
nner
workings of the police force. He saw now why the other's manner had changed=
.
"Pleased to =
meet
you," he said. "We must have a talk together one of these days.&q=
uot;
"We must,&qu=
ot;
said the police-captain, significantly. He was rich, richer than he had ever
hoped to be; but he was still on Tom Tiddler's ground, and meant to make the
most of it.
"Of course, I
don't know your methods on this side, but anything that's usual--"
"I'll see yo=
u at
my office. Spike Mullins will show you where it is."
"Very well. =
You
must forgive this preliminary informal call. We came in more to shelter from
the rain than anything."
"You did, did
you?"
Jimmy felt that it
behooved him to stand on his dignity. The situation demanded it.
"Why," =
he
said with some hauteur, "in the ordinary course of business I should
hardly waste time over a small crib like--"
"It's banks =
fer
his," murmured Spike, rapturously. "He eats dem alive. An' jools =
from
duchesses."
"I admit a
partiality for jewels and duchesses," said Jimmy. "And, now, as i=
t's
a little late, perhaps we had better--Ready, Spike? Good-night, then. Pleas=
ed
to have met you."
"I'll see yo=
u at
my office."
"I may possi=
bly
look in. I shall be doing very little work in New York, I fancy. I am here
merely on a vacation."
"If you do a=
ny
work at all," said the policeman coldly, "you'll look in at my
office, or you'll wish you had when it's too late."
"Of course, =
of
course. I shouldn't dream of omitting any formality that may be usual. But I
don't fancy I shall break my vacation. By the way, one little thing. Have y=
ou
any objections to my carving a J on your front-door?"
The policeman sta=
red.
"On the insi=
de.
It won't show. It's just a whim of mine. If you have no objection?"
"I don't want
any of your--" began the policeman.
"You
misunderstand me. It's only that it means paying for a dinner. I wouldn't f=
or
the world--"
The policeman poi=
nted
to the window.
"Out you
get," he said, abruptly. "I've had enough of you. And don't you
forget to come to my office."
Spike, still deep=
ly
mistrustful of the bull-dog Rastus, jumped at the invitation. He was through
the window and out of sight in the friendly darkness almost before the
policeman had finished speaking. Jimmy remained.
"I shall be =
delighted--"
he had begun. Then, he stopped. In the doorway was standing a girl--a girl =
whom
he recognized. Her startled look told him that she, too, had recognized him=
.
Not for the first
time since he had set out from his flat that night in Spike's company, Jimmy
was conscious of a sense of the unreality of things. It was all so exactly =
as
it would have happened in a dream! He had gone to sleep thinking of this gi=
rl,
and here she was. But a glance at the man with the revolver brought him bac=
k to
earth. There was nothing of the dream-world about the police-captain.
That gentleman, w=
hose
back was toward the door, had not observed the addition to the company. Mol=
ly
had turned the handle quietly, and her slippered feet made no sound. It was=
the
amazed expression on Jimmy's face that caused the captain to look toward the
door.
"Molly!"=
;
The girl smiled,
though her face was white. Jimmy's evening clothes had reassured her. She d=
id
not understand how he came to be there, but evidently there was nothing wro=
ng.
She had interrupted a conversation, not a conflict.
"I heard the
noise and you going downstairs, and I sent the dogs down to help you,
father," she said. "And, then, after a little, I came down to see=
if
you were all right."
Mr. McEachern was
perplexed. Molly's arrival had put him in an awkward position. To denounce =
the
visitor as a cracksman was now impossible, for he knew too much. The only r=
eal
fear of the policeman's life was lest some word of his money-making methods=
might
come to his daughter's ears.
Quite a brilliant
idea came to him.
"A man broke=
in,
my dear," he said. "This gentleman was passing, and saw him."=
;
"Distinctly,=
"
said Jimmy. "An ugly-looking customer!"
"But he slip=
ped
out of the window, and got away," concluded the policeman.
"He was very
quick," said Jimmy. "I think he may have been a professional
acrobat."
"He didn't h=
urt
you, father?"
"No, no, my
dear."
"Perhaps I
frightened him," said Jimmy, airily.
Mr. McEachern sco=
wled
furtively at him.
"We mustn't
detain you, Mr.-"
"Pitt,"=
said
Jimmy. "My name is Pitt." He turned to Molly. "I hope you
enjoyed the voyage."
The policeman
started.
"You know my
daughter?"
"By sight on=
ly,
I'm afraid. We were fellow-passengers on the Lusitania. Unfortunately, I wa=
s in
the second-cabin. I used to see your daughter walking the deck sometimes.&q=
uot;
Molly smiled.
"I remember
seeing you--sometimes."
McEachern burst o=
ut.
"Then,
you--!"
He stopped, and
looked at Molly. The girl was bending over Rastus, tickling him under the e=
ar.
"Let me show=
you
the way out, Mr. Pitt," said the policeman, shortly. His manner was
abrupt, but when one is speaking to a man whom one would dearly love to thr=
ow
out of the window, abruptness is almost unavoidable.
"Perhaps I
should be going," said Jimmy.
"Good-night,=
Mr.
Pitt," said Molly.
"I hope we s=
hall
meet again," said Jimmy.
"This way, M=
r.
Pitt," growled McEachern, holding the door.
"Please don't
trouble," said Jimmy. He went to the window, and, flinging his leg over
the sill, dropped noiselessly to the ground.
He turned and put=
his
head in at the window again.
"I did that
rather well," he said, pleasantly. "I think I must take up this--=
sort
of thing as a profession. Good-night."
In the days before he began to expe=
nd his
surplus energy in playing Rugby football, the Welshman was accustomed, when=
ever
the monotony of his everyday life began to oppress him, to collect a few
friends and make raids across the border into England, to the huge discomfo=
rt
of the dwellers on the other side. It was to cope with this habit that Dree=
ver
Castle, in the county of Shropshire, came into existence. It met a long-felt
want. In time of trouble, it became a haven of refuge. From all sides, peop=
le
poured into it, emerging cautiously when the marauders had disappeared. In =
the
whole history of the castle, there is but one instance recorded of a bandit
attempting to take the place by storm, and the attack was an emphatic failu=
re.
On receipt of a ladleful of molten lead, aimed to a nicety by one John, the
Chaplain (evidently one of those sporting parsons), this warrior retired, d=
one
to a turn, to his mountain fastnesses, and was never heard of again. He wou=
ld
seem, however, to have passed the word around among his friends, for subseq=
uent
raiding parties studiously avoided the castle, and a peasant who had succee=
ded
in crossing its threshold was for the future considered to be "home&qu=
ot;
and out of the game.
Such was the Dree=
ver
of old. In later days, the Welshman having calmed down considerably, it had
lost its militant character. The old walls still stood, gray, menacing and
unchanged, but they were the only link with the past. The castle was now a =
very
comfortable country-house, nominally ruled over by Hildebrand Spencer Poynt=
de Burgh
John Hannasyde Coombe-Crombie, twelfth Earl of Dreever ("Spennie"=
to
his relatives and intimates), a light-haired young gentleman of twenty-four,
but in reality the possession of his uncle and aunt, Sir Thomas and Lady Ju=
lia
Blunt.
Lord Dreever's
position was one of some embarrassment. At no point in their history had the
Dreevers been what one might call a parsimonious family. If a chance presen=
ted
itself of losing money in a particularly wild and futile manner, the Dreeve=
r of
the period had invariably sprung at it with the vim of an energetic
blood-hound. The South Sea Bubble absorbed two hundred thousand pounds of g=
ood Dreever
money, and the remainder of the family fortune was squandered to the ultima=
te
penny by the sportive gentleman who held the title in the days of the Regen=
cy, when
Watier's and the Cocoa Tree were in their prime, and fortunes had a habit of
disappearing in a single evening. When Spennie became Earl of Dreever, there
was about one dollar and thirty cents in the family coffers.
This is the point=
at
which Sir Thomas Blunt breaks into Dreever history. Sir Thomas was a small,
pink, fussy, obstinate man with a genius for trade and the ambition of an
Alexander the Great; probably one of the finest and most complete specimens=
of
the came-over-Waterloo-Bridge-with-half-a crown-in-my-pocket-and-now-look-a=
t-me
class of millionaires in existence. He had started almost literally with
nothing. By carefully excluding from his mind every thought except that of
making money, he had risen in the world with a gruesome persistence which
nothing could check. At the age of fifty-one, he was chairman of Blunt's
Stores, L't'd, a member of Parliament (silent as a wax figure, but a great
comfort to the party by virtue of liberal contributions to its funds), and a
knight. This was good, but he aimed still higher; and, meeting Spennie's au=
nt, Lady
Julia Coombe-Crombie, just at the moment when, financially, the Dreevers we=
re
at their lowest ebb, he had effected a very satisfactory deal by marrying h=
er,
thereby becoming, as one might say, Chairman of Dreever, L't'd. Until Spenn=
ie
should marry money, an act on which his chairman vehemently insisted, Sir
Thomas held the purse, and except in minor matters ordered by his wife, of =
whom
he stood in uneasy awe, had things entirely his own way.
One afternoon, a
little over a year after the events recorded in the preceding chapter, Sir
Thomas was in his private room, looking out of the window, from which the v=
iew
was very beautiful. The castle stood on a hill, the lower portion of which,
between the house and the lake, had been cut into broad terraces. The lake
itself and its island with the little boat-house in the center gave a glimp=
se
of fairyland.
But it was not
altogether the beauty of the view that had drawn Sir Thomas to the window. =
He
was looking at it chiefly because the position enabled him to avoid his wif=
e's
eye; and just at the moment he was rather anxious to avoid his wife's eye. A
somewhat stormy board-meeting was in progress, and Lady Julia, who constitu=
ted
the board of directors, had been heckling the chairman. The point under dis=
cussion
was one of etiquette, and in matters of etiquette Sir Thomas felt himself a=
t a
disadvantage.
"I tell you,=
my
dear," he said to the window, "I am not easy in my mind."
"Nonsense,&q=
uot;
snapped Lady Julia; "absurd--ridiculous!"
Lady Julia Blunt,
when conversing, resembled a Maxim gun more than anything else.
"But your
diamonds, my dear."
"We can take
care of them."
"But why sho=
uld
we have the trouble? Now, if we--"
"It's no
trouble."
"When we were
married, there was a detective--"
"Don't be
childish, Thomas. Detectives at weddings are quite customary."
"But--"=
"Bah!"<= o:p>
"I paid twen=
ty
thousand pounds for that rope of diamonds," said Sir Thomas, obstinate=
ly.
Switch things upon a cash basis, and he was more at ease.
"May I ask if
you suspect any of our guests of being criminals?" inquired Lady Julia,
with a glance of chill disdain.
Sir Thomas looked=
out
of the window. At the moment, the sternest censor could have found nothing =
to
cavil at in the movements of such of the house-party as were in sight. Some
were playing tennis, some clock-golf, and others were smoking.
"Why, no,&qu=
ot;
he admitted.
"Of course.
Absurd--quite absurd!"
"But the
servants. We have engaged a number of new servants lately."
"With excell=
ent
recommendations."
Sir Thomas was on=
the
point of suggesting that the recommendations might be forged, but his coura=
ge
failed him. Julia was sometimes so abrupt in these little discussions! She =
did
not enter into his point of view. He was always a trifle inclined to treat =
the
castle as a branch of Blunt's Stores. As proprietor of the stores, he had m=
ade
a point of suspecting everybody, and the results had been excellent. In Blu=
nt's
Stores, you could hardly move in any direction without bumping into a gentl=
emanly
detective, efficiently disguised. For the life of him, Sir Thomas could not=
see
why the same principle should not obtain at Dreever. Guests at a country ho=
use
do not as a rule steal their host's possessions, but then it is only an
occasional customer at a store who goes in for shop-lifting. It was the pri=
nciple
of the thing, he thought: Be prepared against every emergency. With Sir Tho=
mas
Blunt, suspiciousness was almost a mania. He was forced to admit that the
chances were against any of his guests exhibiting larcenous tendencies, but=
, as
for the servants, he thoroughly mistrusted them all, except Saunders, the
butler. It had seemed to him the merest prudence that a detective from a
private inquiry agency should be installed at the castle while the house wa=
s full.
Somewhat rashly, he had mentioned this to his wife, and Lady Julia's critiq=
ue
of the scheme had been terse and unflattering.
"I
suppose," said Lady Julia sarcastically, "you will jump to the co=
nclusion
that this man whom Spennie is bringing down with him to-day is a criminal of
some sort?"
"Eh? Is Spen=
nie
bringing a friend?"
There was not a g=
reat
deal of enthusiasm in Sir Thomas's voice. His nephew was not a young man wh=
om
he respected very highly. Spennie regarded his uncle with nervous apprehens=
ion,
as one who would deal with his short-comings with vigor and severity. Sir
Thomas, for his part, looked on Spennie as a youth who would get into misch=
ief unless
under his uncle's eye.
"I had a
telegram from him just now," Lady Julia explained.
"Who is his
friend?"
"He doesn't =
say.
He just says he's a man he met in London."
"H'm!"<= o:p>
"And what do=
es,
'H'm!' mean?" demanded Lady Julia.
"A man can p=
ick
up strange people in London," said Sir Thomas, judicially.
"Nonsense!&q=
uot;
"Just as you
say, my dear."
Lady Julia rose.<= o:p>
"As for what=
you
suggest about the detective, it is of course absolutely absurd."
"Quite so, my
dear."
"You mustn't
think of it."
"Just as you
say, my dear."
Lady Julia left t=
he
room.
What followed may
afford some slight clue to the secret of Sir Thomas Blunt's rise in the wor=
ld.
It certainly suggests singleness of purpose, which is one of the essentials=
of
success.
No sooner had the
door closed behind Lady Julia than he went to his writing-table, took pen a=
nd
paper, and wrote the following letter:
To the Manager,
Wragge's Detective Agency. Holborn Bars, London E. C.
SIR: With referen=
ce
to my last of the 28th, ult., I should be glad if you would send down
immediately one of your best men. Am making arrangements to receive him. Ki=
ndly
instruct him to present himself at Dreever Castle as applicant for position=
of
valet to myself. I will see and engage him on his arrival, and further inst=
ruct
him in his duties.
Yours faithfully,=
THOS. BLUNT.
P. S. I shall exp=
ect
him to-morrow evening. There is a good train leaving Paddington at 2:15.
Sir Thomas read t=
his
over, put in a comma, then placed it in an envelope, and lighted a cigar wi=
th
the air of one who can be checked, yes, but vanquished, never.
CHAPTER IX - FRIENDS, NEW=
AND
OLD
On the night of the day on which Sir
Thomas Blunt wrote and dispatched his letter to Wragge's Detective Agency,
Jimmy Pitt chanced to stop at the Savoy.
If you have the m=
oney
and the clothes, and do not object to being turned out into the night just =
as
you are beginning to enjoy yourself, there are few things pleasanter than
supper at the Savoy Hotel, London. But, as Jimmy sat there, eying the multi=
tude
through the smoke of his cigarette, he felt, despite all the brightness and=
glitter,
that this was a flat world, and that he was very much alone in it.
A little over a y=
ear
had passed since the merry evening at Police-Captain McEachern's. During th=
at
time, he had covered a good deal of new ground. His restlessness had reasse=
rted
itself. Somebody had mentioned Morocco in his hearing, and a fortnight late=
r he
was in Fez.
Of the principals=
in
that night's drama, he had seen nothing more. It was only when, after walki=
ng
home on air, rejoicing over the strange chance that had led to his finding =
and
having speech with the lady of the Lusitania, he had reached Fifty-Ninth
Street, that he realized how he had also lost her. It suddenly came home to=
him
that not only did he not know her address, but he was ignorant of her name.
Spike had called the man with the revolver "boss" throughout--only
that and nothing more. Except that he was a police-captain, Jimmy knew as
little about the man as he had before their meeting. And Spike, who held the
key to the mystery, had vanished. His acquaintances of that night had passed
out of his life like figures in a waking dream. As far as the big man with =
the
pistol was concerned, this did not distress him. He had known that massive =
person
only for about a quarter of an hour, but to his thinking that was ample. Sp=
ike
he would have liked to meet again, but he bore the separation with much
fortitude. There remained the girl of the ship; and she had haunted him with
unfailing persistence during every one of the three hundred and eighty-four
days that had passed since their meeting.
It was the though=
t of
her that had made New York seem cramped. For weeks, Jimmy had patrolled the
likely streets, the Park, and Riverside Drive, in the hope of meeting her. =
He
had gone to the theaters and restaurants, but with no success. Sometimes, h=
e had
wandered through the Bowery, on the chance of meeting Spike. He had seen red
heads in profusion, but never again that of his young disciple in the art of
burglary. In the end, he had wearied of the other friends of the Strollers,=
had
gone out again on his wanderings. He was greatly missed, especially by that
large section of his circle which was in a perpetual state of wanting a lit=
tle
to see it through till Saturday. For years, Jimmy had been to these unfortu=
nates
a human bank on which they could draw at will. It offended them that one of
those rare natures which are always good for two dollars at any hour of the=
day
should be allowed to waste itself on places like Morocco and Spain--especia=
lly
Morocco, where, by all accounts, there were brigands with almost a New York
sense of touch.
They argued earne=
stly
with Jimmy. They spoke of Raisuli and Kaid MacLean. But Jimmy was not to be
stopped. The gad-fly was vexing him, and he had to move.
For a year, he had
wandered, realizing every day the truth of Horace's philosophy for those who
travel, that a man cannot change his feelings with his climate, until final=
ly
he had found himself, as every wanderer does, at Charing Cross.
At this point, he=
had
tried to rally. Such running away, he told himself, was futile. He would st=
and
still and fight the fever in him.
He had been fight=
ing
it now for a matter of two weeks, and already he was contemplating retreat.=
A
man at luncheon had been talking about Japan--
Watching the crow=
d,
Jimmy had found his attention attracted chiefly by a party of three, a few
tables away. The party consisted of a girl, rather pretty, a lady of middle=
age
and stately demeanor, plainly her mother, and a light-haired, weedy young m=
an
in the twenties. It had been the almost incessant prattle of this youth and=
the
peculiarly high-pitched, gurgling laugh which shot from him at short interv=
als
that had drawn Jimmy's notice upon them. And it was the curious cessation of
both prattle and laugh that now made him look again in their direction.
The young man fac=
ed
Jimmy; and Jimmy, looking at him, could see that all was not well with him.=
He
was pale. He talked at random. A slight perspiration was noticeable on his
forehead.
Jimmy caught his =
eye.
There was a hunted look in it.
Given the time and
the place, there were only two things that could have caused this look. Eit=
her
the light-haired young man had seen a ghost, or he had suddenly realized th=
at
he had not enough money to pay the check.
Jimmy's heart went
out to the sufferer. He took a card from his case, scribbled the words,
"Can I help?" on it, and gave it to a waiter to take to the young
man, who was now in a state bordering on collapse.
The next moment, =
the
light-haired one was at his table, talking in a feverish whisper.
"I say,"=
; he
said, "it's frightfully good of you, old chap! It's frightfully awkwar=
d.
I've come out with too little money. I hardly like to--you've never seen me
before--"
"Don't rub i=
n my
misfortunes," pleaded Jimmy. "It wasn't my fault."
He placed a
five-pound note on the table.
"Say when,&q=
uot;
he said, producing another.
"I say, than=
ks
fearfully," the young man said. "I don't know what I'd have
done." He grabbed at the note. "I'll let you have it back to-morr=
ow.
Here's my card. Is your address on your card? I can't remember. Oh, by Jove,
I've got it in my hand all the time." The gurgling laugh came into act=
ion
again, freshened and strengthened by its rest. "Savoy Mansions, eh? I'=
ll
come round to-morrow. Thanks frightfully again, old chap. I don't know what=
I
should have done."
"It's been a
treat," said Jimmy, deprecatingly.
The young man fli=
tted
back to his table, bearing the spoil. Jimmy looked at the card he had left.
"Lord Dreever," it read, and in the corner the name of a well-kno=
wn
club. The name Dreever was familiar to Jimmy. Everyone knew of Dreever Cast=
le,
partly because it was one of the oldest houses in England, but principally
because for centuries it had been advertised by a particularly gruesome
ghost-story. Everyone had heard of the secret of Dreever, which was known o=
nly
to the earl and the family lawyer, and confided to the heir at midnight on =
his
twenty-first birthday. Jimmy had come across the story in corners of the pa=
pers
all over the States, from New York to Onehorseville, Iowa. He looked with
interest at the light-haired young man, the latest depository of the awful
secret. It was popularly supposed that the heir, after hearing it, never sm=
iled
again; but it did not seem to have affected the present Lord Dreever to any
great extent. His gurgling laugh was drowning the orchestra. Probably, Jimmy
thought, when the family lawyer had told the light-haired young man the sec=
ret,
the latter's comment had been, "No, really? By Jove, I say, you
know!"
Jimmy paid his bi=
ll,
and got up to go.
It was a perfect
summer night--too perfect for bed. Jimmy strolled on to the Embankment, and
stood leaning over the balustrade, looking across the river at the vague,
mysterious mass of buildings on the Surrey side.
He must have been
standing there for some time, his thoughts far away, when a voice spoke at =
his
elbow.
"I say. Excu=
se
me, have you--Hullo!" It was his light-haired lordship of Dreever. &qu=
ot;I
say, by Jove, why we're always meeting!"
A tramp on a bench
close by stirred uneasily in his sleep as the gurgling laugh rippled the ai=
r.
"Been lookin=
g at
the water?" inquired Lord Dreever. "I have. I often do. Don't you
think it sort of makes a chap feel--oh, you know. Sort of--I don't know how=
to
put it."
"Mushy?"
said Jimmy.
"I was going=
to
say poetical. Suppose there's a girl--"
He paused, and lo=
oked
down at the water. Jimmy was sympathetic with this mood of contemplation, f=
or
in his case, too, there was a girl.
"I saw my pa=
rty
off in a taxi," continued Lord Dreever, "and came down here for a
smoke; only, I hadn't a match. Have you--?"
Jimmy handed over=
his
match-box. Lord Dreever lighted a cigar, and fixed his gaze once more on the
river.
"Ripping it
looks," he said.
Jimmy nodded.
"Funny
thing," said Lord Dreever. "In the daytime, the water here looks =
all
muddy and beastly. Damn' depressing, I call it. But at night--" He pau=
sed.
"I say," he went on after a moment, "Did you see the girl I =
was
with at the Savoy?"
"Yes," =
said
Jimmy.
"She's a
ripper," said Lord Dreever, devoutly.
On the Thames
Embankment, in the small hours of a summer morning, there is no such thing =
as a
stranger. The man you talk with is a friend, and, if he will listen--as, by=
the
etiquette of the place, he must--you may pour out your heart to him without
restraint. It is expected of you!
"I'm fearful=
ly
in love with her," said his lordship.
"She looked a
charming girl," said Jimmy.
They examined the
water in silence. From somewhere out in the night came the sound of oars, as
the police-boat moved on its patrol.
"Does she ma=
ke
you want to go to Japan?" asked Jimmy, suddenly.
"Eh?" s=
aid
Lord Dreever, startled. "Japan?"
Jimmy adroitly
abandoned the position of confidant, and seized that of confider.
"I met a gir= l a year ago--only really met her once, and even then--oh, well! Anyway, it's m= ade me so restless that I haven't been able to stay in one place for more than a month on end. I tried Morocco, and had to quit. I tried Spain, and that was= n't any good, either. The other day, I heard a fellow say that Japan was a pret= ty interesting sort of country. I was wondering whether I wouldn't give it a trial."<= o:p>
Lord Dreever rega=
rded
this traveled man with interest.
"It beats
me," he said, wonderingly. "What do you want to leg it about the
world like that for? What's the trouble? Why don't you stay where the girl
is?"
"I don't know
where she is."
"Don't
know?"
"She
disappeared."
"Where did y=
ou
see her last?" asked his lordship, as if Molly were a mislaid penknife=
.
"New York.&q=
uot;
"But how do =
you
mean, disappeared? Don't you know her address?"
"I don't eve=
n know
her name."
"But dash it
all, I say, I mean! Have you ever spoken to her?"
"Only once. =
It's
rather a complicated story. At any rate, she's gone."
Lord Dreever said
that it was a rum business. Jimmy conceded the point.
"Seems to
me," said his lordship, "we're both in the cart."
"What's your
trouble?"
Lord Dreever
hesitated.
"Oh, well, i=
t's
only that I want to marry one girl, and my uncle's dead set on my marrying
another."
"Are you afr=
aid
of hurting your uncle's feelings?"
"It's not so
much hurting his feelings. It's--oh, well, it's too long to tell now. I thi=
nk
I'll be getting home. I'm staying at our place in Eaton Square."
"How are you
going? If you'll walk, I'll come some of the way with you."
"Right you a=
re.
Let's be pushing along, shall we?"
They turned up in=
to
the Strand, and through Trafalgar Square into Piccadilly. Piccadilly has a
restful aspect in the small hours. Some men were cleaning the road with wat=
er
from a long hose. The swishing of the torrent on the parched wood was music=
al.
Just beyond the g=
ate
of Hyde Park, to the right of the road, stands a cabmen's shelter. Conversa=
tion
and emotion had made Lord Dreever thirsty. He suggested coffee as a suitable
conclusion to the night's revels.
"I often go =
in
here when I'm up in town," he said. "The cabbies don't mind. They=
're
sportsmen."
The shelter was
nearly full when they opened the door. It was very warm inside. A cabman ge=
ts
so much fresh air in the exercise of his professional duties that he is apt=
to
avoid it in private life. The air was heavy with conflicting scents. Fried
onions seemed to be having the best of the struggle for the moment, though =
plug
tobacco competed gallantly. A keenly analytical nose might also have detect=
ed
the presence of steak and coffee.
A dispute seemed =
to
be in progress as they entered.
"You don't w=
ish
you was in Russher," said a voice.
"Yus, I do w=
ish
I wos in Russher," retorted a shriveled mummy of a cabman, who was blo=
wing
patiently at a saucerful of coffee.
"Why do you =
wish
you was in Russher?" asked the interlocutor, introducing a Massa Bones=
and
Massa Johnsing touch into the dialogue.
"Because yer=
can
wade over yer knees in bla-a-a-ad there," said the mummy.
"In wot?&quo=
t;
"In
bla-a-ad--ruddy bla-a-ad! That's why I wish I wos in Russher."
"Cheery cove
that," said Lord Dreever. "I say, can you give us some coffee?&qu=
ot;
"I might try
Russia instead of Japan," said Jimmy, meditatively.
The lethal liquid=
was
brought. Conversation began again. Other experts gave their views on the
internal affairs of Russia. Jimmy would have enjoyed it more if he had been
less sleepy. His back was wedged comfortably against the wall of the shelte=
r,
and the heat of the room stole into his brain. The voices of the disputants
grew fainter and fainter.
He had almost doz=
ed
off when a new voice cut through the murmur and woke him. It was a voice he
knew, and the accent was a familiar accent.
"Gents! Excu=
se
me."
He looked up. The
mists of sleep shredded away. A ragged youth with a crop of fiery red hair =
was
standing in the doorway, regarding the occupants of the shelter with a grin,
half-whimsical, half-defiant.
Jimmy recognized =
him.
It was Spike Mullins.
"Excuse
me," said Spike Mullins. "Is dere any gent in dis bunch of profes=
sional
beauts wants to give a poor orphan dat suffers from a painful toist somethi=
ng
to drink? Gents is courteously requested not to speak all in a crowd."=
"Shet that
blanky door," said the mummy cabman, sourly.
"And 'op
it," added his late opponent. "We don't want none of your sort
'ere."
"Den you ain=
't
my long-lost brudders after all," said the newcomer, regretfully. &quo=
t;I
t'ought youse didn't look handsome enough for dat. Good-night to youse,
gents."
"Shet that d=
oor,
can't yer, when I'm telling yer!" said the mummy, with increased asper=
ity.
Spike was relucta=
ntly
withdrawing, when Jimmy rose.
"One
moment," he said.
Never in his life=
had
Jimmy failed to stand by a friend in need. Spike was not, perhaps, exactly a
friend, but even an acquaintance could rely on Jimmy when down in the world.
And Spike was manifestly in that condition.
A look of surprise
came into the Bowery Boy's face, followed by one of stolid woodenness. He t=
ook
the sovereign that Jimmy held out to him with a muttered word of thanks, and
shuffled out of the room.
"Can't see w=
hat
you wanted to give him anything for," said Lord Dreever. "Chap'll
only spend it getting soused."
"Oh, he remi=
nded
me of a man I used to know."
"Did he?
Barnum's what-is-it, I should think," said his lordship. "Shall w=
e be
moving?"
CHAPTER X - JIMMY ADOPTS A
LAME DOG
A black figure detached itself from=
the
blacker shadows, and shuffled stealthily to where Jimmy stood on the doorst=
ep.
"That you,
Spike?" asked Jimmy.
"Dat's right,
boss."
"Come on
in."
He led the way up=
to
his rooms, switched on the electric light, and shut the door. Spike stood
blinking at the sudden glare. He twirled his battered hat in his hands. His=
red
hair shone fiercely.
Jimmy inspected h=
im
out of the corner of his eye, and came to the conclusion that the Mullins
finances must be at a low ebb. Spike's costume differed in several important
details from that of the ordinary well-groomed man about town. There was
nothing of the flaneur about the Bowery Boy. His hat was of the soft black =
felt
fashionable on the East Side of New York. It was in poor condition, and loo=
ked
as if it had been up too late the night before. A black tail-coat, burst at=
the
elbows and stained with mud, was tightly buttoned across his chest, this
evidently with the idea of concealing the fact that he wore no shirt--an
attempt which was not wholly successful. A pair of gray flannel trousers and
boots out of which two toes peeped coyly completed the picture.
Even Spike himself
seemed to be aware that there were points in his appearance which would have
distressed the editor of a men's fashion-paper.
"'Scuse these
duds," he said. "Me man's bin an' mislaid de trunk wit' me best s=
uit
in. Dis is me number two."
"Don't menti=
on
it, Spike," said Jimmy. "You look a perfect matinee idol. Have a
drink?"
Spike's eyes glea=
med as
he reached for the decanter. He took a seat.
"Cigar,
Spike?"
"Sure. T'ank=
s,
boss."
Jimmy lighted his
pipe. Spike, after a few genteel sips, threw off his restraint, and finished
the rest of his glass at a gulp.
"Try
another," suggested Jimmy.
Spike's grin show=
ed
that the idea had been well received.
Jimmy sat and smo=
ked
in silence for a while. He was thinking the thing over. He felt like a
detective who has found a clue. At last, he would be able to discover the n=
ame
of the Lusitania girl. The discovery would not take him very far certainly,=
but
it would be something. Possibly, Spike might even be able to fix the positi=
on
of the house they had broken into that night.
Spike was looking=
at
Jimmy over his glass in silent admiration. This flat which Jimmy had rented=
for
a year, in the hope that the possession of a fixed abode might help to tie =
him
down to one spot, was handsomely, even luxuriously, furnished. To Spike, ev=
ery
chair and table in the room had a romance of its own, as having been purcha=
sed out
of the proceeds of that New Asiatic Bank robbery, or from the revenue accru=
ing
from the Duchess of Havant's jewels. He was dumb with reverence for one who
could make burglary pay to this extent. In his own case, the profession had
rarely provided anything more than bread and butter, and an occasional trip=
to
Coney Island.
Jimmy caught his =
eye,
and spoke.
"Well,
Spike," he said. "Curious that we should meet like this?"
"De limit,&q=
uot;
agreed Spike.
"I can't ima=
gine
you three thousand miles from New York. How do you know the cars still run =
both
ways on Broadway?"
A wistful look ca=
me
into Spike's eyes.
"I've been d=
is
side t'ree months. I t'ought it was time I give old Lunnon a call. T'ings w=
as
gettin' too fierce in Noo York. De cops was layin' fer me. Dey didn't seem =
like
as if they had any use fer me. So, I beat it."
"Bad luck,&q=
uot;
said Jimmy.
"Fierce,&quo=
t;
agreed Spike.
"Say,
Spike," said Jimmy, "do you know, I spent a whole heap of time be=
fore
I left New York looking for you?"
"Gee! I wish
you'd found me! Did youse want me to help on some lay, boss? Is it a bank,
or--jools?"
"Well, no, n=
ot
that. Do you remember that night we broke into that house uptown--the
police-captain's house?"
"Sure."=
"What was his
name?"
"What, de co=
p's?
Why, McEachern, boss."
"McWhat? How=
do
you spell it?"
"Search
me," said Spike, simply.
"Say it agai=
n.
Fill your lungs, and enunciate slowly and clearly. Be bell-like. Now."=
"McEachern.&=
quot;
"Ah! And whe=
re
was the house? Can you remember that?"
Spike's forehead
wrinkled.
"It's gone,&= quot; he said, at last. "It was somewheres up some street up de town."<= o:p>
"That's a lo=
t of
help," said Jimmy. "Try again."
"It'll come =
back
some time, boss, sure."
"Then, I'm g=
oing
to keep an eye on you till it does. Just for the moment, you're the most im=
portant
man in the world to me. Where are you living?"
"Me! Why, in=
de
Park. Dat's right. One of dem swell detached benches wit' a Southern
exposure."
"Well, unless
you prefer it, you needn't sleep in the Park any more. You can pitch your
moving tent with me."
"What, here,
boss?"
"Unless we
move."
"Me fer
dis," said Spike, rolling luxuriously in his chair.
"You'll want
some clothes," said Jimmy. "We'll get those to-morrow. You're the
sort of figure they can fit off the peg. You're not too tall, which is a go=
od
thing."
"Bad t'ing f=
er
me, boss. If I'd been taller, I'd have stood fer being a cop, an' bin buyin=
' a
brownstone house on Fifth Avenue by dis. It's de cops makes de big money in
little old Manhattan, dat's who it is."
"The man who
knows!" said Jimmy. "Tell me more, Spike. I suppose a good many of
the New York force do get rich by graft?"
"Sure. Look =
at
old man McEachern."
"I wish I co=
uld.
Tell me about him, Spike. You seemed to know him pretty well."
"Me? Sure. D=
ere
wasn't a woise old grafter dan him in de bunch. He was out fer de dough all=
de
time. But, say, did youse ever see his girl?"
"What's
that?" said Jimmy, sharply.
"I seen her
once." Spike became almost lyrical in his enthusiasm. "Gee! She w=
as a
boid--a peach fer fair. I'd have left me happy home fer her. Molly was her
monaker. She--"
Jimmy was glaring=
at
him.
"Cut it
out!" he cried.
"What's dat,
boss?" said Spike.
"Cut it
out!" said Jimmy, savagely.
Spike looked at h=
im,
amazed.
"Sure,"= he said, puzzled, but realizing that his words had not pleased the great man.<= o:p>
Jimmy chewed the =
stem
of his pipe irritably, while Spike, full of excellent intentions, sat on the
edge of his chair, drawing sorrowfully at his cigar and wondering what he h=
ad
done to give offense.
"Boss?"
said Spike.
"Well?"=
"Boss, what's
doin' here? Put me next to de game. Is it de old lay? Banks an' jools from
duchesses? You'll be able to let me sit in at de game, won't you?"
Jimmy laughed.
"I'd quite
forgotten I hadn't told you about myself, Spike. I've retired."
The horrid truth =
sank
slowly into the other's mind.
"Say! What's
dat, boss? You're cuttin' it out?"
"That's it.
Absolutely."
"Ain't youse
swiping no more jools?"
"Not me.&quo=
t;
"Nor usin' de
what's-its-name blow-pipe?"
"I have sold=
my
oxy-acetylene blow-pipe, given away my anaesthetics, and am going to turn o=
ver
a new leaf, and settle down as a respectable citizen."
Spike gasped. His
world had fallen about his ears. His excursion with. Jimmy, the master
cracksman, in New York had been the highest and proudest memory of his life;
and, now that they had met again in London, he had looked forward to a long=
and
prosperous partnership in crime. He was content that his own share in the
partnership should be humble. It was enough for him to be connected, howeve=
r humbly,
with such a master. He had looked upon the richness of London, and he had s=
aid
with Blucher, "What a city to loot!"
And here was his =
idol
shattering the visions with a word.
"Have another
drink, Spike," said the lost leader sympathetically. "It's a shoc=
k to
you, I guess."
"I t'ought,
boss--"
"I know, I k=
now.
These are life's tragedies. I'm very sorry for you. But it can't be helped.
I've made my pile, so why continue?"
Spike sat silent,
with a long face. Jimmy slapped him on the shoulder.
"Cheer up,&q=
uot;
he said. "How do you know that living honestly may not be splendid fun?
Numbers of people do it, you know, and enjoy themselves tremendously. You m=
ust
give it a trial, Spike."
"Me, boss! W=
hat,
me, too?"
"Sure. You'r=
e my
link with--I don't want to have you remembering that address in the second
month of a ten-year stretch at Dartmoor Prison. I'm going to look after you,
Spike, my son, like a lynx. We'll go out together, and see life. Brace up,
Spike. Be cheerful. Grin!"
After a moment's
reflection, the other grinned, albeit faintly.
"That's
right," said Jimmy. "We'll go into society, Spike, hand in hand.
You'll be a terrific success in society. All you have to do is to look
cheerful, brush your hair, and keep your hands off the spoons. For in the b=
est
circles they invariably count them after the departure of the last guest.&q=
uot;
"Sure,"
said Spike, as one who thoroughly understood this sensible precaution.
"And, now,&q=
uot;
said Jimmy, "we'll be turning in. Can you manage sleeping on the sofa =
one
night? Some fellows would give their bed up to you. Not me, however. I'll h=
ave
a bed made up for you tomorrow."
"Me!" s=
aid
Spike. "Gee! I've been sleepin' in de Park all de last week. Dis is to=
de
good, boss."
CHAPTER XI - AT THE TURN =
OF
THE ROAD
Next morning, when Jimmy, having se=
nt
Spike off to the tailor's, with instructions to get a haircut en route, was
dealing with a combination of breakfast and luncheon at his flat, Lord Dree=
ver called.
"Thought I
should find you in," observed his lordship. "Well, laddie, how go=
es
it? Having breakfast? Eggs and bacon! Great Scott! I couldn't touch a
thing."
The statement was
borne out by his looks. The son of a hundred earls was pale, and his eyes w=
ere
markedly fish-like.
"A fellow I'=
ve
got stopping with me--taking him down to Dreever with me to-day--man I met =
at
the club--fellow named Hargate. Don't know if you know him? No? Well, he was
still up when I got back last night, and we stayed up playing billiards--he=
's
rotten at billiards; something frightful: I give him twenty--till five this
morning. I feel fearfully cheap. Wouldn't have got up at all, only I'm due =
to catch
the two-fifteen down to Dreever. It's the only good train." He dropped
into a chair.
"Sorry you d=
on't
feel up to breakfast," said Jimmy, helping himself to marmalade. "=
;I
am generally to be found among those lining up when the gong goes. I've
breakfasted on a glass of water and a bag of bird-seed in my time. That sor=
t of
thing makes you ready to take whatever you can get. Seen the paper?"
"Thanks.&quo=
t;
Jimmy finished his
breakfast, and lighted a pipe. Lord Dreever laid down the paper.
"I say,"=
; he
said, "what I came round about was this. What have you got on just
now?"
Jimmy had imagined
that his friend had dropped in to return the five-pound note he had borrowe=
d,
but his lordship maintained a complete reserve on the subject. Jimmy was to
discover later that this weakness of memory where financial obligations were
concerned was a leading trait in Lord Dreever's character.
"To-day, do =
you
mean?" said Jimmy.
"Well, in the
near future. What I mean is, why not put off that Japan trip you spoke abou=
t,
and come down to Dreever with me?"
Jimmy reflected.
After all, Japan or Dreever, it made very little difference. And it would be
interesting to see a place about which he had read so much.
"That's very
good of you," he said. "You're sure it will be all right? It won'=
t be
upsetting your arrangements?"
"Not a bit. =
The
more the merrier. Can you catch the two-fifteen? It's fearfully short
notice."
"Heavens, ye=
s. I
can pack in ten minutes. Thanks very much."
"Good busine=
ss.
There'll be shooting and all that sort of rot. Oh, and by the way, are you =
any
good at acting? I mean, there are going to be private theatricals of sorts.=
A
man called Charteris insisted on getting them up--always getting up
theatricals. Rot, I call it; but you can't stop him. Do you do anything in =
that
line?"
"Put me down=
for
what you like, from Emperor of Morocco to Confused Noise Without. I was on =
the
stage once. I'm particularly good at shifting scenery."
"Good for yo=
u.
Well, so long. Two-fifteen from Paddington, remember. I'll meet you there. =
I've
got to go and see a fellow now."
"I'll look o=
ut
for you."
A sudden thought
occurred to Jimmy. Spike! He had forgotten Spike for the moment. It was vit=
al
that the Bowery boy should not be lost sight of again. He was the one link =
with
the little house somewhere beyond One Hundred and Fiftieth Street. He could=
not
leave the Bowery boy at the flat. A vision rose in his mind of Spike alone =
in London,
with Savoy Mansions as a base for his operations. No, Spike must be
transplanted to the country. But Jimmy could not seem to see Spike in the
country. His boredom would probably be pathetic. But it was the only way.
Lord Dreever
facilitated matters.
"By the way,
Pitt," he said, "you've got a man of sorts, of course? One of tho=
se
frightful fellows who forgot to pack your collars? Bring him along, of
course."
"Thanks,&quo=
t;
said Jimmy. "I will."
The matter had
scarcely been settled when the door opened, and revealed the subject of
discussion. Wearing a broad grin of mingled pride and bashfulness, and look=
ing
very stiff and awkward in one of the brightest tweed suits ever seen off the
stage, Spike stood for a moment in the doorway to let his appearance sink i=
nto
the spectator, then advanced into the room.
"How do dese
strike you, boss?" he inquired genially, as Lord Dreever gaped in
astonishment at this bright being.
"Pretty near=
ly
blind, Spike," said Jimmy. "What made you get those? We use elect=
ric
light here."
Spike was full of
news.
"Say, boss, =
dat
clothin'-store's a willy wonder, sure. De old mug what showed me round give=
me
de frozen face when I come in foist. 'What's doin'?' he says. 'To de woods =
wit'
you. Git de hook!' But I hauls out de plunks you give me, an' tells him how=
I'm
here to get a dude suit, an', gee! if he don't haul out suits by de mile. G=
ive
me a toist, it did, watching him. 'It's up to youse,' says de mug. 'Choose
somet'in'. You pays de money, an' we does de rest.' So, I says dis is de on=
e,
an' I put down de plunks, an' here I am, boss."
"I noticed t=
hat,
Spike," said Jimmy. "I could see you in the dark."
"Don't you l=
ike
de duds, boss?" inquired Spike, anxiously.
"They're
great," said Jimmy. "You'd make Solomon in all his glory look lik=
e a
tramp 'cyclist."
"Dat's
right," agreed Spike. "Dey'se de limit."
And, apparently
oblivious to the presence of Lord Dreever, who had been watching him in bla=
nk
silence since his entrance, the Bowery boy proceeded to execute a mysterious
shuffling dance on the carpet.
This was too much=
for
the overwrought brain of his lordship.
"Good-bye,
Pitt," he said, "I'm off. Got to see a man."
Jimmy saw his gue=
st
to the door.
Outside, Lord Dre=
ever
placed the palm of his right hand on his forehead.
"I say,
Pitt," he said.
"Hullo?"=
;
"Who the dev=
il's
that?"
"Who? Spike?=
Oh,
that's my man."
"Your man! I=
s he
always like that? I mean, going on like a frightful music-hall comedian?
Dancing, you know! And, I say, what on earth language was that he was talki=
ng? I
couldn't understand one word in ten."
"Oh, that's
American, the Bowery variety."
"Oh, well, I
suppose it's all right if you understand it. I can't. By gad," he broke
off, with a chuckle, "I'd give something to see him talking to old
Saunders, our butler at home. He's got the manners of a duke."
"Spike should
revise those," said Jimmy.
"What do you
call him?"
"Spike."=
;
"Rummy name,
isn't it?"
"Oh, I don't
know. Short for Algernon."
"He seemed
pretty chummy."
"That's his
independent bringing-up. We're all like that in America."
"Well, so
long."
"So long.&qu=
ot;
On the bottom ste=
p,
Lord Dreever halted.
"I say. I've=
got
it!"
"Good for yo=
u.
Got what?"
"Why, I knew=
I'd
seen that chap's face somewhere before, only I couldn't place him. I've got=
him
now. He's the Johnny who came into the shelter last night. Chap you gave a =
quid
to."
Spike's was one of
those faces that, without being essentially beautiful, stamp themselves on =
the
memory.
"You're quite
right," said Jimmy. "I was wondering if you would recognize him. =
The
fact is, he's a man I once employed over in New York, and, when I came acro=
ss
him over here, he was so evidently wanting a bit of help that I took him on
again. As a matter of fact, I needed somebody to look after my things, and
Spike can do it as well as anybody else."
"I see. Not =
bad
my spotting him, was it? Well, I must be off. Good-bye. Two-fifteen at
Paddington. Meet you there. Take a ticket for Dreever if you're there before
me."
"Eight.
Good-bye."
Jimmy returned to=
the
dining-room. Spike, who was examining as much as he could of himself in the
glass, turned round with his wonted grin.
"Say, who's =
de
gazebo, boss? Ain't he de mug youse was wit' last night?"
"That's the = man. We're going down with him to the country to-day, Spike, so be ready."<= o:p>
"On your way,
boss. What's dat?"
"He has invi=
ted
us to his country house, and we're going."
"What? Bot'of
us?"
"Yes. I told=
him
you were my servant. I hope you aren't offended."
"Nit. What's
dere to be raw about, boss?"
"That's all
right. Well, we'd better be packing. We have to be at the station at two.&q=
uot;
"Sure."=
"And,
Spike!"
"Yes,
boss?"
"Did you get=
any
other clothes besides what you've got on?"
"Nit. What d=
o I
want wit more dan one dude suit?"
"I approve of
your rugged simplicity," said Jimmy, "but what you're wearing is a
town suit. Excellent for the Park or the Marchioness's Thursday crush, but
essentially metropolitan. You must get something else for the country,
something dark and quiet. I'll come and help you choose it, now."
"Why, won't =
dis
go in de country?"
"Not on your
life, Spike. It would unsettle the rustic mind. They're fearfully particular
about that sort of thing in England."
"Dey's to de
bad," said the baffled disciple of Beau Brummel, with deep discontent.=
"And there's
just one more thing, Spike. I know you'll excuse my mentioning it. When we'=
re
at Dreever Castle, you will find yourself within reach of a good deal of si=
lver
and other things. Would it be too much to ask you to forget your profession=
al
instincts? I mentioned this before in a general sort of way, but this is a =
particular
case."
"Ain't I to =
get
busy at all, den?" queried Spike.
"Not so much=
as
a salt-spoon," said Jimmy, firmly. "Now, we'll whistle a cab, and=
go
and choose you some more clothes."
Accompanied by Sp=
ike,
who came within an ace of looking almost respectable in new blue serge
("Small Gent's"--off the peg), Jimmy arrived at Paddington Station
with a quarter of an hour to spare. Lord Dreever appeared ten minutes later,
accompanied by a man of about Jimmy's age. He was tall and thin, with cold =
eyes
and tight, thin lips. His clothes fitted him in the way clothes do fit one =
man in
a thousand. They were the best part of him. His general appearance gave one=
the
idea that his meals did him little good, and his meditations rather less. He
had practically no conversation.
This was Lord
Dreever's friend, Hargate. Lord Dreever made the introductions; but, even as
they shook hands, Jimmy had an impression that he had seen the man before. =
Yet,
where or in what circumstances he could not remember. Hargate appeared to h=
ave
no recollection of him, so he did not mention the matter. A man who has led=
a
wandering life often sees faces that come back to him later on, absolutely
detached from their context. He might merely have passed Lord Dreever's fri=
end
on the street. But Jimmy had an idea that the other had figured in some epi=
sode
which at the moment had had an importance. What that episode was had escaped
him. He dismissed the thing from his mind. It was not worth harrying his me=
mory
about.
Judicious tipping
secured the three a compartment to themselves. Hargate, having read the eve=
ning
paper, went to sleep in the far corner. Jimmy and Lord Dreever, who sat
opposite each other, fell into a desultory conversation.
After awhile, Lord
Dreever's remarks took a somewhat intimate turn. Jimmy was one of those men
whose manner invites confidences. His lordship began to unburden his soul of
certain facts relating to the family.
"Have you ev=
er
met my Uncle Thomas?" he inquired. "You know Blunt's Stores? Well,
he's Blunt. It's a company now, but he still runs it. He married my aunt.
You'll meet him at Dreever."
Jimmy said he wou=
ld
be delighted.
"I bet you
won't," said the last of the Dreevers, with candor. "He's a frigh=
tful
man--the limit. Always fussing round like a hen. Gives me a fearful time, I=
can
tell you. Look here, I don't mind telling you--we're pals--he's dead set on=
my
marrying a rich girl."
"Well, that sounds all right. There are worse hobbies. Any particular rich girl?"<= o:p>
"There's alw=
ays
one. He sicks me on to one after another. Quite nice girls, you know, some =
of
them; only, I want to marry somebody else, that girl you saw me with at the
Savoy."
"Why don't y=
ou
tell your uncle?"
"He'd have a
fit. She hasn't a penny; nor have I, except what I get from him. Of course,
this is strictly between ourselves."
"Of
course."
"I know
everybody thinks there's money attached to the title; but there isn't, not a
penny. When my Aunt Julia married Sir Thomas, the whole frightful show was
pretty well in pawn. So, you see how it is."
"Ever think =
of
work?" asked Jimmy.
"Work?"
said Lord Dreever, reflectively. "Well, you know, I shouldn't mind wor=
k,
only I'm dashed if I can see what I could do. I shouldn't know how. Nowaday=
s,
you want a fearful specialized education, and so on. Tell you what, though,=
I
shouldn't mind the diplomatic service. One of these days, I shall have a da=
sh
at asking my uncle to put up the money. I believe I shouldn't be half-bad a=
t that.
I'm rather a quick sort of chap at times, you know. Lots of fellows have sa=
id
so."
He cleared his th=
roat
modestly, and proceeded.
"It isn't on=
ly
my Uncle Thomas," he said. "There's Aunt Julia, too. She's about =
as
much the limit as he is. I remember, when I was a kid, she was always sitti=
ng
on me. She does still. Wait till you see her. Sort of woman who makes you f=
eel
that your hands are the color of tomatoes and the size of legs of mutton, if
you know what I mean. And talks as if she were biting at you. Frightful!&qu=
ot;
Having unburdened
himself of these criticisms, Lord Dreever yawned, leaned back, and was
presently asleep.
It was about an h=
our
later that the train, which had been taking itself less seriously for some
time, stopping at stations of quite minor importance and generally showing a
tendency to dawdle, halted again. A board with the legend, "Dreever,&q=
uot;
in large letters showed that they had reached their destination.
The station-master
informed Lord Dreever that her ladyship had come to meet the train in the m=
otorcar,
and was now waiting in the road outside.
Lord Dreever's jaw
fell.
"Oh, lord!&q=
uot;
he said. "She's probably motored in to get the afternoon letters. That
means, she's come in the runabout, and there's only room for two of us in t=
hat.
I forgot to telegraph that you were coming, Pitt. I only wired about Hargat=
e.
Dash it, I shall have to walk."
His fears proved
correct. The car at the station door was small. It was obviously designed to
seat four only.
Lord Dreever
introduced Hargate and Jimmy to the statuesque lady in the tonneau; and then
there was an awkward silence.
At this point, Sp=
ike
came up, chuckling amiably, with a magazine in his hand.
"Gee!" =
said
Spike. "Say, boss, de mug what wrote dis piece must have bin livin' ou=
t in
de woods. Say, dere's a gazebo what wants to swipe de heroine's jools what's
locked in a drawer. So, dis mug, what 'do you t'ink he does?" Spike
laughed shortly, in professional scorn. "Why--"
"Is this
gentleman a friend of yours, Spennie?" inquired Lady Julia politely, e=
ying
the red-haired speaker coldly.
"It's--"
Spennie looked appealingly at Jimmy.
"It's my
man," said Jimmy. "Spike," he added in an undertone, "t=
o the
woods. Chase yourself. Fade away."
"Sure,"
said the abashed Spike. "Dat's right. It ain't up to me to come buttin'
in. Sorry, boss. Sorry, gents. Sorry loidy. Me for de tall grass."
"There's a
luggage-cart of sorts," said Lord Dreever, pointing.
"Sure,"
said Spike, affably. He trotted away.
"Jump in,
Pitt," said Lord Dreever. "I'm going to walk."
"No, I'll
walk," said Jimmy. "I'd rather. I want a bit of exercise. Which w=
ay
do I go?"
"Frightfully
good of you, old chap," said Lord Dreever. "Sure you don't mind? =
I do
bar walking. Right-ho! You keep straight on."
He sat down in the
tonneau by his aunt's side. The last Jimmy saw was a hasty vision of him
engaged in earnest conversation with Lady Julia. He did not seem to be enjo=
ying
himself. Nobody is at his best in conversation with a lady whom he knows to=
be
possessed of a firm belief in the weakness of his intellect. A prolonged
conversation with Lady Julia always made Lord Dreever feel as if he were be=
ing tied
into knots.
Jimmy watched them
out of sight, and started to follow at a leisurely pace. It certainly was an
ideal afternoon for a country walk. The sun was just hesitating whether to
treat the time as afternoon or evening. Eventually, it decided that it was
evening, and moderated its beams. After London, the country was deliciously=
fresh
and cool. Jimmy felt an unwonted content. It seemed to him just then that t=
he
only thing worth doing in the world was to settle down somewhere with three
acres and a cow, and become pastoral.
There was a marked
lack of traffic on the road. Once he met a cart, and once a flock of sheep =
with
a friendly dog. Sometimes, a rabbit would dash out into the road, stop to
listen, and dart into the opposite hedge, all hind-legs and white scut. But,
except for these, he was alone in the world.
And, gradually, t=
here
began to be borne in upon him the conviction that he had lost his way.
It is difficult to
judge distance when one is walking, but it certainly seemed to Jimmy that he
must have covered five miles by this time. He must have mistaken the way. He
had doubtless come straight. He could not have come straighter. On the other
hand, it would be quite in keeping with the cheap substitute which served t=
he Earl
of Dreever in place of a mind that he should have forgotten to mention some
important turning. Jimmy sat down by the roadside.
As he sat, there =
came
to him from down the road the sound of a horse's feet, trotting. He got up.
Here was somebody at last who would direct him.
The sound came
nearer. The horse turned the corner; and Jimmy saw with surprise that it bo=
re
no rider.
"Hullo?"=
; he
said. "Accident? And, by Jove, a side-saddle!"
The curious part =
of
it was that the horse appeared in no way a wild horse. It gave the impressi=
on
of being out for a little trot on its own account, a sort of equine
constitutional.
Jimmy stopped the
horse, and led it back the way it had come. As he turned the bend in the ro=
ad,
he saw a girl in a riding-habit running toward him. She stopped running when
she caught sight of him, and slowed down to a walk.
"Thank you e=
ver
so much," she said, taking the reins from him. "Dandy, you naughty
old thing! I got off to pick up my crop, and he ran away."
Jimmy looked at h=
er
flushed, smiling face, and stood staring.
It was Molly
McEachern.
CHAPTER XII - MAKING A ST=
ART
Self-possession was one of Jimmy's
leading characteristics, but for the moment he found himself speechless. Th=
is
girl had been occupying his thoughts for so long that--in his mind--he had
grown very intimate with her. It was something of a shock to come suddenly =
out of
his dreams, and face the fact that she was in reality practically a strange=
r.
He felt as one might with a friend whose memory has been wiped out. It went
against the grain to have to begin again from the beginning after all the t=
ime
they had been together.
A curious constra=
int
fell upon him.
"Why, how do=
you
do, Mr. Pitt?" she said, holding out her hand.
Jimmy began to fe=
el
better. It was something that she remembered his name.
"It's like
meeting somebody out of a dream," said Molly. "I have sometimes
wondered if you were real. Everything that happened that night was so like a
dream."
Jimmy found his
tongue.
"You haven't
altered," he said, "you look just the same."
"Well,"=
she
laughed, "after all, it's not so long ago, is it?"
He was conscious =
of a
dull hurt. To him, it had seemed years. But he was nothing to her--just an
acquaintance, one of a hundred. But what more, he asked himself, could he h=
ave
expected? And with the thought came consolation. The painful sense of having
lost ground left him. He saw that he had been allowing things to get out of
proportion. He had not lost ground. He had gained it. He had met her again,=
and
she remembered him. What more had he any right to ask?
"I've cramme=
d a
good deal into the time," he explained. "I've been traveling abou=
t a
bit since we met."
"Do you live=
in
Shropshire?" asked Molly.
"No. I'm on a
visit. At least, I'm supposed to be. But I've lost the way to the place, an=
d I
am beginning to doubt if I shall ever get there. I was told to go straight =
on.
I've gone straight on, and here I am, lost in the snow. Do you happen to kn=
ow
whereabouts Dreever Castle is?"
She laughed.
"Why," =
she
said, "I am staying at Dreever Castle, myself."
"What?"=
"So, the fir=
st
person you meet turns out to be an experienced guide. You're lucky, Mr.
Pitt."
"You're
right," said Jimmy slowly, "I am."
"Did you come
down with Lord Dreever? He passed me in the car just as I was starting out.=
He
was with another man and Lady Julia Blunt. Surely, he didn't make you
walk?"
"I offered to
walk. Somebody had to. Apparently, he had forgotten to let them know he was
bringing me."
"And then he
misdirected you! He's very casual, I'm afraid."
"Inclined th=
at
way, perhaps."
"Have you kn=
own
Lord Dreever long?"
"Since a qua=
rter
past twelve last night."
"Last
night!"
"We met at t=
he
Savoy, and, later, on the Embankment. We looked at the river together, and =
told
each other the painful stories of our lives, and this morning he called, and
invited me down here."
Molly looked at h=
im
with frank amusement.
"You must be=
a
very restless sort of person," she said. "You seem to do a great =
deal
of moving about."
"I do,"
said Jimmy. "I can't keep still. I've got the go-fever, like that man =
in
Kipling's book."
"But he was =
in
love."
"Yes," =
said
Jimmy. "He was. That's the bacillus, you know."
She shot a quick
glance at him. He became suddenly interesting to her. She was at the age of
dreams and speculations. From being merely an ordinary young man with rather
more ease of manner than the majority of the young men she had met, he
developed in an instant into something worthy of closer attention. He took =
on a
certain mystery and romance. She wondered what sort of girl it was that he
loved. Examining him in the light of this new discovery, she found him
attractive. Something seemed to have happened to put her in sympathy with h=
im.
She noticed for the first time a latent forcefulness behind the pleasantnes=
s of
his manner. His self-possession was the self-possession of the man who has =
been
tried and has found himself.
At the bottom of =
her
consciousness, too, there was a faint stirring of some emotion, which she c=
ould
not analyze, not unlike pain. It was vaguely reminiscent of the agony of
loneliness which she had experienced as a small child on the rare occasions
when her father had been busy and distrait, and had shown her by his manner
that she was outside his thoughts. This was but a pale suggestion of that m=
isery;
nevertheless, there was a resemblance. It was a rather desolate, shut-out
sensation, half-resentful.
It was gone in a
moment. But it had been there. It had passed over her heart as the shadow o=
f a
cloud moves across a meadow in the summer-time.
For some moments,=
she
stood without speaking. Jimmy did not break the silence. He was looking at =
her
with an appeal in his eyes. Why could she not understand? She must understa=
nd.
But the eyes that=
met
his were those of a child.
As they stood the=
re,
the horse, which had been cropping in a perfunctory manner at the short gra=
ss
by the roadside, raised its head, and neighed impatiently. There was someth=
ing
so human about the performance that Jimmy and the girl laughed simultaneous=
ly.
The utter materialism of the neigh broke the spell. It was a noisy demand f=
or
food.
"Poor
Dandy!" said Molly. "He knows he's near home, and he knows it's h=
is
dinner-time."
"Are we near=
the
castle, then?"
"It's a long=
way
round by the road, but we can cut across the fields. Aren't these English
fields and hedges just perfect! I love them. Of course, I loved America,
but--"
"Have you le=
ft
New York long?" asked Jimmy.
"We came over
here about a month after you were at our house."
"You didn't
spend much time there, then."
"Father had =
just
made a good deal of money in Wall Street. He must have been making it when I
was on the Lusitania. He wanted to leave New York, so we didn't wait. We we=
re
in London all the winter. Then, we went over to Paris. It was there we met =
Sir
Thomas Blunt and Lady Julia. Have you met them? They are Lord Dreever's unc=
le
and aunt."
"I've met La=
dy
Julia."
"Do you like
her?"
Jimmy hesitated.<= o:p>
"Well, you
see--"
"I know. She=
's your
hostess, but you haven't started your visit yet. So, you've just got time to
say what you really think of her, before you have to pretend she's
perfect."
"Well--"=
;
"I detest
her," said Molly, crisply. "I think she's hard and hateful."=
"Well, I can=
't say
she struck me as a sort of female Cheeryble Brother. Lord Dreever introduce=
d me
to her at the station. She seemed to bear it pluckily, but with some
difficulty."
"She's
hateful," repeated Molly. "So is he, Sir Thomas, I mean. He's one=
of
those fussy, bullying little men. They both bully poor Lord Dreever till I
wonder he doesn't rebel. They treat him like a school-boy. It makes me wild.
It's such a shame--he's so nice and good-natured! I am so sorry for him!&qu=
ot;
Jimmy listened to
this outburst with mixed feelings. It was sweet of her to be so sympathetic,
but was it merely sympathy? There had been a ring in her voice and a flush =
on
her cheek that had suggested to Jimmy's sensitive mind a personal interest =
in
the down-trodden peer. Reason told him that it was foolish to be jealous of
Lord Dreever, a good fellow, of course, but not to be taken seriously. The
primitive man in him, on the other hand, made him hate all Molly's male fri=
ends
with an unreasoning hatred. Not that he hated Lord Dreever: he liked him. B=
ut
he doubted if he could go on liking him for long if Molly were to continue =
in
this sympathetic strain.
His affection for=
the
absent one was not put to the test. Molly's next remark had to do with Sir
Thomas.
"The worst o=
f it
is," she said, "father and Sir Thomas are such friends. In Paris,
they were always together. Father did him a very good turn."
"How was
that?"
"It was one
afternoon, just after we arrived. A man got into Lady Julia's room while we
were all out except father. Father saw him go into the room, and suspected
something was wrong, and went in after him. The man was trying to steal Lady
Julia's jewels. He had opened the box where they were kept, and was actually
holding her rope of diamonds in his hand when father found him. It's the mo=
st magnificent
thing I ever saw. Sir Thomas told father he gave a hundred thousand dollars=
for
it."
"But,
surely," said Jimmy, "hadn't the management of the hotel a safe f=
or
valuables?"
"Of course, =
they
had; but you don't know Sir Thomas. He wasn't going to trust any hotel safe.
He's the sort of a man who insists on doing everything in his own way, and =
who
always imagines he can do things better himself than anyone else can do them
for him. He had had this special box made, and would never keep the diamonds
anywhere else. Naturally, the thief opened it in a minute. A clever thief w=
ould
have no difficulty with a thing like that."
"What
happened?"
"Oh, the man=
saw
father, and dropped the jewels, and ran off down the corridor. Father chased
him a little way, but of course it was no good; so he went back and shouted,
and rang every bell he could see, and gave the alarm; but the man was never
found. Still, he left the diamonds. That was the great thing, after all. You
must look at them to-night at dinner. They really are wonderful. Are you a
judge of precious stones at all?"
"I am
rather," said Jimmy. "In fact, a jeweler I once knew told me I ha=
d a
natural gift in that direction. And so, of course, Sir Thomas was pretty
grateful to your father?"
"He simply g=
ushed.
He couldn't do enough for him. You see, if the diamonds had been stolen, I'm
sure Lady Julia would have made Sir Thomas buy her another rope just as goo=
d.
He's terrified of her, I'm certain. He tries not to show it, but he is. And,
besides having to pay another hundred thousand dollars, he would never have
heard the last of it. It would have ruined his reputation for being infalli=
ble and
doing everything better than anybody else."
"But didn't =
the
mere fact that the thief got the jewels, and was only stopped by a fluke fr=
om
getting away with them, do that?"
Molly bubbled with
laughter.
"She never k=
new.
Sir Thomas got back to the hotel an hour before she did. I've never seen su=
ch a
busy hour. He had the manager up, harangued him, and swore him to secrecy--=
which
the poor manager was only too glad to agree to, because it wouldn't have do=
ne
the hotel any good to have it known. And the manager harangued the servants=
, and
the servants harangued one another, and everybody talked at the same time; =
and
father and I promised not to tell a soul; so Lady Julia doesn't know a word
about it to this day. And I don't see why she ever should--though, one of t=
hese
days, I've a good mind to tell Lord Dreever. Think what a hold he would have
over them! They'd never be able to bully him again."
"I
shouldn't," said Jimmy, trying to keep a touch of coldness out of his
voice. This championship of Lord Dreever, however sweet and admirable, was a
little distressing.
She looked up
quickly.
"You don't t=
hink
I really meant to, do you?"
"No, no,&quo=
t;
said Jimmy, hastily. "Of course not."
"Well, I sho=
uld
think so!" said Molly, indignantly. "After I promised not to tell=
a
soul about it!"
Jimmy chuckled.
"It's
nothing," he said, in answer to her look of inquiry.
"You laughed=
at
something."
"Well,"
said Jimmy apologetically, "it's only--it's nothing really--only, what=
I
mean is, you have just told one soul a good deal about it, haven't you?&quo=
t;
Molly turned pink.
Then, she smiled.
"I don't know
how I came to do it," she declared. "It just rushed out of its own
accord. I suppose it is because I know I can trust you."
Jimmy flushed with pleasure. He turned to her, and half-halted, but she continued to walk on.<= o:p>
"You can,&qu=
ot;
he said, "but how do you know you can?"
She seemed surpri=
sed.
"Why--"=
she
said. She stopped for a moment, and then went on hurriedly, with a touch of
embarrassment. "Why, how absurd! Of course, I know. Can't you read fac=
es?
I can. Look," she said, pointing, "now you can see the castle. Ho=
w do
you like it?"
They had reached a
point where the fields sloped sharply downward. A few hundred yards away,
backed by woods, stood the gray mass of stone which had proved such a kill-=
joy
of old to the Welsh sportsmen during the pheasant season. Even now, it had a
certain air of defiance. The setting sun lighted the waters of the lake. No
figures were to be seen moving in the grounds. The place resembled a palace=
of
sleep.
"Well?"
said Molly.
"It's
wonderful!"
"Isn't it! I=
'm
so glad it strikes you like that. I always feel as if I had invented everyt=
hing
round here. It hurts me if people don't appreciate it."
They went down the
hill.
"By the
way," said Jimmy, "are you acting in these theatricals they are
getting up?"
"Yes. Are you
the other man they were going to get? That's why Lord Dreever went up to
London, to see if he couldn't find somebody. The man who was going to play =
one
of the parts had to go back to London on business."
"Poor
brute!" said Jimmy. It seemed to him at this moment that there was only
one place in the world where a man might be even reasonably happy. "Wh=
at
sort of part is it? Lord Dreever said I should be wanted to act. What do I
do?"
"If you're L=
ord
Herbert, which is the part they wanted a man for, you talk to me most of the
time."
Jimmy decided tha=
t the
piece had been well cast.
The dressing-gong sounded just as t=
hey
entered the hall. From a door on the left, there emerged two men, a big man=
and
a little one, in friendly conversation. The big man's back struck Jimmy as =
familiar.
"Oh,
father," Molly called. And Jimmy knew where he had seen the back befor=
e.
The two men stopp=
ed.
"Sir
Thomas," said Molly, "this is Mr. Pitt."
The little man ga=
ve
Jimmy a rapid glance, possibly with the object of detecting his more
immediately obvious criminal points; then, as if satisfied as to his honest=
y,
became genial.
"I am very g=
lad
to meet you, Mr. Pitt, very glad," he said. "We have been expecti=
ng
you for some time."
Jimmy explained t=
hat
he had lost his way.
"Exactly. It=
was
ridiculous that you should be compelled to walk, perfectly ridiculous. It w=
as
grossly careless of my nephew not to let us know that you were coming. My w=
ife
told him so in the car."
"I bet she
did," said Jimmy to himself. "Really," he said aloud, by way=
of
lending a helping hand to a friend in trouble, "I preferred to walk. I
have not been on a country road since I landed in England." He turned =
to
the big man, and held out his hand. "I don't suppose you remember me, =
Mr.
McEachern? We met in New York."
"You remember
the night Mr. Pitt scared away our burglar, father," said Molly.
Mr. McEachern was
momentarily silent. On his native asphalt, there are few situations capable=
of
throwing the New York policeman off his balance. In that favored clime, sav=
oir
faire is represented by a shrewd blow of the fist, and a masterful stroke w=
ith
the truncheon amounts to a satisfactory repartee. Thus shall you never take=
the
policeman of Manhattan without his answer. In other surroundings, Mr. McEac=
hern
would have known how to deal with the young man whom with such good reason =
he
believed to be an expert criminal. But another plan of action was needed he=
re.
First and foremost, of all the hints on etiquette that he had imbibed since=
he
entered this more reposeful life, came the maxim: "Never make a
scene." Scenes, he had gathered, were of all things what polite society
most resolutely abhorred. The natural man in him must be bound in chains. T=
he
sturdy blow must give way to the honeyed word. A cold, "Really!" =
was
the most vigorous retort that the best circles would countenance. It had co=
st
Mr. McEachern some pains to learn this lesson, but he had done it. He shook
hands, and gruffly acknowledged the acquaintanceship.
"Really,
really!" chirped Sir Thomas, amiably. "So, you find yourself among
old friends, Mr. Pitt."
"Old
friends," echoed Jimmy, painfully conscious of the ex-policeman's eyes,
which were boring holes in him.
"Excellent,
excellent! Let me take you to your room. It is just opposite my own. This
way."
In his younger da=
ys,
Sir Thomas had been a floor-walker of no mean caliber. A touch of the
professional still lingered in his brisk movements. He preceded Jimmy upsta=
irs
with the restrained suavity that can be learned in no other school.
They parted from =
Mr.
McEachern on the first landing, but Jimmy could still feel those eyes. The
policeman's stare had been of the sort that turns corners, goes upstairs, a=
nd
pierces walls.
CHAPTER XIII - SPIKE'S VI=
EWS
Nevertheless, it was in an exalted =
frame
of mind that Jimmy dressed for dinner. It seemed to him that he had awakened
from a sort of stupor. Life, so gray yesterday, now appeared full of color =
and possibilities.
Most men who either from choice or necessity have knocked about the world f=
or
any length of time are more or less fatalists. Jimmy was an optimistic
fatalist. He had always looked on Fate, not as a blind dispenser at random =
of
gifts good and bad, but rather as a benevolent being with a pleasing bias in
his own favor. He had almost a Napoleonic faith in his star. At various per=
iods
of his life (notably at the time when, as he had told Lord Dreever, he had
breakfasted on bird-seed), he had been in uncommonly tight corners, but his
luck had always extricated him. It struck him that it would be an unthinkab=
le
piece of bad sportsmanship on Fate's part to see him through so much, and t=
hen
to abandon him just as he had arrived in sight of what was by far the bigge=
st
thing of his life. Of course, his view of what constituted the biggest thin=
g in
life had changed with the years. Every ridge of the Hill of Supreme Moments=
in
turn had been mistaken by him for the summit; but this last, he felt
instinctively, was genuine. For good or bad, Molly was woven into the textu=
re
of his life. In the stormy period of the early twenties, he had thought the
same of other girls, who were now mere memories as dim as those of figures =
in a
half-forgotten play. In their case, his convalescence had been temporarily
painful, but brief. Force of will and an active life had worked the cure. He
had merely braced himself, and firmly ejected them from his mind. A week or=
two
of aching emptiness, and his heart had been once more in readiness, all nic=
ely
swept and garnished, for the next lodger.
But, in the case =
of
Molly, it was different. He had passed the age of instantaneous susceptibil=
ity.
Like a landlord who has been cheated by previous tenants, he had become war=
y.
He mistrusted his powers of recuperation in case of disaster. The will in t=
hese
matters, just like the mundane "bouncer," gets past its work. For=
some
years now, Jimmy had had a feeling that the next arrival would come to stay;
and he had adopted in consequence a gently defensive attitude toward the ot=
her
sex. Molly had broken through this, and he saw that his estimate of his
will-power had been just. Methods that had proved excellent in the past were
useless now. There was no trace here of the dimly consoling feeling of earl=
ier
years, that there were other girls in the world. He did not try to deceive =
himself.
He knew that he had passed the age when a man can fall in love with any one=
of
a number of types.
This was the fini=
sh,
one way or the other. There would be no second throw. She had him. However =
it
might end, he belonged to her.
There are few mom=
ents
in a man's day when his brain is more contemplative than during that brief
space when he is lathering his face, preparatory to shaving. Plying the bru=
sh,
Jimmy reviewed the situation. He was, perhaps, a little too optimistic. Not=
unnaturally,
he was inclined to look upon his luck as a sort of special train which would
convey him without effort to Paradise. Fate had behaved so exceedingly
handsomely up till now! By a series of the most workmanlike miracles, it had
brought him to the point of being Molly's fellow-guest at a country-house.
This, as reason coldly pointed out a few moments later, was merely the
beginning, but to Jimmy, thoughtfully lathering, it seemed the end. It was =
only
when he had finished shaving, and was tying his cravat, that he began to
perceive obstacles in his way, and sufficiently big obstacles, at that.
In the first plac=
e,
Molly did not love him. And, he was bound to admit, there was no earthly re=
ason
why she ever should. A man in love is seldom vain about his personal
attractions. Also, her father firmly believed him to be a master-burglar.
"Otherwise,&=
quot;
said Jimmy, scowling at his reflection in the glass, "everything's
splendid." He brushed his hair sadly.
There was a furti=
ve
rap at the door.
"Hullo?"
said Jimmy. "Yes?"
The door opened
slowly. A grin, surmounted by a mop of red hair, appeared round the edge of=
it.
"Hullo, Spik=
e.
Come in. What's the matter?"
The rest of Mr.
Mullins entered the room.
"Gee, boss! I
wasn't sure was dis your room. Say, who do you t'ink I nearly bumped me coco
ag'inst out in de corridor downstairs? Why, old man McEachern, de cop. Dat's
right!"
"Yes?"<= o:p>
"Sure. Say,
what's he doin' on dis beat? I pretty near went down an' out when I seen hi=
m.
Dat's right. Me breath ain't got back home yet."
"Did he
recognize you?"
"Did he! He
starts like an actor on top de stoige when he sees he's up ag'inst de plot =
to
ruin him, an' he gives me de fierce eye."
"Well?"=
"I was wonde=
rin'
was I on Thoid Avenoo, or was I standin' on me coco, or what was I doin'
anyhow. Den I slips off, an' chases meself up here. Say, boss, what's de ga=
me? What's
old man McEachern doin' stunts dis side fer?"
"It's all ri=
ght,
Spike. Keep calm. I can explain. He has retired--like me! He's one of the
handsome guests here."
"On your way,
boss! What's dat?"
"He left the
force just after that merry meeting of ours when you frolicked with the
bull-dog. He came over here, and butted into society. So, here we are again,
all gathered together under the same roof, like a jolly little family
party."
Spike's open mouth
bore witness to his amazement.
"Den--"=
he
stammered.
"Yes?"<= o:p>
"Den, what's=
he
goin' to do?"
"I couldn't =
say.
I'm expecting to hear shortly. But we needn't worry ourselves. The next mov=
e's
with him. If he wants to comment on the situation, he won't be backward. He=
'll
come and do it."
"Sure. It's =
up
to him," agreed Spike.
"I'm quite
comfortable. Speaking for myself, I'm having a good time. How are you getti=
ng
along downstairs?"
"De limit, b=
oss.
Honest, it's to de velvet. Dey's an old gazebo, de butler, Saunders his name
is, dat's de best ever at handin' out long woids. I sits an' listens. Dey c=
alls
me Mr. Mullins down dere," said Spike, with pride.
"Good. I'm g=
lad
you're all right. There's no season why we shouldn't have an excellent time
here. I don't think that Mr. McEachern will try to have us turned out, after
he's heard one or two little things I have to say to him--just a few
reminiscences of the past which may interest him. I have the greatest affec=
tion
for Mr. McEachern--I wish it were mutual--but nothing he can say is going to
make me stir from here."
"Not on your
life," agreed Spike. "Say, boss, he must have got a lot of plunks=
to
be able to butt in here. An' I know how he got dem, too. Dat's right. I com=
es
from little old New York, meself."
"Hush, Spike,
this is scandal!"
"Sure,"
said the Bowery boy doggedly, safely started now on his favorite subject.
"I knows, an' youse knows, boss. Gee! I wish I'd bin a cop. But I wasn=
't
tall enough. Dey's de fellers wit' de big bank-rolls. Look at dis old
McEachern. Money to boin a wet dog wit' he's got, an' never a bit of woik f=
er
it from de start to de finish. An' look at me, boss."
"I do, Spike=
, I
do."
"Look at me.
Gittin' busy all de year round, woikin' to beat de band--"
"In prisons
oft," said Jimmy.
"Sure t'ing.=
An'
chased all roun' de town. An' den what? Why, to de bad at de end of it all.
Say, it's enough to make a feller--"
"Turn
honest," said Jimmy. "That's it, Spike. Reform. You'll be glad so=
me
day."
Spike seemed to be
doubtful. He was silent for a moment, then, as if following up a train of
thought, he said:
"Boss, dis i=
s a
fine big house."
"I've seen
worse."
"Say, couldn=
't
we--?"
"Spike!"
said Jimmy, warningly.
"Well, could=
n't
we?" said Spike, doggedly. "It ain't often youse butts into a
dead-easy proposition like dis one. We shouldn't have to do a t'ing excep' =
git
busy. De stuff's just lyin' about, boss."
"I shouldn't
wonder."
"Aw, it's a
waste to leave it."
"Spike,"
said Jimmy, "I warned you of this. I begged you to be on your guard, to
fight against your professional instincts. Be a man! Crush them. Try and oc=
cupy
your mind. Collect butterflies."
Spike shuffled in
gloomy silence.
"'Member dose
jools youse swiped from de duchess?" he said, musingly.
"The dear
duchess!" murmured Jimmy. "Ah, me!"
"An' de bank
youse busted?"
"Those were
happy days, Spike."
"Gee!" =
said
the Bowery boy. And then, after a pause: "Dat was to de good," he
said, wistfully.
Jimmy arranged his
tie at the mirror.
"Dere's a lo=
idy
here," continued Spike, addressing the chest of drawers, "dat's g=
ot a
necklace of jools what's wort' a hundred t'ousand plunks. Honest, boss. A
hundred t'ousand plunks. Saunders told me dat--de old gazebo dat hands out =
de
long woids. I says to him, 'Gee!' an' he says, 'Surest t'ing youse know.' A
hundred t'ousand plunks!"
"So I unders=
tand,"
said Jimmy.
"Shall I rub=
ber
around, an' find out where is dey kept, boss?"
"Spike,"
said Jimmy, "ask me no more. All this is in direct contravention of our
treaty respecting keeping your fingers off the spoons. You pain me.
Desist."
"Sorry, boss.
But dey'll be willy-wonders, dem jools. A hundred t'ousand plunks. Dat's go=
in'
some, ain't it? What's dat dis side?"
"Twenty thou=
sand
pounds."
"Gee!...Can I
help youse wit' de duds, boss?"
"No, thanks,
Spike, I'm through now. You might just give me a brush down, though. No, not
that. That's a hair-brush. Try the big black one."
"Dis is a bo=
id
of a dude suit," observed Spike, pausing in his labors.
"Glad you li=
ke
it, Spike. Rather chic, I think."
"It's de lim=
it.
Excuse me. How much did it set youse back, boss?"
"Something l=
ike
seven guineas, I believe. I could look up the bill, and let you know."=
"What's
dat--guineas? Is dat more dan a pound?"
"A shilling
more. Why these higher mathematics?"
Spike resumed his
brushing.
"What a lot =
of
dude suits youse could git," he observed meditatively, "if youse =
had
dem jools!" He became suddenly animated. He waved the clothes-brush.
"Oh, you boss!" he cried. "What's eatin' youse? Aw, it's a s=
hame
not to. Come along, you boss! Say, what's doin'? Why ain't youse sittin' in=
at
de game? Oh, you boss!"
Whatever reply Ji=
mmy
might have made to this impassioned appeal was checked by a sudden bang on =
the
door. Almost simultaneously, the handle turned.
"Gee!"
cried Spike. "It's de cop!"
Jimmy smiled
pleasantly.
"Come in, Mr.
McEachern," he said, "come in. Journeys end in lovers meeting. You
know my friend Mr. Mullins, I think? Shut the door, and sit down, and let's
talk of many things."
CHAPTER XIV - CHECK AND A
COUNTER MOVE
Mr. McEachern stood in the doorway,
breathing heavily. As the result of a long connection with evil-doers, the
ex-policeman was somewhat prone to harbor suspicions of those round about h=
im,
and at the present moment his mind was aflame. Indeed, a more trusting man =
might
have been excused for feeling a little doubtful as to the intentions of Jim=
my
and Spike. When McEachern had heard that Lord Dreever had brought home a ca=
sual
London acquaintance, he had suspected as a possible drawback to the visit t=
he
existence of hidden motives on the part of the unknown. Lord Dreever, he ha=
d felt,
was precisely the sort of youth to whom the professional bunco-steerer would
attach himself with shouts of joy. Never, he had assured himself, had there
been a softer proposition than his lordship since bunco-steering became a
profession. When he found tha=
t the
strange visitor was Jimmy Pitt, his suspicions had increased a thousand-fol=
d.
And when, going to
his room to get ready for dinner, he had nearly run into Spike Mullins in t=
he
corridor, his frame of mind had been that of a man to whom a sudden ray of
light reveals the fact that he is on the brink of a black precipice. Jimmy =
and
Spike had burgled his house together in New York. And here they were, toget=
her
again, at Dreever Castle. To say that the thing struck McEachern as siniste=
r is
to put the matter baldly. There was once a gentleman who remarked that he s=
melt
a rat, and saw it floating in the air. Ex-Constable McEachern smelt a regim=
ent
of rats, and the air seemed to him positively congested with them.
His first impulse=
had
been to rush to Jimmy's room there and then; but he had learned society's
lessons well. Though the heavens might fall, he must not be late for dinner.
So, he went and dressed, and an obstinate tie put the finishing touches to =
his
wrath.
Jimmy regarded him
coolly, without moving from, the chair in which he had seated himself. Spik=
e,
on the other hand, seemed embarrassed. He stood first on one leg, and then =
on
the other, as if he were testing the respective merits of each, and would m=
ake
a definite choice later on.
"You
scoundrels!" growled McEachern.
Spike, who had be=
en
standing for a few moments on his right leg, and seemed at last to have come
to, a decision, hastily changed to the left, and grinned feebly.
"Say, youse
won't want me any more, boss?" he whispered.
"No, you can=
go,
Spike."
"You stay wh=
ere
you are, you red-headed devil!" said McEachern, tartly.
"Run along,
Spike," said Jimmy.
The Bowery boy lo=
oked
doubtfully at the huge form of the ex-policeman, which blocked access to the
door.
"Would you m=
ind
letting my man pass?" said Jimmy.
"You
stay--" began McEachern.
Jimmy got up and
walked round to the door, which he opened. Spike shot out. He was not lacki=
ng
in courage, but he disliked embarrassing interviews, and it struck him that
Jimmy was the man to handle a situation of this kind. He felt that he himse=
lf
would only be in the way.
"Now, we can
talk comfortably," said Jimmy, going back to his chair.
McEachern's deep-=
set
eyes gleamed, and his forehead grew red, but he mastered his feelings.
"And now--&q=
uot;
said he, then paused.
"Yes?"
asked Jimmy.
"What are you
doing here?"
"Nothing, at=
the
moment."
"You know wh=
at I
mean. Why are you here, you and that red-headed devil, Spike Mullins?"=
He
jerked his head in the direction of the door.
"I am here
because I was very kindly invited to come by Lord Dreever."
"I know
you."
"You have th=
at
privilege. Seeing that we only met once, it's very good of you to remember
me."
"What's your
game? What do you mean to do?"
"To do? Well=
, I
shall potter about the garden, you know, and shoot a bit, perhaps, and look=
at
the horses, and think of life, and feed the chickens--I suppose there are
chickens somewhere about--and possibly go for an occasional row on the lake.
Nothing more. Oh, yes, I believe they want me to act in some theatricals.&q=
uot;
"You'll miss
those theatricals. You'll leave here to-morrow."
"To-morrow? =
But
I've only just arrived, dear heart."
"I don't care
about that. Out you go to-morrow. I'll give you till to-morrow."
"I congratul=
ate
you," said Jimmy. "One of the oldest houses in England."
"What do you
mean?"
"I gathered =
from
what you said that you had bought the Castle. Isn't that so? If it still
belongs to Lord Dreever, don't you think you ought to consult him before re=
vising
his list of guests?"
McEachern looked
steadily at him. His manner became quieter.
"Oh, you take
that tone, do you?"
"I don't know
what you mean by 'that tone.' What tone would you take if a comparative
stranger ordered you to leave another man's house?"
McEachern's massi=
ve
jaw protruded truculently in the manner that had scared good behavior into
brawling East Siders.
"I know your
sort," he said. "I'll call your bluff. And you won't get till
to-morrow, either. It'll be now."
"'Why should=
we
wait for the morrow? You are queen of my heart to-night," murmured Jim=
my,
encouragingly.
"I'll expose=
you
before them all. I'll tell them everything."
Jimmy shook his h=
ead.
"Too
melodramatic," he said. "'I call on heaven to judge between this =
man
and me!' kind of thing. I shouldn't. What do you propose to tell, anyway?&q=
uot;
"Will you de=
ny
that you were a crook in New York?"
"I will. I w=
as
nothing of the kind."
"What?"=
"If you'll
listen, I can explain--"
"Explain!&qu=
ot;
The other's voice rose again. "You talk about explaining, you scum, wh=
en I
caught you in my own parlor at three in the morning--you--"
The smile faded f=
rom
Jimmy's face.
"Half a
minute," he said. It might be that the ideal course would be to let the
storm expend itself, and then to explain quietly the whole matter of Arthur
Mifflin and the bet that had led to his one excursion into burglary; but he
doubted it. Things--including his temper--had got beyond the stage of quiet
explanations. McEachern would most certainly disbelieve his story. What wou=
ld
happen after that he did not know. A scene, probably: a melodramatic denunc=
iation,
at the worst, before the other guests; at the best, before Sir Thomas alone=
. He
saw nothing but chaos beyond that. His story was thin to a degree, unless
backed by witnesses, and his witnesses were three thousand miles away. Wors=
e,
he had not been alone in the policeman's parlor. A man who is burgling a ho=
use
for a bet does not usually do it in the company of a professional burglar, =
well
known to the police.
No, quiet explana=
tions
must be postponed. They could do no good, and would probably lead to his
spending the night and the next few nights at the local police-station. And,
even if he were spared that fate, it was certain that he would have to leave
the castle--leave the castle and Molly!
He jumped up. The
thought had stung him.
"One
moment," he said.
McEachern stopped=
.
"Well?"=
"You're goin=
g to
tell them that?" asked Jimmy.
"I am."=
Jimmy walked up to
him.
"Are you also
going to tell them why you didn't have me arrested that night?" he sai=
d.
McEachern started.
Jimmy planted himself in front of him, and glared up into his face. It would
have been hard to say which of the two was the angrier. The policeman was
flushed, and the veins stood out on his forehead. Jimmy was in a white heat=
of
rage. He had turned very pale, and his muscles were quivering. Jimmy in this
mood had once cleared a Los Angeles bar-room with the leg of a chair in the=
space
of two and a quarter minutes by the clock.
"Are you?&qu=
ot;
he demanded. "Are you?"
McEachern's hand,
hanging at his side, lifted itself hesitatingly. The fingers brushed against
Jimmy's shoulder.
Jimmy's lip twitc=
hed.
"Yes," =
he
said, "do it! Do it, and see what happens. By God, if you put a hand on
me, I'll finish you. Do you think you can bully me? Do you think I care for
your size?"
McEachern dropped=
his
hand. For the first time in his life, he had met a man who, instinct told h=
im,
was his match and more. He stepped back a pace.
Jimmy put his han=
ds
in his pockets, and turned away. He walked to the mantelpiece, and leaned h=
is
back against it.
"You haven't
answered my question," he said. "Perhaps, you can't?"
McEachern was wip=
ing
his forehead, and breathing quickly.
"If you
like," said Jimmy, "we'll go down to the drawing-room now, and you
shall tell your story, and I'll tell mine. I wonder which they will think t=
he
more interesting. Damn you," he went on, his anger rising once more,
"what do you mean by it? You come into my room, and bluster, and talk =
big
about exposing crooks. What do you call yourself, I wonder? Do you realize =
what
you are? Why, poor Spike's an angel compared with you. He did take chances.=
He
wasn't in a position of trust. You--"
He stopped.
"Hadn't you
better get out of here, don't you think?" he said, curtly.
Without a word,
McEachern walked to the door, and went out.
Jimmy dropped int=
o a
chair with a deep breath. He took up his cigarette-case, but before he could
light a match the gong sounded from the distance.
He rose, and laug=
hed
rather shakily. He felt limp. "As an effort at conciliating papa,"=
; he
said, "I'm afraid that wasn't much of a success."
It was not often =
that
McEachern was visited by ideas. He ran rather to muscle than to brain. But =
he
had one that evening during dinner. His interview with Jimmy had left him
furious, but baffled. He knew that his hands were tied. Frontal attack was
useless. To drive Jimmy from the castle would be out of the question. All t=
hat
could be done was to watch him while he was there. For he had never been mo=
re convinced
of anything in his life than that Jimmy had wormed his way into the house-p=
arty
with felonious intent. The appearance of Lady Julia at dinner, wearing the
famous rope of diamonds, supplied an obvious motive. The necklace had an
international reputation. Probably, there was not a prominent thief in Engl=
and
or on the Continent who had not marked it down as a possible prey. It had a=
lready
been tried for, once. It was big game, just the sort of lure that would draw
the type of criminal McEachern imagined Jimmy to be.
From his seat at =
the
far end of the table, Jimmy looked at the jewels as they gleamed on their
wearer's neck. They were almost too ostentatious for what was, after all, an
informal dinner. It was not a rope of diamonds. It was a collar. There was
something Oriental and barbaric in the overwhelming display of jewelry. It =
was
a prize for which a thief would risk much.
The conversation,
becoming general with the fish, was not of a kind to remove from his mind t=
he
impression made by the sight of the gems. It turned on burglary.
Lord Dreever began
it.
"Oh, I
say," he said, "I forgot to tell you, Aunt Julia, Number Six was
burgled the other night."
Number 6a, Eaton
Square, was the family's London house.
"Burgled!&qu=
ot;
cried Sir Thomas.
"Well, broken
into," said his lordship, gratified to find that he had got the ear of=
his
entire audience. Even Lady Julia was silent and attentive. "Chap got in
through the scullery window about one o'clock in the morning."
"And what did
you do?" inquired Sir Thomas.
"Oh, I--er--I
was out at the time," said Lord Dreever. "But something frightened
the feller," he went on hurriedly, "and he made a bolt for it wit=
hout
taking anything."
"Burglary,&q=
uot;
said a young man, whom Jimmy subsequently discovered to be the drama-loving
Charteris, leaning back and taking advantage of a pause, "is the hobby=
of
the sportsman and the life work of the avaricious." He took a little
pencil from his waistcoat pocket, and made a rapid note on his cuff.
Everybody seemed =
to
have something to say on the subject. One young lady gave it as her opinion
that she would not like to find a burglar under her bed. Somebody else had
heard of a fellow whose father had fired at the butler, under the impression
that he was a house-breaker, and had broken a valuable bust of Socrates. Lo=
rd Dreever
had known a man at college whose brother wrote lyrics for musical comedy, a=
nd
had done one about a burglar's best friend being his mother.
"Life,"
said Charteris, who had had time for reflection, "is a house which we =
all
burgle. We enter it uninvited, take all that we can lay hands on, and go out
again." He scribbled, "Life--house--burgle," on his cuff, and
replaced the pencil.
"This man's
brother I was telling you about," said Lord Dreever, "says there's
only one rhyme in the English language to 'burglar,' and that's 'gurgler--'
unless you count 'pergola'! He says--"
"Personally,=
"
said Jimmy, with a glance at McEachern, "I have rather a sympathy for
burglars. After all, they are one of the hardest-working classes in existen=
ce.
They toil while everybody else is asleep. Besides, a burglar is only a
practical socialist. People talk a lot about the redistribution of wealth. =
The
burglar goes out and does it. I have found burglars some of the decentest
criminals I have ever met."
"I despise
burglars!" ejaculated Lady Julia, with a suddenness that stopped Jimmy=
's
eloquence as if a tap had been turned off. "If I found one coming afte=
r my
jewels, and I had a pistol, I'd shoot him."
Jimmy met McEache=
rn's
eye, and smiled kindly at him. The ex-policeman was looking at him with the
gaze of a baffled, but malignant basilisk.
"I take very
good care no one gets a chance at your diamonds, my dear," said Sir
Thomas, without a blush. "I have had a steel box made for me," he
added to the company in general, "with a special lock. A very ingenious
arrangement. Quite unbreakable, I imagine."
Jimmy, with Molly=
's
story fresh in his mind, could not check a rapid smile. Mr. McEachern, watc=
hing
intently, saw it. To him, it was fresh evidence, if any had been wanted, of
Jimmy's intentions and of his confidence of success. McEachern's brow darke=
ned.
During the rest of the meal, tense thought rendered him even more silent th=
an was
his wont at the dinner-table. The difficulty of his position was, he saw,
great. Jimmy, to be foiled, must be watched, and how could he watch him?
It was not until =
the
coffee arrived that he found an answer to the question. With his first
cigarette came the idea. That night, in his room, before going to bed, he w=
rote
a letter. It was an unusual letter, but, singularly enough, almost identical
with one Sir Thomas Blunt had written that very morning.
It was addressed =
to
the Manager of Dodson's Private Inquiry Agency, of Bishopsgate Street, E. C=
.,
and ran as follows:
Sir,--
On receipt of thi=
s,
kindly send down one of your smartest men. Instruct him to stay at the vill=
age
inn in character of American seeing sights of England, and anxious to inspe=
ct
Dreever Castle. I will meet him in the village and recognize him as old New
York friend, and will then give him further instructions. Yours faithfully,=
J. McEACHERN.
P. S. Kindly not =
send
a rube, but a real smart man.
This brief, but pregnant letter cos=
t some
pains in its composition. McEachern was not a ready writer. But he complete=
d it
at last to his satisfaction. There was a crisp purity in the style that ple=
ased
him. He sealed up the envelope, and slipped it into his pocket. He felt mor=
e at
ease now. Such was the friendship that had sprung up between Sir Thomas Blu=
nt
and himself as the result of the jewel episode in Paris that he could count
with certainty on the successful working of his scheme. The grateful knight
would not be likely to allow any old New York friend of his preserver to
languish at the village inn. The sleuth-hound would at once be installed at=
the
castle, where, unsuspected by Jimmy, he could keep an eye on the course of
events. Any looking after that Mr. James Pitt might require could safely be
left in the hands of this expert.
With considerable
fervor, Mr. McEachern congratulated himself on his astuteness. With Jimmy a=
bove
stairs and Spike below, the sleuth-hound would have his hands full.
CHAPTER XV - MR. MCEACHERN
INTERVENES
Life at the castle during the first=
few
days of his visit filled Jimmy with a curious blend of emotions, mainly
unpleasant. Fate, in its pro-Jimmy capacity, seemed to be taking a rest. In=
the
first place, the part allotted to him was not that of Lord Herbert, the cha=
racter
who talked to Molly most of the time. The instant Charteris learned from Lo=
rd
Dreever that Jimmy had at one time actually been on the stage professionall=
y,
he decided that Lord Herbert offered too little scope for the new man's
talents.
"Absolutely =
no
good to you, my dear chap," he said. "It's just a small dude part.
He's simply got to be a silly ass."
Jimmy pleaded tha=
t he
could be a sillier ass than anybody living; but Charteris was firm.
"No," he
said. "You must be Captain Browne. Fine acting part. The biggest in the
piece. Full of fat lines. Spennie was to have played it, and we were in for=
the
worst frost in the history of the stage. Now you've come, it's all right.
Spennie's the ideal Lord Herbert. He's simply got to be him-self. We've got=
a
success now, my boy. Rehearsal after lunch. Don't be late." And he was=
off
to beat up the rest of the company.
From that moment,
Jimmy's troubles began. Charteris was a young man in whom a passion for the
stage was ineradicably implanted. It mattered nothing to him during these d=
ays
that the sun shone, that it was pleasant on the lake, and that Jimmy would =
have
given five pounds a minute to be allowed to get Molly to himself for
half-an-hour every afternoon. All he knew or cared about was that the local=
nobility
and gentry were due to arrive at the castle within a week, and that, as yet,
very few of the company even knew their lines. Having hustled Jimmy into the
part of CAPTAIN BROWNE, he gave his energy free play. He conducted rehearsa=
ls
with a vigor that occasionally almost welded the rabble he was coaching int=
o something
approaching coherency. He painted scenery, and left it about--wet, and peop=
le
sat on it. He nailed up horseshoes for luck, and they fell on people. But
nothing daunted him. He never rested.
"Mr.
Charteris," said Lady Julia, rather frigidly, after one energetic
rehearsal, "is indefatigable. He whirled me about!"
It was perhaps his
greatest triumph, properly considered, that he had induced Lady Julia to ta=
ke a
part in his piece; but to the born organizer of amateur theatricals no mira=
cle
of this kind is impossible, and Charteris was one of the most inveterate
organizers in the country. There had been some talk--late at night, in the =
billiard
room--of his being about to write in a comic footman role for Sir Thomas; b=
ut
it had fallen through, not, it was felt, because Charteris could not have
hypnotized his host into undertaking the part, but rather because Sir Thomas
was histrionically unfit.
Mainly as a resul=
t of
the producer's energy, Jimmy found himself one of a crowd, and disliked the
sensation. He had not experienced much difficulty in mastering the scenes in
which he appeared; but unfortunately those who appeared with him had. It
occurred to Jimmy daily, after he had finished "running through the
lines" with a series of agitated amateurs, male and female, that for a=
ll
practical purposes he might just as well have gone to Japan. In this confus=
ed welter
of rehearsers, his opportunities of talking with Molly were infinitesimal. =
And,
worse, she did not appear to mind. She was cheerful and apparently quite
content to be engulfed in a crowd. Probably, he thought with some melanchol=
y,
if she met his eye and noted in it a distracted gleam, she put it down to t=
he
cause that made other eyes in the company gleam distractedly during this we=
ek.
Jimmy began to ta=
ke a
thoroughly jaundiced view of amateur theatricals, and of these amateur
theatricals in particular. He felt that in the electric flame department of=
the
infernal regions there should be a special gridiron, reserved exclusively f=
or
the man who invented these performances, so diametrically opposed to the tr=
ue spirit
of civilization. At the close of each day, he cursed Charteris with unfaili=
ng
regularity.
There was another
thing that disturbed him. That he should be unable to talk with Molly was an
evil, but a negative evil. It was supplemented by one that was positive. Ev=
en
in the midst of the chaos of rehearsals, he could not help noticing that Mo=
lly
and Lord Dreever were very much together. Also--and this was even more sini=
ster--he
observed that both Sir Thomas Blunt and Mr. McEachern were making determined
efforts to foster the state of affairs.
Of this, he had
sufficient proof one evening when, after scheming and plotting in a way that
had made the great efforts of Machiavelli and Richelieu seem like the work =
of
raw novices, he had cut Molly out from the throng, and carried her off for =
the
alleged purpose of helping him feed the chickens. There were, as he had
suspected, chickens attached to the castle. They lived in a little world of=
noise
and smells at the back of the stables. Bearing an iron pot full of a
poisonous-looking mash, and accompanied by Molly, he had felt for perhaps a
minute and a half like a successful general. It is difficult to be romantic
when you are laden with chicken-feed in an unwieldy iron pot, but he had
resolved that this portion of the proceedings should be brief. The birds sh=
ould
dine that evening on the quick-lunch principle. Then--to the more fitting
surroundings of the rose-garden! There was plenty of time before the hour of
the sounding of the dressing-gong. Perhaps, even a row on the lake--
"What ho!&qu=
ot;
said a voice.
Behind them, with=
a
propitiatory smile on his face, stood his lordship of Dreever.
"My uncle to=
ld
me I should find you out here. What have you got in there, Pitt? Is this wh=
at
you feed them on? I say, you know, queer coves, hens! I wouldn't touch that
stuff for a fortune, what? Looks to me poisonous."
He met Jimmy's ey=
e,
and stopped. There was that in Jimmy's eye that would have stopped an
avalanche. His lordship twiddled his fingers in pink embarrassment.
"Oh, look!&q=
uot;
said Molly. "There's a poor little chicken out there in the cold. It
hasn't had a morsel. Give me the spoon, Mr. Pitt. Here, chick, chick! Don't=
be
silly, I'm not going to hurt you. I've brought you your dinner."
She moved off in
pursuit of the solitary fowl, which had edged nervously away. Lord Dreever =
bent
toward Jimmy.
"Frightfully
sorry, Pitt, old man," he whispered, feverishly. "Didn't want to
come. Couldn't help it. He sent me out." He half-looked over his shoul=
der.
"And," he added rapidly, as Molly came back, "the old boy's =
up
at his bedroom window now, watching us through his opera-glasses!"
The return journe=
y to
the house was performed in silence--on Jimmy's part, in thoughtful silence.=
He
thought hard, and he had been thinking ever since.
He had material f=
or
thought. That Lord Dreever was as clay in his uncle's hands he was aware. He
had not known his lordship long, but he had known him long enough to realize
that a backbone had been carelessly omitted from his composition. What his
uncle directed, that would he do. The situation looked bad to Jimmy. The or=
der,
he knew, had gone out that Lord Dreever was to marry money. And Molly was an
heiress. He did not know how much Mr. McEachern had amassed in his dealings
with New York crime, but it must be something considerable. Things looked
black.
Then, Jimmy had a
reaction. He was taking much for granted. Lord Dreever might be hounded into
proposing to Molly, but what earthly reason was there for supposing that Mo=
lly
would accept him? He declined even for an instant to look upon Spennie's ti=
tle
in the light of a lure. Molly was not the girl to marry for a title. He end=
eavored
to examine impartially his lordship's other claims. He was a pleasant fello=
w,
with--to judge on short acquaintanceship--an undeniably amiable disposition.
That much must be conceded. But against this must be placed the equally
undeniable fact that he was also, as he would have put it himself, a most
frightful ass. He was weak. He had no character. Altogether, the examination
made Jimmy more cheerful. He could not see the light-haired one, even with =
Sir Thomas
Blunt shoving behind, as it were, accomplishing the knight's ends. Shove he
never so wisely, Sir Thomas could never make a Romeo out of Spennie Dreever=
.
It was while sitt=
ing
in the billiard-room one night after dinner, watching his rival play a hund=
red
up with the silent Hargate, that Jimmy came definitely to this conclusion. =
He
had stopped there to watch, more because he wished to study his man at close
range than because the game was anything out of the common as an exposition=
of billiards.
As a matter of fact, it would have been hard to imagine a worse game. Lord
Dreever, who was conceding twenty, was poor, and his opponent an obvious
beginner. Again, as he looked on, Jimmy was possessed of an idea that he had
met Hargate before. But, once more, he searched his memory, and drew blank.=
He
did not give the thing much thought, being intent on his diagnosis of Lord =
Dreever,
who by a fluky series of cannons had wobbled into the forties, and was now a
few points ahead of his opponent.
Presently, having
summed his lordship up to his satisfaction and grown bored with the game, J=
immy
strolled out of the room. He paused outside the door for a moment, wondering
what to do. There was bridge in the smoking-room, but he did not feel incli=
ned
for bridge. From the drawing-room came sounds of music. He turned in that d=
irection,
then stopped again. He came to the conclusion that he did not feel sociable=
. He
wanted to think. A cigar on the terrace would meet his needs.
He went up to his
room for his cigar-case. The window was open. He leaned out. There was almo=
st a
full moon, and it was very light out of doors. His eye was caught by a move=
ment
at the further end of the terrace, where the shadow was. A girl came out of=
the
shadow, walking slowly.
Not since early
boyhood had Jimmy descended stairs with such a rare burst of speed. He
negotiated the nasty turn at the end of the first flight at quite a suicidal
pace. Fate, however, had apparently wakened again and resumed business, for=
he
did not break his neck. A few moments later, he was out on the terrace, bea=
ring
a cloak which, he had snatched up en route in the hall.
"I thought y=
ou
might be cold," he said, breathing quickly.
"Oh, thank
you," said Molly. "How kind of you!" He put it round her sho=
ulders.
"Have you been running?"
"I came
downstairs rather fast."
"Were you af=
raid
the boogaboos would get you?" she laughed. "I was thinking of whe=
n I
was a small child. I was always afraid of them. I used to race downstairs w=
hen
I had to go to my room in the dark, unless I could persuade someone to hold=
my
hand all the way there and back."
Her spirits had r=
isen
with Jimmy's arrival. Things had been happening that worried her. She had g=
one
out on to the terrace to be alone. When she heard his footsteps, she had
dreaded the advent of some garrulous fellow-guest, full of small talk. Jimm=
y,
somehow, was a comfort. He did not disturb the atmosphere. Little as they h=
ad seen
of each other, something in him--she could not say what--had drawn her to h=
im.
He was a man whom she could trust instinctively.
They walked on in
silence. Words were pouring into Jimmy's mind, but he could not frame them.=
He
seemed to have lost the power of coherent thought.
Molly said nothin=
g.
It was not a night for conversation. The moon had turned terrace and garden
into a fairyland of black and silver. It was a night to look and listen and
think.
They walked slowl=
y up
and down. As they turned for the second time, Molly's thoughts formed
themselves into a question. Twice she was on the point of asking it, but ea=
ch
time she checked herself. It was an impossible question. She had no right to
put it, and he had no right to answer. Yet, something was driving her on to=
ask
it.
It came out sudde=
nly,
without warning.
"Mr. Pitt, w=
hat
do you think of Lord Dreever?"
Jimmy started. No
question could have chimed in more aptly with his thoughts. Even as she spo=
ke,
he was struggling to keep himself from asking her the same thing.
"Oh, I know I
ought not to ask," she went on. "He's your host, and you're his
friend. I know. But--"
Her voice trailed
off. The muscles of Jimmy's back tightened and quivered. But he could find =
no
words.
"I wouldn't =
ask
anyone else. But you're--different, somehow. I don't know what I mean. We
hardly know each other. But--"
She stopped again;
and still he was dumb.
"I feel so alone," she said very quietly, almost to herself. Something seemed to break in Jimmy's head. His brain suddenly cleared. He took a step forward.<= o:p>
A huge shadow
blackened the white grass. Jimmy wheeled round. It was McEachern.
"I have been
looking for you, Molly, my dear," he said, heavily. "I thought you
must have gone to bed."
He turned to Jimm=
y,
and addressed him for the first time since their meeting in the bedroom.
"Will you ex=
cuse
us, Mr. Pitt?"
Jimmy bowed, and
walked rapidly toward the house. At the door, he stopped and looked back. T=
he
two were standing where he had left them.
CHAPTER XVI - A MARRIAGE
ARRANGED
Neither Molly nor her father had mo=
ved or
spoken while Jimmy was covering the short strip of turf that ended at the s=
tone
steps of the house. McEachern stood looking down at her in grim silence. Hi=
s great
body against the dark mass of the castle wall seemed larger than ever in the
uncertain light. To Molly, there was something sinister and menacing in his
attitude. She found herself longing that Jimmy would come back. She was
frightened. Why, she could not have said. It was as if some instinct told h=
er
that a crisis in her affairs had been reached, and that she needed him. For=
the
first time in her life, she felt nervous in her father's company. Ever since
she was a child, she had been accustomed to look upon him as her protector;
hut, now, she was afraid.
"Father!&quo=
t;
she cried.
"What are you
doing out here?"
His voice was ten=
se
and strained.
"I came out
because I wanted to think, father, dear."
She thought she k=
new
his moods, but this was one that she had never seen. It frightened her.
"Why did he =
come
out here?"
"Mr. Pitt? He
brought me a wrap."
"What was he
saying to you?"
The rain of quest=
ions
gave Molly a sensation of being battered. She felt dazed, and a little
mutinous. What had she done that she should be assailed like this?
"He was sayi=
ng
nothing," she said, rather shortly.
"Nothing? Wh=
at
do you mean? What was he saying? Tell me!"
Molly's voice sho=
ok
as she replied.
"He was sayi=
ng
nothing," she repeated. "Do you think I'm not telling the truth,
father? He had not spoken a word for ever so long. We just walked up and do=
wn.
I was thinking, and I suppose he was, too. At any rate, he said nothing. I-=
-I
think you might believe me."
She began to cry
quietly. Her father had never been like this before. It hurt her.
McEachern's manner
changed in a flash. In the shock of finding Jimmy and Molly together on the
terrace, he had forgotten himself. He had had reason, to be suspicious. Sir
Thomas Blunt, from whom he had just parted, had told him a certain piece of=
news
which had disturbed him. The discovery of Jimmy with Molly had lent an adde=
d significance
to that piece of news. He saw that he had been rough. In a moment, he was by
her side, his great arm round her shoulder, petting and comforting her as he
had done when she was a child. He believed her word without question; and h=
is
relief made him very tender. Gradually, the sobs ceased. She leaned against=
his
arm.
"I'm tired,
father," she whispered.
"Poor little
girl. We'll sit down."
There was a seat =
at
the end of the terrace. McEachern picked Molly up as if she had been a baby,
and carried her to it. She gave a little cry.
"I didn't me=
an I
was too tired to walk," she said, laughing tremulously. "How stro=
ng
you are, father! If I was naughty, you could take me up and shake me till I=
was
good, couldn't you?"
"Of course. =
And
send you to bed, too. So, you, be careful, young woman."
He lowered her to=
the
seat. Molly drew the cloak closer round her, and shivered.
"Cold,
dear?"
"No."
"You
shivered."
"It was noth=
ing.
Yes, it was," she went on quickly; "it was. Father, will you prom=
ise
me something?"
"Of course.
What?"
"Don't ever =
be
angry with me like that again, will you? I couldn't bear it. Really, I
couldn't. I know it's stupid of me, but it hurt. You don't know how it
hurt."
"But, my
dear--"
"Oh, I know =
it's
stupid. But--"
"But, my
darling, it wasn't so. I was angry, but it wasn't with you."
"With--? Were
you angry with Mr. Pitt?"
McEachern saw tha=
t he
had traveled too far. He had intended that Jimmy's existence should be
forgotten for the time being. He had other things to discuss. But it was too
late now. He must go forward.
"I didn't li=
ke
to see you out here alone with Mr. Pitt, dear," he said. "I was
afraid--"
He saw that he mu=
st
go still further forward. It was more than, awkward. He wished to hint at t=
he
undesirability of an entanglement with Jimmy without admitting the possibil=
ity
of it. Not being a man, of nimble brain, he found this somewhat beyond his
powers.
"I don't like
him," he said, briefly. "He's crooked."
Molly's eyes open=
ed
wide. The color had gone from her face.
"Crooked,
father?"
McEachern perceiv=
ed
that he had traveled very much too far, almost to disaster. He longed to
denounce Jimmy, but he was gagged. If Molly were to ask the question, that
Jimmy had asked in the bedroom--that fatal, unanswerable question! The price
was too great to pay.
He spoke cautious=
ly,
vaguely, feeling his way.
"I couldn't
explain to you, my dear. You wouldn't understand. You must remember, my dea=
r,
that out in New York I was in a position to know a great many queer
characters--crooks, Molly. I was working among them."
"But, father,
that night at our house you didn't know Mr. Pitt. He had to tell you his
name."
"I didn't kn=
ow
him--then," said her father slowly, "but--but--" he paused--=
"but
I made inquiries," he concluded with a rush, "and found out
things."
He permitted hims=
elf
a long, silent breath of relief. He saw his way now.
"Inquiries?&=
quot;
said Molly. "Why?"
"Why?"<= o:p>
"Why did you
suspect him?"
A moment earlier,=
the
question might have confused McEachern, but not now. He was equal to it. He
took it in his stride.
"It's hard to
say, my dear. A man who has had as much to do with crooks as I have recogni=
zes
them when he sees them."
"Did you thi=
nk
Mr. Pitt looked--looked like that?" Her voice was very small. There wa=
s a
drawn, pinched expression on her face. She was paler than ever.
He could not divi=
ne
her thoughts. He could not know what his words had done; how they had shown=
her
in a flash what Jimmy was to her, and lighted her mind like a flame, reveal=
ing
the secret hidden there. She knew now. The feeling of comradeship, the
instinctive trust, the sense of dependence--they no longer perplexed her; t=
hey were
signs which she could read.
And he was crooke=
d!
McEachern proceed=
ed.
Belief made him buoyant.
"I did, my d=
ear.
I can read them like a book. I've met scores of his sort. Broadway is full =
of
them. Good clothes and a pleasant manner don't make a man honest. I've run =
up
against a mighty high-toned bunch of crooks in my day. It's a long time sin=
ce I
gave up thinking that it was only the ones with the low foreheads and the t=
hick
ears that needed watching. It's the innocent Willies who look as if all they
could do was to lead the cotillon. This man Pitt's one of them. I'm not
guessing, mind you. I know. I know his line, and all about him. I'm watching
him. He's here on some game. How did he get here? Why, he scraped acquainta=
nce
with Lord Dreever in a London restaurant. It's the commonest trick on the l=
ist.
If I hadn't happened to be here when he came, I suppose he'd have made his =
haul
by now. Why, he came all prepared for it! Have you seen an ugly, grinning,
red-headed scoundrel hanging about the place? His valet. So he says. Valet!=
Do
you know who that is? That's one of the most notorious yegg-men on the other
side. There isn't a policeman in New York who doesn't know Spike Mullins. E=
ven
if I knew nothing of this Pitt, that would be enough. What's an innocent man
going round the country with Spike Mullins for, unless they are standing in
together at some game? That's who Mr. Pitt is, my dear, and that's why mayb=
e I
seemed a little put out when I came upon you and him out here alone togethe=
r.
See as little of him as you can. In a large party like this, it won't be
difficult to avoid him."
Molly sat staring=
out
across the garden. At first, every word had been a stab. Several times, she=
had
been on the point of crying out that she could bear it no longer. But,
gradually, a numbness succeeded the pain. She found herself listening
apathetically.
McEachern talked =
on.
He left the subject of Jimmy, comfortably conscious that, even if there had
ever existed in Molly's heart any budding feeling of the kind he had suspec=
ted,
it must now be dead. He steered the conversation away until it ran easily a=
mong
commonplaces. He talked of New York, of the preparations for the theatrical=
s.
Molly answered composedly. She was still pale, and a certain listlessness in
her manner might have been noticed by a more observant man than Mr. McEache=
rn.
Beyond this, there was nothing to show that her heart had been born and kil=
led
but a few minutes before. Women have the Red Indian instinct; and Molly had
grown to womanhood in those few minutes.
Presently, Lord
Dreever's name came up. It caused a momentary pause, and McEachern took
advantage of it. It was the cue for which he had been waiting. He hesitated=
for
a moment, for the conversation was about to enter upon a difficult phase, a=
nd
he was not quite sure of himself. Then, he took the plunge.
"I have just
been talking to Sir Thomas, my dear," he said. He tried to speak casua=
lly,
and, as a natural result, infused so much meaning into his voice that Molly
looked at him in surprise. McEachern coughed confusedly. Diplomacy, he
concluded, was not his forte. He abandoned it in favor of directness. "=
;He
was telling me that you had refused Lord Dreever this evening."
"Yes. I
did," said Molly. "How did Sir Thomas know?"
"Lord Dreever
told him."
Molly raised her
eyebrows.
"I shouldn't have thought it was the sort of thing he would talk about," she said.<= o:p>
"Sir Thomas =
is
his uncle."
"Of course, =
so
he is," said Molly, dryly. "I forgot. That would account for it,
wouldn't it?"
Mr. McEachern loo=
ked
at her with some concern. There was a hard ring in her voice which he did n=
ot
altogether like. His greatest admirer had never called him an intuitive man,
and he was quite at a loss to see what was wrong. As a schemer, he was perh=
aps
a little naive. He had taken it for granted that Molly was ignorant of the
maneuvers which had been going on, and which had culminated that afternoon =
in a
stammering proposal of marriage from Lord Dreever in the rose-garden. This,
however, was not the case. The woman incapable of seeing through the
machinations of two men of the mental caliber of Sir Thomas Blunt and Mr.
McEachern has yet to be born. For some considerable time, Molly had been al=
ive
to the well-meant plottings of that worthy pair, and had derived little
pleasure from the fact. It may be that woman loves to be pursued; but she d=
oes
not love to be pursued by a crowd.
Mr. McEachern cle=
ared
his throat, and began again.
"You shouldn=
't
decide a question like that too hastily, my dear."
"I didn't--n=
ot
too hastily for Lord Dreever, at any rate, poor dear."
"It was in y=
our
power," said Mr. McEachern portentously, "to make a man happy--&q=
uot;
"I did,"
said Molly, bitterly. "You should have seen his face light up. He could
hardly believe it was true for a moment, and then it came home to him, and I
thought he would have fallen on my neck. He did his very best to look
heart-broken--out of politeness--but it was no good. He whistled most of the
way back to the house--all flat, but very cheerfully."
"My dear! Wh=
at
do you mean?"
Molly had made the
discovery earlier in their conversation that her father had moods whose
existence she had not expected. It was his turn now to make a similar disco=
very
regarding herself.
"I mean noth=
ing,
father," she said. "I'm just telling you what happened. He came t=
o me
looking like a dog that's going to be washed--"
"Why, of cou=
rse,
he was nervous, my dear."
"Of course. =
He
couldn't know that I was going to refuse him."
She was breathing
quickly. He started to speak, but she went on, looking straight before her.=
Her
face was very white in the moon-light.
"He took me =
into
the rose-garden. Was that Sir Thomas's idea? There couldn't have been a bet=
ter
setting, I'm sure. The roses looked lovely. Presently, I heard him gulp, an=
d I
was so sorry for him! I would have refused him then, and put him out of his
misery, only I couldn't very well till he had proposed, could I? So, I turn=
ed
my back, and sniffed at a rose. And, then, he shut his eyes--I couldn't see
him, but I know he shut his eyes--and began to say his lesson."
"Molly!"=
;
She laughed, hyst=
erically.
"He did. He =
said
his lesson. He gabbled it. When he had got as far as, 'Well, don't you know,
what I mean is, that's what I wanted to say, you know,' I turned round and
soothed him. I said I didn't love him. He said, 'No, no, of course not.' I =
said
he had paid me a great compliment. He said, 'Not at all,' looking very anxi=
ous,
poor darling, as if even then he was afraid of what might come next. But I
reassured him, and he cheered up, and we walked back to the house together,=
as
happy as could be."
McEachern put his
hand round her shoulders. She winced, but let it stay. He attempted gruff
conciliation.
"My dear, yo=
u've
been imagining things. Of course, he isn't happy. Why, I saw the young
fellow--"
Recollecting that=
the
last time he had seen the young fellow--shortly after dinner--the young fel=
low
had been occupied in juggling, with every appearance of mental peace, two
billiard-balls and a box of matches, he broke off abruptly.
Molly looked at h=
im.
"Father.&quo=
t;
"My dear?&qu=
ot;
"Why do you =
want
me to marry Lord Dreever?"
He met the attack
stoutly.
"I think he'=
s a
fine young fellow," he said, avoiding her eyes.
"He's quite
nice," said Molly, quietly.
McEachern had been
trying not to say it. He did not wish to say it. If it could have been hint=
ed
at, he would have done it. But he was not good at hinting. A lifetime passe=
d in
surroundings where the subtlest hint is a drive in the ribs with a truncheon
does not leave a man an adept at the art. He had to be blunt or silent.
"He's the Ea=
rl
of Dreever, my dear."
He rushed on,
desperately anxious to cover the nakedness of the statement in a comfortable
garment of words.
"Why, you se=
e,
you're young, Molly. It's only natural you shouldn't look on these things
sensibly. You expect too much of a man. You expect this young fellow to be =
like
the heroes of the novels you read. When you've lived a little longer, my de=
ar,
you'll see that there's nothing in it. It isn't the hero of the novel you w=
ant
to marry. It's the man who'll make you a good husband."
This remark struck
Mr. McEachern as so pithy and profound that he repeated it.
He went on. Molly=
was
sitting quite still, looking into the shrubbery. He assumed she was listeni=
ng;
but whether she was or not, he must go on talking. The situation was diffic=
ult.
Silence would make it more difficult.
"Now, look at
Lord Dreever," he said. "There's a young man with one of the olde=
st
titles in England. He could go anywhere and do what he liked, and be excused
for whatever he did because of his name. But he doesn't. He's got the right
stuff in him. He doesn't go racketing around--"
"His uncle
doesn't allow him enough pocket-money," said Molly, with a jarring lit=
tle
laugh. "Perhaps, that's why."
There was a pause.
McEachern required a few moments in which to marshal his arguments once mor=
e.
He had been thrown out of his stride.
Molly turned to h=
im.
The hardness had gone from her face. She looked up at him wistfully.
"Father, dea=
r,
listen," she said. "We always used to understand each other so
well!" He patted her shoulder affectionately. "You can't mean what
you say? You know I don't love Lord Dreever. You know he's only a boy. Don't
you want me to marry a man? I love this old place, but surely you can't thi=
nk
that it can really matter in a thing like this? You don't really mean, that
about the hero of the novel? I'm not stupid, like that. I only want--oh, I
can't put it into words, but don't you see?"
Her eyes were fix=
ed
appealingly on him. It only needed a word from him--perhaps not even a word=
--to
close the gulf that had opened between them.
He missed the cha=
nce.
He had had time to think, and his arguments were ready again. With stolid
good-humor, he marched along the line he had mapped out. He was kindly and
shrewd and practical; and the gulf gaped wider with every word.
"You mustn't=
be
rash, my dear. You mustn't act without thinking in these things. Lord Dreev=
er
is only a boy, as you say, but he will grow. You say you don't love him.
Nonsense! You like him. You would go on liking him more and more. And why?
Because you could make what you pleased of him. You've got character, my de=
ar.
With a girl like you to look after him, he would go a long way, a very long
way. It's all there. It only wants bringing out. And think of it, Molly! Co=
untess
of Dreever! There's hardly a better title in England. It would make me very
happy, my dear. It's been my one hope all these years to see you in the pla=
ce
where you ought to be. And now the chance has come. Molly, dear, don't thro=
w it
away."
She had leaned ba=
ck
with closed eyes. A wave of exhaustion had swept over her. She listened in a
dull dream. She felt beaten. They were too strong for her. There were too m=
any
of them. What did it matter? Why not give in, and end it all and win peace?
That was all she wanted--peace now. What did it all matter?
"Very well,
father," she said, listlessly.
McEachern stopped
short.
"You'll do i=
t,
dear?" he cried. "You will?"
"Very well,
father."
He stooped and ki=
ssed
her.
"My own dear
little girl," he said.
She got up.
"I'm rather
tired, father," she said. "I think I'll go in."
Two minutes later,
Mr. McEachern was in Sir Thomas Blunt's study. Five minutes later, Sir Thom=
as
pressed the bell.
Saunders appeared=
.
"Tell his
lordship," said Sir Thomas, "that I wish to see him a moment. He =
is
in the billiard-room, I think."
CHAPTER XVII - JIMMY
REMEMBERS SOMETHING
The game between Hargate and Lord D=
reever
was still in progress when Jimmy returned to the billiard-room. A glance at=
the
board showed that the score was seventy--sixty-nine, in favor of spot.
"Good
game," said Jimmy. "Who's spot?"
"I am,"
said his lordship, missing an easy cannon. For some reason, he appeared in =
high
spirits. "Hargate's been going great guns. I was eleven ahead a moment
ago, but he made a break of twelve."
Lord Dreever belo=
nged
to the class of billiard-players to whom a double-figure break is a thing t=
o be
noted and greeted with respect.
"Fluky,"
muttered the silent Hargate, deprecatingly. This was a long speech for him.
Since their meeting at Paddington station, Jimmy had seldom heard him utter
anything beyond a monosyllable.
"Not a bit of
it, dear old son," said Lord Dreever, handsomely. "You're coming =
on
like a two-year-old. I sha'n't be able to give you twenty in a hundred much
longer."
He went to a
side-table, and mixed himself a whiskey-and-soda, singing a brief extract f=
rom
musical comedy as he did so. There could be no shadow of doubt that he was
finding life good. For the past few days, and particularly that afternoon, =
he
had been rather noticeably ill at ease. Jimmy had seen him hanging about the
terrace at half-past five, and had thought that he looked like a mute at a =
funeral.
But now, only a few hours later, he was beaming on the world, and chirping =
like
a bird.
The game moved
jerkily along. Jimmy took a seat, and watched. The score mounted slowly. Lo=
rd
Dreever was bad, but Hargate was worse. At length, in the eighties, his
lordship struck a brilliant vein. When he had finished his break, his score=
was
ninety-five. Hargate, who had profited by a series of misses on his opponen=
t's
part, had reached ninety-six.
"This is
shortening my life," said Jimmy, leaning forward.
The balls had been
left in an ideal position. Even Hargate could not fail to make a cannon. He
made it.
A close finish to
even the worst game is exciting. Jimmy leaned still further forward to watch
the next stroke. It looked as if Hargate would have to wait for his victory=
. A
good player could have made a cannon as the balls lay, but not Hargate. They
were almost in a straight line, with, white in the center.
Hargate swore und=
er
his breath. There was nothing to be done. He struck carelessly at white. Wh=
ite
rolled against red, seemed to hang for a moment, and shot straight back aga=
inst
spot. The game was over.
"Great Scott!
What a fluke!" cried the silent one, becoming quite garrulous at the
miracle.
A quiet grin spre=
ad
itself slowly across Jimmy's face. He had remembered what he had been tryin=
g to
remember for over a week.
At this moment, t=
he
door opened, and Saunders appeared. "Sir Thomas would like to see your
lordship in his study," he said.
"Eh? What do=
es
he want?"
"Sir Thomas =
did
not confide in me, your lordship."
"Eh? What? O=
h,
no! Well, see you later, you men."
He rested his cue
against the table, and put on his coat. Jimmy followed him out of the door,
which he shut behind him.
"One second,
Dreever," he said.
"Eh? Hullo!
What's up?"
"Any money on
that game?" asked Jimmy.
"Why, yes, by
Jove, now you mention it, there was. An even fiver. And--er--by the way, old
man--the fact is, just for the moment, I'm frightfully--You haven't such a
thing as a fiver anywhere about, have you? The fact is--"
"My dear fel=
low,
of course. I'll square up with him now, shall I?"
"Fearfully
obliged, if you would. Thanks, old man. Pay it to-morrow."
"No hurry,&q=
uot;
said Jimmy; "plenty more in the old oak chest."
He went back to t=
he
room. Hargate was practising cannons. He was on the point of making a stroke
when Jimmy opened the door.
"Care for a
game?" said Hargate.
"Not just at
present," said Jimmy.
Hargate attempted=
his
cannon, and failed badly. Jimmy smiled.
"Not such a =
good
shot as the last," he said.
"No."
"Fine shot, =
that
other."
"Fluke."=
;
"I wonder.&q=
uot;
Jimmy lighted a
cigarette.
"Do you know=
New
York at all?" he asked.
"Been
there."
"Ever been in
the Strollers' Club?"
Hargate turned his
back, but Jimmy had seen his face, and was satisfied.
"Don't know
it," said Hargate.
"Great
place," said Jimmy. "Mostly actors and writers, and so on. The on=
ly
drawback is that some of them pick up queer friends."
Hargate did not
reply. He did not seem interested.
"Yes," =
went
on Jimmy. "For instance, a pal of mine, an actor named Mifflin, introd=
uced
a man a year ago as a member's guest for a fortnight, and this man rooked t=
he
fellows of I don't know how much at billiards. The old game, you know. Nurs=
ing
his man right up to the end, and then finishing with a burst. Of course, wh=
en
that happens once or twice, it may be an accident, but, when a man who pose=
s as
a novice always manages by a really brilliant shot--"
Hargate turned ro=
und.
"They fired =
this
fellow out," said Jimmy.
"Look
here!"
"Yes?"<= o:p>
"What do you
mean?"
"It's a dull
yarn," said Jimmy, apologetically. "I've been boring you. By the =
way,
Dreever asked me to square up with you for that game, in case he shouldn't =
be
back. Here you are."
He held out an em=
pty
hand.
"Got it?&quo=
t;
"What are you
going to do?" demanded Hargate.
"What am I g=
oing
to do?" queried Jimmy.
"You know wh=
at I
mean. If you'll keep your mouth shut, and stand in, it's halves. Is that wh=
at
you're after?"
Jimmy was delight=
ed.
He knew that by rights the proposal should have brought him from his seat, =
with
stern, set face, to wreak vengeance for the insult, but on such occasions he
was apt to ignore the conventions. His impulse, when he met a man whose cod=
e of
behavior was not the ordinary code, was to chat with him and extract his po=
int
of view. He felt as little animus against Hargate as he had felt against Sp=
ike
on the occasion of their first meeting.
"Do you make
much at this sort of game?" he asked.
Hargate was relie=
ved.
This was business-like.
"Pots,"=
he
said, with some enthusiasm. "Pots. I tell you, if you'll stand in--&qu=
ot;
"Bit risky,
isn't it?"
"Not a bit of
it. An occasional accident--"
"I suppose y=
ou'd
call me one?"
Hargate grinned.<= o:p>
"It must be
pretty tough work," said Jimmy. "You must have to use a tremendous
lot of self-restraint."
Hargate sighed.
"That's the
worst of it," he admitted, "the having to seem a mug at the game.
I've been patronized sometimes by young fools, who thought they were teachi=
ng
me, till I nearly forgot myself and showed them what real billiards was.&qu=
ot;
"There's alw=
ays
some drawback to the learned professions," said Jimmy.
"But there's=
a
heap to make up for it in this one," said Hargate. "Well, look he=
re,
is it a deal? You'll stand in--"
Jimmy shook his h=
ead.
"I guess
not," he said. "It's good of you, but commercial speculation never
was in my line. I'm afraid you must count me out of this."
"What! You're
going to tell--?"
"No," s=
aid
Jimmy, "I'm not. I'm not a vigilance committee. I won't tell a soul.&q=
uot;
'"Why,
then--" began Hargate, relieved.
"Unless, of
course," Jimmy went on, "you play billiards again while you're
here."
Hargate stared.
"But, damn i=
t,
man, if I don't, what's the good--? Look here. What am I to do if they ask =
me
to play?"
"Give your w=
rist
as an excuse."
"My wrist?&q=
uot;
"Yes. You
sprained it to-morrow after breakfast. It was bad luck. I wonder how you ca=
me
to do it. You didn't sprain it much, but just enough to stop you playing
billiards."
Hargate reflected=
.
"Understand?=
"
said Jimmy.
"Oh, very
well," said Hargate, sullenly. "But," he burst out, "if=
I ever
get a chance to get even with you--"
"You
won't," said Jimmy. "Dismiss the rosy dream. Get even! You don't =
know
me. There's not a flaw in my armor. I'm a sort of modern edition of the
stainless knight. Tennyson drew Galahad from me. I move through life with
almost a sickening absence of sin. But hush! We are observed. At least, we
shall be in another minute. Somebody is coming down the passage. You do
understand, don't you? Sprained wrist is the watchword."
The handle turned=
. It
was Lord Dreever, back again, from his interview.
"Hullo,
Dreever," said Jimmy. "We've missed you. Hargate has been doing h=
is
best to amuse me with acrobatic tricks. But you're too reckless, Hargate, o=
ld
man. Mark my words, one of these days you'll be spraining your wrist. You
should be more careful. What, going? Good-night. Pleasant fellow,
Hargate," he added, as the footsteps retreated down, the passage.
"Well, my lad, what's the matter with you? You look depressed."
Lord Dreever flung
himself on to the lounge, and groaned hollowly.
"Damn! Damn!!
Damn!!!" he observed.
His glassy eye met
Jimmy's, and wandered away again.
"What on ear=
th's
the matter?" demanded Jimmy. "You go out of here caroling like a
song-bird, and you come back moaning like a lost soul. What's happened?&quo=
t;
"Give me a
brandy-and-soda, Pitt, old man. There's a good chap. I'm in a fearful
hole."
"Why? What's=
the
matter?"
"I'm engaged=
,"
groaned his lordship.
"Engaged! I =
wish
you'd explain. What on earth's wrong with you? Don't you want to be engaged?
What's your--?"
He broke off, as a sudden, awful suspicion dawned upon him. "Who is she?" he cried.<= o:p>
He gripped the
stricken peer's shoulder, and shook it savagely. Unfortunately, he selected=
the
precise moment when the latter was in the act of calming his quivering
nerve-centers with a gulp of brandy-and-soda, and for the space of some two
minutes it seemed as if the engagement would be broken off by the premature
extinction of the Dreever line. A long and painful fit of coughing, however,
ended with his lordship still alive and on the road to recovery.
He eyed Jimmy
reproachfully, but Jimmy was in no mood for apologies.
"Who is she?=
"
he kept demanding. "What's her name?"
"Might have
killed me!" grumbled the convalescent.
"Who is
she?"
"What? Why, =
Miss
McEachern."
Jimmy had known w=
hat
the answer would be, but it was scarcely less of a shock for that reason.
"Miss
McEachern?" he echoed.
Lord Dreever nodd=
ed a
somber nod.
"You're enga=
ged
to her?"
Another somber no=
d.
"I don't bel=
ieve
it," said Jimmy.
"I wish I
didn't," said his lordship wistfully, ignoring the slight rudeness of =
the
remark. "But, worse luck, it's true."
For the first time
since the disclosure of the name, Jimmy's attention was directed to the
remarkable demeanor of his successful rival.
"You don't s=
eem
over-pleased," he said.
"Pleased! Ha=
ve a
fiver each way on 'pleased'! No, I'm not exactly leaping with joy."
"Then, what =
the
devil is it all about? What do you mean? What's the idea? If you don't want=
to
marry Miss McEachern, why did you propose to her?"
Lord Dreever clos=
ed
his eyes.
"Dear old bo=
y,
don't! It's my uncle."
"Your
uncle?"
"Didn't I
explain it all to you--about him wanting me to marry? You know! I told you =
the
whole thing."
Jimmy stared in
silence.
"Do you mean=
to
say--?" he said, slowly.
He stopped. It wa=
s a
profanation to put the thing into words.
"What, old
man?"
Jimmy gulped.
"Do you mean=
to
say you want to marry Miss McEachern simply because she has money?" he
said.
It was not the fi=
rst
time that he had heard of a case of a British peer marrying for such a reas=
on,
but it was the first time that the thing had filled him with horror. In some
circumstances, things come home more forcibly to us.
"It's not me,
old man," murmured his lordship; "it's my uncle."
"Your uncle!
Good God!" Jimmy clenched his hands, despairingly. "Do you mean to
say that you let your uncle order you about in a thing like this? Do you me=
an
to say you're such a--such a--such a gelatine--backboneless worm--"
"Old man! I
say!" protested his lordship, wounded.
"I'd call yo=
u a
wretched knock-kneed skunk, only I don't want to be fulsome. I hate flatter=
ing
a man to his face."
Lord Dreever, dee=
ply
pained, half-rose from his seat.
"Don't get
up," urged Jimmy, smoothly. "I couldn't trust myself." His
lordship subsided hastily. He was feeling alarmed. He had never seen this s=
ide
of Jimmy's character. At first, he had been merely aggrieved and disappoint=
ed.
He had expected sympathy. How, the matter had become more serious. Jimmy was
pacing the room like a young and hungry tiger. At present, it was true, the=
re
was a billiard-table between them; but his lordship felt that he could have
done with good, stout bars. He nestled in his seat with the earnest
concentration of a limpet on a rock. It would be deuced bad form, of course,
for Jimmy to assault his host, but could Jimmy be trusted to remember the
niceties of etiquette?
"Why the dev=
il
she accepted you, I can't think," said Jimmy half to himself, stopping
suddenly, and glaring across the table.
Lord Dreever felt
relieved. This was not polite, perhaps, but at least it was not violent.
"That's what
beats me, too, old man," he said.
"Between you=
and
me, it's a jolly rum business. This afternoon--"
"What about =
this
afternoon?"
"Why, she
wouldn't have me at any price."
"You asked h=
er
this afternoon?"
"Yes, and it=
was
all right then. She refused me like a bird. Wouldn't hear of it. Came damn =
near
laughing in my face. And then, to-night," he went on, his voice squeak=
y at
the thought of his wrongs, "my uncle sends for me, and says she's chan=
ged
her mind and is waiting for me in the morning-room. I go there, and she tel=
ls
me in about three words that she's been thinking it over and that the whole
fearful thing is on again. I call it jolly rough on a chap. I felt such a
frightful ass, you know. I didn't know what to do, whether to kiss her, I
mean--"
Jimmy snorted
violently.
"Eh?" s=
aid
his lordship, blankly.
"Go on,"
said Jimmy, between his teeth.
"I felt a
fearful fool, you know. I just said 'Right ho!' or something--dashed if I k=
now
now what I did say--and legged it. It's a jolly rum business, the whole thi=
ng.
It isn't as if she wanted me. I could see that with half an eye. She doesn't
care a hang for me. It's my belief, old man," he said solemnly, "=
that
she's been badgered into it, I believe my uncle's been at her."
Jimmy laughed
shortly.
"My dear man,
you seem to think your uncle's persuasive influence is universal. I guess i=
t's
confined to you."
"Well, anyho=
w, I
believe that's what's happened. What do you say?"
"Why say
anything? There doesn't seem to be much need."
He poured some br=
andy
into a glass, and added a little soda.
"You take it
pretty stiff," observed his lordship, with a touch of envy.
"On
occasion," said Jimmy, emptying the glass.
CHAPTER XVIII - THE LOCHI=
NVAR
METHOD
As Jimmy sat smoking a last cigaret=
te in
his bedroom before going to bed that night, Spike Mullins came in. Jimmy had
been thinking things over. He was one of those men who are at their best in=
a losing
game. Imminent disaster always had the effect of keying him up and putting =
an
edge on his mind. The news he had heard that night had left him with
undiminished determination, but conscious that a change of method would be
needed. He must stake all on a single throw now. Young Lochinvar rather than
Romeo must be his model. He declined to believe himself incapable of getting
anything that he wanted as badly as he wanted Molly. He also declined to
believe that she was really attached to Lord Dreever. He suspected the hand=
of McEachern
in the affair, though the suspicion did not clear up the mystery by any mea=
ns.
Molly was a girl of character, not a feminine counterpart of his lordship,
content meekly to do what she was told in a matter of this kind. The whole
thing puzzled him.
"Well,
Spike?" he said.
He was not too
pleased at the interruption. He was thinking, and he wanted to be alone.
Something appeare=
d to
have disturbed Spike. His bearing was excited.
"Say, boss!
Guess what. You know dat guy dat come dis afternoon--de guy from de village,
dat came wit' old man McEachern?"
"Galer?"
said Jimmy. "What about him?"
There had been an
addition to the guests at the castle that afternoon. Mr. McEachern, walking=
in
the village, had happened upon an old New York acquaintance of his, who,
touring England, had reached Dreever and was anxious to see the historic
castle. Mr. McEachern had brought him thither, introduced him to Sir Thomas,
and now Mr. Samuel Galer was occupying a room on the same floor as Jimmy's.=
He
had appeared at dinner that night, a short, wooden-faced man, with no more
conversation than Hargate. Jimmy had paid little attention to the newcomer.=
"What about
him?" he said.
"He's a sleu=
t',
boss."
"A what?&quo=
t;
"A sleut'.&q=
uot;
"A
detective?"
"Dat's right=
. A
fly cop."
"What makes =
you
think that?"
"T'ink! Why,=
I
can tell dem by deir eyes an' deir feet, an' de whole of dem. I could pick =
out
a fly cop from a bunch of a t'ousand. He's a sure 'nough sleut' all right, =
all
right. I seen him rubber in' at youse, boss."
"At me! Why =
at
me? Why, of course. I see now. Our friend McEachern has got him in to spy on
us."
"Dat's right,
boss."
"Of course, =
you
may be mistaken."
"Not me, bos=
s.
An', say, he ain't de only one."
"What, more
detectives? They'll have to put up 'House Full' boards, at this rate. Who's=
the
other?"
"A mug what's
down in de soivants' hall. I wasn't so sure of him at foist, but now I'm on=
to
his curves. He's a sleut' all right. He's vally to Sir Tummas, dis second m=
ug
is. But he ain't no vally. He's come to see no one don't get busy wit' de
jools. Say, what do youse t'ink of dem jools, boss?"
"Finest I ev=
er
saw."
"Yes, dat's
right. A hundred t'ousand plunks dey set him back. Dey're de limit, ain't d=
ey?
Say, won't youse really--?"
"Spike! I'm
surprised at you! Do you know, you're getting a regular Mephistopheles, Spi=
ke?
Suppose I hadn't an iron will, what would happen? You really must select yo=
ur
subjects of conversation more carefully. You're bad company for the likes of
me."
Spike shuffled
despondently.
"But,
boss--!"
Jimmy shook his h=
ead.
"It can't be
done, my lad."
"But it can,
boss," protested Spike. "It's dead easy. I've been up to de room,=
an'
I seen de box what de jools is kept in. Why, it's de softest ever! We could=
get
dem as easy as pullin' de plug out of a bottle. Why, say, dere's never been
such a peach of a place for gittin' hold of de stuff as dis house. Dat's ri=
ght,
boss. Why, look what I got dis afternoon, just snoopin' around an' not real=
ly
tryin' to git busy at all. It was just lyin' about."
He plunged his ha=
nd
into his pocket, and drew it out again. As he unclosed his fingers, Jimmy
caught the gleam of precious stones.
"What
the--!" he gasped.
Spike was looking=
at
his treasure-trove with an air of affectionate proprietorship.
"Where on ea=
rth
did you get those?" asked Jimmy.
"Out of one =
of
de rooms. Dey belonged to one of de loidies. It was de easiest old t'ing ev=
er,
boss. I just went in when dere was nobody around, an' dere dey was on de
toible. I never butted into anyt'in' so soft."
"Spike!"=
;
"Yes,
boss?"
"Do you reme=
mber
the room you took them from?"
"Sure. It wa=
s de
foist on de--"
"Then, just
listen to me for a moment, my bright boy. When we're at breakfast to-morrow,
you want to go to that room and put those things back--all of them, mind
you--just where you found them. Do you understand?"
Spike's jaw had
fallen.
"Put dem bac=
k,
boss!" he faltered.
"Every single
one of them."
"Boss!"
said Spike, plaintively.
"Remember. E=
very
single one of them, just where it belongs. See?"
"Very well,
boss."
The dejection in =
his
voice would have moved the sternest to pity. Gloom had enveloped Spike's
spirit. The sunlight had gone out of his life.
It had also gone =
out
of the lives of a good many other people at the castle. This was mainly due=
to
the growing shadow of the day of the theatricals.
For pure discomfo=
rt,
there are few things in the world that can compete with the final rehearsal=
s of
an amateur theatrical performance at a country-house. Every day, the atmosp=
here
becomes more heavily charged with restlessness and depression. The producer=
of
the piece, especially if he be also the author of it, develops a sort of
intermittent insanity. He plucks at his mustache, if he has one: at his hai=
r,
if he has not. He mutters to himself. He gives vent to occasional despairing
cries. The soothing suavity that marked his demeanor in the earlier rehears=
als
disappears. He no longer says with a winning smile, "Splendid, old man,
splendid. Couldn't be better. But I think we'll take that over just once mo=
re, if
you don't mind." Instead, he rolls his eyes, and snaps out, "Once=
more,
please. This'll never do. At this rate, we might just as well cut out the s=
how
altogether. What's that? No, it won't be all right on the night! Now, then,
once more; and do pull yourselves together this time." After this, the
scene is sulkily resumed; and conversation, when the parties concerned meet=
subsequently,
is cold and strained.
Matters had reach=
ed
this stage at the castle. Everybody was thoroughly tired of the piece, and,=
but
for the thought of the disappointment which (presumably) would rack the
neighboring nobility and gentry if it were not to be produced, would have r=
esigned
their places without a twinge of regret. People who had schemed to get the =
best
and longest parts were wishing now that they had been content with "Fi=
rst
Footman," or "Giles, a villager."
"I'll never =
run
an amateur show again as long as I live," confided Charteris to Jimmy
almost tearfully. "It's not good enough. Most of them aren't word-perf=
ect
yet."
"It'll be all
right--"
"Oh, don't s=
ay
it'll be all right on the night."
"I wasn't go=
ing
to," said Jimmy. "I was going to say it'll be all right after the
night. People will soon forget how badly the thing went."
"You're a ni=
ce,
comforting sort of man, aren't you?" said Charteris.
"Why
worry?" said Jimmy. "If you go on like this, it'll be Westminster
Abbey for you in your prime. You'll be getting brain-fever."
Jimmy himself was=
one
of the few who were feeling reasonably cheerful. He was deriving a keen
amusement at present from the maneuvers of Mr. Samuel Galer, of New York. T=
his
lynx-eyed man; having been instructed by Mr. McEachern to watch Jimmy, was
doing so with a thoroughness that would have roused the suspicions of a bab=
e. If
Jimmy went to the billiard-room after dinner, Mr. Galer was there to keep h=
im
company. If, during the course of the day, he had occasion to fetch a
handkerchief or a cigarette-case from his bedroom, he was sure, on emerging=
, to
stumble upon Mr. Galer in the corridor. The employees of Dodson's Private
Inquiry Agency believed in earning their salaries.
Occasionally, aft=
er
these encounters, Jimmy would come upon Sir Thomas Blunt's valet, the other=
man
in whom Spike's trained eye had discerned the distinguishing marks of the
sleuth. He was usually somewhere round the corner at these moments, and, wh=
en
collided with, apologized with great politeness. Jimmy decided that he must=
have
come under suspicion in this case vicariously, through Spike. Spike in the
servants' hall would, of course, stand out conspicuously enough to catch the
eye of a detective on the look out for sin among the servants; and he himse=
lf,
as Spike's employer, had been marked down as a possible confederate.
It tickled him to
think that both these giant brains should be so greatly exercised on his
account.
He had been watch=
ing
Molly closely during these days. So far, no announcement of the engagement =
had
been made. It struck him that possibly it was being reserved for public men=
tion
on the night of the theatricals. The whole county would be at the castle th=
en.
There could be no more fitting moment. He sounded Lord Dreever, and the lat=
ter
said moodily that he was probably right.
"There's goi=
ng
to be a dance of sorts after the show," he said, "and it'll be do=
ne
then, I suppose. No getting out of it after that. It'll be all over the cou=
nty.
Trust my uncle for that. He'll get on a table, and shout it, shouldn't wond=
er.
And it'll be in the Morning Post next day, and Katie'll see it! Only two da=
ys
more, oh, lord!"
Jimmy deduced that
Katie was the Savoy girl, concerning whom his lordship had vouchsafed no
particulars save that she was a ripper and hadn't a penny.
Only two days! Li=
ke
the battle of Waterloo, it was going to be a close-run affair. More than ev=
er
now, he realized how much Molly meant to him; and there were moments when it
seemed to him that she, too, had begun to understand. That night on the ter=
race
seemed somehow to have changed their relationship. He thought he had got cl=
oser
to her. They were in touch. Before, she had been frank, cheerful,
unembarrassed. Now, he noticed a constraint in her manner, a curious shynes=
s.
There was a barrier between them, but it was not the old barrier. He had ce=
ased
to be one of a crowd.
But it was a race
against time. The first day slipped by, a blank, and the second; till, now,=
it
was but a matter of hours. The last afternoon had come.
Not even Mr. Samu=
el
Galer, of Dodson's Private Inquiry Agency, could have kept a more unflagging
watch than did Jimmy during those hours. There was no rehearsal that aftern=
oon,
and the members of the company, in various stages of nervous collapse, stra=
yed
distractedly about the grounds. First one, then another, would seize upon
Molly, while Jimmy, watching from afar, cursed their pertinacity.
At last, she wond=
ered
off alone, and Jimmy, quitting his ambush, followed.
She walked in the
direction of the lake. It had been a terribly hot, oppressive afternoon. Th=
ere
was thunder in the air. Through the trees, the lake glittered invitingly.
She was standing =
at
the water's edge when Jimmy came up. Her back was turned. She was rocking w=
ith
her foot a Canadian canoe that lay alongside the bank. She started as he sp=
oke.
His feet on the soft turf had made no sound.
"Can I take =
you
out on the lake?" he said.
She did not answer
for a moment. She was plainly confused.
"I'm
sorry," she said. "I--I'm waiting for lord Dreever."
Jimmy saw that she
was nervous. There was tension in the air. She was looking away from him, o=
ut
across the lake, and her face was flushed.
"Won't
you?" he said.
"I'm
sorry," she said again.
Jimmy looked over=
his
shoulder. Down the lower terrace was approaching the long form of his lords=
hip.
He walked with pensive jerkiness, not as one hurrying to a welcome tryst. As
Jimmy looked, he vanished behind the great clump of laurels that stood on t=
he lowest
terrace. In another minute, he would reappear round them.
Gently, but with
extreme dispatch, Jimmy placed a hand on either side of Molly's waist. The =
next
moment, he had swung her off her feet, and lowered her carefully to the
cushions in the bow of the canoe.
Then, jumping in
himself with a force that made the boat rock, he loosened the mooring-rope,
seized the paddle, and pushed off.
In making love, as in every other b=
ranch
of life, consistency is the quality most to be aimed at. To hedge is fatal.=
A
man must choose the line of action that he judges to be best suited to his =
temperament,
and hold to it without deviation. If Lochinvar snatches the maiden up on his
saddle-bow, he must continue in that vein. He must not fancy that, having
accomplished the feat, he can resume the episode on lines of devotional
humility. Prehistoric man, who conducted his courtship with a club, never f=
ell
into the error of apologizing when his bride complained of headache.
Jimmy did not
apologize. The idea did not enter his mind. He was feeling prehistoric. His
heart was beating fast, and his mind was in a whirl, but the one definite
thought that came to him during the first few seconds of the journey was th=
at
he ought to have done this earlier. This was the right way. Pick her up and
carry her off, and leave uncles and fathers and butter-haired peers of the
realm to look after themselves. This was the way. Alone together in their o=
wn little
world of water, with nobody to interrupt and nobody to overhear! He should =
have
done it before. He had wasted precious, golden time, hanging about while fu=
tile
men chattered to her of things that could not possibly be of interest. But =
he
had done the right thing at last. He had got her. She must listen to him no=
w.
She could not help listening. They were the only inhabitants of this new wo=
rld.
He looked back ov=
er
his shoulder at the world they had left. The last of the Dreevers had round=
ed
the clump of laurels, and was standing at the edge of the water, gazing
perplexedly after the retreating canoe.
"These poets=
put
a thing very neatly sometimes," said Jimmy reflectively, as he dug the
paddle into the water. "The man who said, 'Distance lends enchantment =
to
the view,' for instance. Dreever looks quite nice when you see him as far a=
way
as this, with a good strip of water in between."
Molly, gazing over
the side of the boat into the lake, abstained from feasting her eyes on the
picturesque spectacle.
"Why did you=
do
it?" she said, in a low voice.
Jimmy shipped the
paddle, and allowed the canoe to drift. The ripple of the water against the
prow sounded clear and thin in the stillness. The world seemed asleep. The =
sun
blazed down, turning the water to flame. The air was hot, with the damp
electrical heat that heralds a thunderstorm. Molly's face looked small and =
cool
in the shade of her big hat. Jimmy, as he watched her, felt that he had done
well. This was, indeed, the way.
"Why did you=
do
it?" she said again.
"I had to.&q=
uot;
"Take me
back."
"No."
He took up the
paddle, and placed a broader strip of water between the two worlds; then pa=
used
once more.
"I have
something to say to you first," he said.
She did not answe=
r.
He looked over his shoulder again. His lordship had disappeared.
"Do you mind=
if
I smoke?"
She nodded. He fi=
lled
his pipe carefully, and lighted it. The smoke moved sluggishly up through t=
he
still air. There was a long silence. A fish jumped close by, falling back i=
n a
shower of silver drops. Molly started at the sound, and half-turned.
"That was a
fish," she said, as a child might have done.
Jimmy knocked the
ashes out of his pipe.
"What made y=
ou
do it?" he asked abruptly, echoing her own question.
She drew her fing=
ers
slowly through the water without speaking.
"You know wh=
at I
mean. Dreever told me."
She looked up wit=
h a
flash of spirit, which died away as she spoke.
"What
right?" She stopped, and looked away again.
"None,"
said Jimmy. "But I wish you would tell me."
She hung her head.
Jimmy bent forward, and touched her hand.
"Don't"=
he
said; "for God's sake, don't! You mustn't."
"I must,&quo=
t;
she said, miserably.
"You sha'n't.
It's wicked."
"I must. It'=
s no
good talking about it. It's too late."
"It's not. Y=
ou
must break it off to-day."
She shook her hea= d. Her fingers still dabbled mechanically in the water. The sun was hidden now behind a gray veil, which deepened into a sullen black over the hill behind= the castle. The heat had grown more oppressive, with a threat of coming storm.<= o:p>
"What made y=
ou
do it?" he asked again.
"Don't let's
talk about it ... Please!"
He had a momentary
glimpse of her face. There were tears in her eyes. At the sight, his
self-control snapped.
"You
sha'n't," he cried. "It's ghastly. I won't let you. You must unde=
rstand
now. You must know what you are to me. Do you think I shall let you--?"=
;
A low growl of th=
under
rumbled through the stillness, like the muttering of a sleepy giant. The bl=
ack
cloud that had hung over the hill had crept closer. The heat was stifling. =
In
the middle of the lake, some fifty yards distant, lay the island, cool and
mysterious in the gathering darkness.
Jimmy broke off, =
and
seized the paddle.
On this side of t=
he
island was a boathouse, a little creek covered over with boards and capable=
of
sheltering an ordinary rowboat. He ran the canoe in just as the storm began,
and turned her broadside on, so that they could watch the rain, which was
sweeping over the lake in sheets.
He began to speak
again, more slowly now.
"I think I l=
oved
you from the first day I saw you on the ship. And, then, I lost you. I found
you again by a miracle, and lost you again. I found you here by another
miracle, but this time I am not going to lose you. Do you think I'm going to
stand by and see you taken from me by--by--"
He took her hand.=
"Molly, you
can't love him. It isn't possible. If I thought you did, I wouldn't try to
spoil your happiness. I'd go away. But you don't. You can't. He's nothing.
Molly!"
The canoe rocked =
as
he leaned toward her.
"Molly!"=
;
She said nothing;
but, for the first time, her eyes met his, clear and unwavering. He could r=
ead
fear in them, fear--not of himself, of something vague, something he could =
not
guess at. But they shone with a light that conquered the fear as the sun
conquers fire; and he drew her to him, and kissed her again and again,
murmuring incoherently.
Suddenly, she wre=
nched
herself away, struggling like some wild thing. The boat plunged.
"I can't,&qu=
ot;
she cried in a choking voice. "I mustn't. Oh, I can't!"
He stretched out a
hand, and clutched at the rail than ran along the wall. The plunging ceased=
. He
turned. She had hidden her face, and was sobbing, quietly, with the forlorn
hopelessness of a lost child.
He made a movement
toward her, but drew back. He felt dazed.
The rain thudded =
and
splashed on the wooden roof. A few drops trickled through a crack in the
boards. He took off his coat, and placed it gently over her shoulders.
"Molly!"=
;
She looked up with
wet eyes.
"Molly, dear,
what is it?"
"I mustn't. =
It
isn't right."
"I don't
understand."
"I mustn't,
Jimmy."
He moved cautious=
ly
forward, holding the rail, till he was at her side, and took her in his arm=
s.
"What is it,
dear? Tell me."
She clung to him
without speaking.
"You aren't
worrying about him, are you--about Dreever? There's nothing to worry about.
It'll be quite easy and simple. I'll tell him, if you like. He knows you do=
n't
care for him; and, besides, there's a girl in London that he--"
"No, no. It's
not that."
"What is it,
dear? What's troubling you?"
"Jimmy--&quo=
t;
She stopped.
He waited.
"Yes?"<= o:p>
"Jimmy, my
father wouldn't--father--father--doesn't--"
"Doesn't like
me?"
She nodded misera=
bly.
A great wave of
relief swept over Jimmy. He had imagined--he hardly knew what he had imagin=
ed:
some vast, insuperable obstacle; some tremendous catastrophe, whirling them
asunder. He could have laughed aloud in his happiness. So, this was it, this
was the cloud that brooded over them--that Mr. McEachern did not like him! =
The
angel, guarding Eden with a fiery sword, had changed into a policeman with a
truncheon.
"He must lea=
rn
to love me," he said, lightly.
She looked at him
hopelessly. He could not see; he could not understand. And how could she te=
ll
him? Her father's words rang in her brain. He was "crooked." He w=
as
"here on some game." He was being watched. But she loved him, she
loved him! Oh, how could she make him understand?
She clung tighter=
to
him, trembling. He became serious again. "Dear, you mustn't worry,&quo=
t;
he said. "It can't be helped. He'll come round. Once we're married--&q=
uot;
"No, no. Oh,
can't you understand? I couldn't, I couldn't!"
Jimmy's face whit=
ened.
He looked at her anxiously.
"But,
dear!" he said. "You can't--do you mean to say--will that--"=
he
searched for a word-"stop you?" he concluded.
"It must,&qu=
ot;
she whispered.
A cold hand clutc=
hed
at his heart. His world was falling to pieces, crumbling under his eyes.
"But--but you
love me," he said, slowly. It was as if he were trying to find the key=
to
a puzzle. "I--don't see."
"You couldn'=
t.
You can't. You're a man. You don't know. It's so different for a man! He's
brought up all his life with the idea of leaving home. He goes away
naturally."
"But, dear, =
you
couldn't live at home all your life. Whoever you married--"
"But this wo=
uld
be different. Father would never speak to me again. I should never see him
again. He would go right out of my life. Jimmy, I couldn't. A girl can't cut
away twenty years of her life, and start fresh like that. I should be haunt=
ed.
I should make you miserable. Every day, a hundred little things would remin=
d me
of him, and I shouldn't be strong enough to resist them. You don't know how
fond he is of me, how good he has always been. Ever since I can remember, w=
e've
been such friends. You've only seen the outside of him, and I know how
different that is from what he really is. All his life he has thought only =
of
me. He has told me things about himself which nobody else dreams of, and I =
know
that all these years he has been working just for me. Jimmy, you don't hate=
me
for saying this, do you?"
"Go on,"=
; he
said, drawing her closer to him.
"I can't
remember my mother. She died when I was quite little. So, he and I have been
the only ones--till you came."
Memories of those
early days crowded her mind as she spoke, making her voice tremble;
half-forgotten trifles, many of them, fraught with the glamour and fragranc=
e of
past happiness.
"We have alw=
ays
been together. He trusted me, and I trusted him, and we saw things through
together. When I was ill, he used to sit up all night with me, night after
night. Once--I'd only got a little fever, really, but I thought I was terri=
bly
bad--I heard him come in late, and called out to him, and he came straight =
in,
and sat and held my hand all through the night; and it was only by accident=
I found
out later that it had been raining and that he was soaked through. It might
have killed him. We were partners, Jimmy, dear. I couldn't do anything to h=
urt
him now, could I? It wouldn't be square."
Jimmy had turned =
away
his head, for fear his face might betray what he was feeling. He was in a h=
ell
of unreasoning jealousy. He wanted her, body and soul, and every word she s=
aid
bit like a raw wound. A moment before, and he had felt that she belonged to
him. Now, in the first shock of reaction, he saw himself a stranger, an
intruder, a trespasser on holy ground.
She saw the movem=
ent,
and her intuition put her in touch with his thoughts.
"No, no,&quo=
t;
she cried; "no, Jimmy, not that!"
Their eyes met, a=
nd
he was satisfied.
They sat there,
silent. The rain had lessened its force, and was falling now in a gentle
shower. A strip of blue sky, pale and watery, showed through the gray over =
the
hills. On the island close behind them, a thrush had begun to sing.
"What are we=
to
do?" she said, at last. "What can we do?"
"We must
wait," he said. "It will all come right. It must. Nothing can sto=
p us
now."
The rain had ceas=
ed.
The blue had routed the gray, and driven it from the sky. The sun, low down=
in
the west, shone out bravely over the lake. The air was cool and fresh.
Jimmy's spirits r=
ose
with a bound. He accepted the omen. This was the world as it really was,
smiling and friendly, not gray, as he had fancied it. He had won. Nothing c=
ould
alter that. What remained to be done was trivial. He wondered how he could =
ever
have allowed it to weigh upon him.
After awhile, he
pushed the boat out of its shelter on to the glittering water, and seized t=
he
paddle.
"We must be
getting back," he said. "I wonder what the time is. I wish we cou=
ld
stay out forever. But it must be late. Molly!"
"Yes?"<= o:p>
"Whatever
happens, you'll break off this engagement with Dreever? Shall I tell him? I
will if you like."
"No, I will.
I'll write him a note, if I don't see him before dinner."
Jimmy paddled on a
few strokes.
"It's no
good," he said suddenly, "I can't keep it in. Molly, do you mind =
if I
sing a bar or two? I've got a beastly voice, but I'm feeling rather happy. =
I'll
stop as soon as I can."
He raised his voi=
ce
discordantly.
Covertly, from
beneath the shade of her big hat, Molly watched him with troubled eyes. The=
sun
had gone down behind the hills, and the water had ceased to glitter. There =
was
a suggestion of chill in the air. The great mass of the castle frowned down
upon them, dark and forbidding in the dim light.
She shivered.
CHAPTER XX - A LESSON IN
PICQUET
Lord Dreever, meanwhile, having lef=
t the
waterside, lighted a cigarette, and proceeded to make a reflective tour of =
the
grounds. He felt aggrieved with the world. Molly's desertion in the canoe w=
ith
Jimmy did not trouble him: he had other sorrows. One is never at one's best=
and
sunniest when one has been forced by a ruthless uncle into abandoning the g=
irl
one loves and becoming engaged to another, to whom one is indifferent.
Something of a jaundiced tinge stains one's outlook on life in such
circumstances. Moreover, Lord Dreever was not by nature an introspective yo=
ung
man, but, examining his position as he walked along, he found himself wonde=
ring
whether it was not a little unheroic. He came to the conclusion that perhap=
s it
was. Of course, Uncle Thomas could make it deucedly unpleasant for him if he
kicked. That was the trouble. If only he had even--say, a couple of thousan=
ds a
year of his own--he might make a fight for it. But, dash it, Uncle Tom could
cut off supplies to such a frightful extent, if there was trouble, that he
would have to go on living at Dreever indefinitely, without so much as a
fearful quid to call his own.
Imagination boggl=
ed
at the prospect. In the summer and autumn, when there was shooting, his
lordship was not indisposed to a stay at the home of his fathers. But all t=
he
year round! Better a broken heart inside the radius than a sound one in the
country in the winter.
"But, by
gad!" mused his lordship; "if I had as much as a couple--yes, dash
it, even a couple of thousand a year, I'd chance it, and ask Katie to marry=
me,
dashed if I wouldn't!"
He walked on, dra=
wing
thoughtfully at his cigarette. The more he reviewed the situation, the less=
he
liked it. There was only one bright spot in it, and this was the feeling th=
at
now money must surely get a shade less tight. Extracting the precious ore f=
rom
Sir Thomas hitherto had been like pulling back-teeth out of a bull-dog. But,
now, on the strength of this infernal engagement, surely the uncle might
reasonably be expected to scatter largesse to some extent.
His lordship was =
just
wondering whether, if approached in a softened mood, the other might not
disgorge something quite big, when a large, warm rain-drop fell on his hand.
From the bushes round about came an ever increasing patter. The sky was lea=
den.
He looked round h=
im
for shelter. He had reached the rose-garden in the course of his
perambulations. At the far end was a summerhouse. He turned up his coat-col=
lar,
and ran.
As he drew near, =
he
heard a slow and dirge-like whistling proceeding from the interior. Plungin=
g in
out of breath, just as the deluge began, he found Hargate seated at the lit=
tle
wooden table with an earnest expression on his face. The table was covered =
with
cards. Hargate had not yet been compelled to sprain his wrist, having adopt=
ed
the alternative of merely refusing invitations to play billiards.
"Hello,
Hargate," said his lordship. "Isn't it coming down, by Jove!"=
;
Hargate glanced u=
p,
nodded without speaking, and turned his attention to the cards once more. He
took one from the pack in his left hand, looked at it, hesitated for a mome=
nt,
as if doubtful whereabouts on the table it would produce the most artistic
effect; and finally put it face upward. Then, he moved another card from th=
e table,
and put it on top of the other one. Throughout the performance, he whistled
painfully.
His lordship rega=
rded
his guest with annoyance.
"That looks
frightfully exciting," he said, disparagingly. "What are you play=
ing
at? Patience?"
Hargate nodded ag=
ain,
this time without looking up.
"Oh, don't s=
it
there looking like a frog," said Lord Dreever, irritably. "Talk,
man."
Hargate gathered =
up
the cards, and proceeded to shuffle them in a meditative manner, whistling =
the
while.
"Oh, stop
it!" said his lordship.
Hargate nodded, a=
nd
obediently put down the deck.
"Look
here." said Lord Dreever, "this is boring me stiff. Let's have a =
game
of something. Anything to pass away the time. Curse this rain! We shall be
cooped up here till dinner at this rate. Ever played picquet? I could teach=
it
you in five minutes."
A look almost of =
awe
came into Hargate's face, the look of one who sees a miracle performed befo=
re
his eyes. For years, he had been using all the large stock of diplomacy at =
his
command to induce callow youths to play picquet with him, and here was
this--admirable young man, this pearl among young men, positively offering =
to
teach him the game. It was too much happiness. What had he done to deserve =
this?
He felt as a toil-worn lion might feel if some antelope, instead of making =
its
customary bee-line for the horizon, were to trot up and insert its head bet=
ween
his jaws.
"I--I should=
n't
mind being shown the idea," he said.
He listened
attentively while Lord Dreever explained at some length the principles that
govern the game of picquet. Every now and then, he asked a question. It was=
evident
that he was beginning to grasp the idea of the game.
"What exactl=
y is
re-piquing?" he asked, as his, lordship paused.
"It's like
this," said his lordship, returning to his lecture.
"Yes, I see
now," said the neophyte.
They began playin=
g.
Lord Dreever, as was only to be expected in a contest between teacher and
student, won the first two hands. Hargate won the next.
"I've got the
hang of it all right now," he said, complacently. "It's a simple =
sort
of game. Make it more exciting, don't you think, if we played for
something?"
"All
right," said Lord Dreever slowly, "if you like."
He would not have
suggested it himself, but, after all, dash it, if the man really asked for
it--It was not his fault if the winning of a hand should have given the fel=
low
the impression that he knew all there was to be known about picquet. Of cou=
rse,
picquet was a game where skill was practically bound to win. But--after all,
Hargate probably had plenty of money. He could afford it.
"All
right," said his lordship again. "How much?"
"Something
fairly moderate? Ten bob a hundred?"
There is no doubt
that his lordship ought at this suggestion to have corrected the novice's
notion that ten shillings a hundred was fairly moderate. He knew that it was
possible for a poor player to lose four hundred points in a twenty minutes'
game, and usual for him to lose two hundred. But he let the thing go.
"Very
well," he said.
Twenty minutes la=
ter,
Hargate was looking some-what ruefully at the score-sheet. "I owe you
eighteen shillings," he said. "Shall I pay you now, or shall we
settle up in a lump after we've finished?"
"What about
stopping now?" said Lord Dreever. "It's quite fine out."
"No, let's go
on. I've nothing to do till dinner, and I don't suppose you have."
His lordship's co=
nscience
made one last effort.
"You'd much
better stop, you know, Hargate, really," he said. "You can lose a
frightful lot at this game."
"My dear
Dreever," said Hargate stiffly, "I can look after myself, thanks.=
Of
course, if you think you are risking too much, by all means--"
"Oh, if you
don't mind," said his lordship, outraged, "I'm only too frightful=
ly
pleased. Only, remember I warned you."
"I'll bear i=
t in
mind. By the way, before we start, care to make it a sovereign a hundred?&q=
uot;
Lord Dreever could
not afford to play picquet for a sovereign a hundred, or, indeed, to play
picquet for money at all; but, after his adversary's innuendo, it was
impossible for a young gentleman of spirit to admit the humiliating fact. He
nodded.
"About time,=
I
fancy," said Hargate, looking at his watch an hour later, "that we
were going in to dress for dinner."
His lordship, mad=
e no
reply. He was wrapped in thought.
"Let's see,
that's twenty pounds you owe me, isn't it?" continued Hargate.
"Shocking bad luck you had!"
They went out into
the rose-garden.
"Jolly
everything smells after the rain," said Hargate, who seemed to have st=
ruck
a conversational patch. "Freshened everything up."
His lordship did =
not
appear to have noticed it. He seemed to be thinking of something else. His =
air
was pensive and abstracted.
"There's just
time," said Hargate, looking at his watch again, "for a short str=
oll.
I want to have a talk with you."
"Oh!" s=
aid
Lord Dreever.
His air did not b=
elie
his feelings. He looked pensive, and was pensive. It was deuced awkward, th=
is
twenty pounds business.
Hargate was watch=
ing
him covertly. It was his business to know other people's business, and he k=
new
that Lord Dreever was impecunious, and depended for supplies entirely on a
prehensile uncle. For the success of the proposal he was about to make, he
depended on this fact.
"Who's this =
man
Pitt?" asked Hargate.
"Oh, pal of
mine," said his lordship. "Why?"
"I can't sta=
nd
the fellow."
"I think he'=
s a
good chap," said his lordship. "In fact," remembering Jimmy's
Good Samaritanism, "I know he is. Why don't you like him?"
"I don't kno=
w. I
don't."
"Oh?" s=
aid
his lordship, indifferently. He was in no mood to listen to the likes and
dislikes of other men.
"Look here,
Dreever," said Hargate, "I want you to do something for me. I want
you to get Pitt out of the place."
Lord Dreever eyed=
his
guest curiously.
"Eh?" he
said.
Hargate repeated =
his
remark.
"You seem to
have mapped out quite a program for me," said Lord Dreever.
"Get him out=
of
it," continued Hargate vehemently. Jimmy's prohibition against billiar=
ds
had hit him hard. He was suffering the torments of Tantalus. The castle was
full of young men of the kind to whom he most resorted, easy marks every on=
e;
and here he was, simply through Jimmy, careened like a disabled battleship.=
It
was maddening. "Make him go. You invited him here. He doesn't expect t=
o stop
indefinitely, I suppose? If you left, he'd have to, too. What you must do i=
s to
go back to London to-morrow. You can easily make some excuse. He'll have to=
go
with you. Then, you can drop him in London, and come back. That's what you =
must
do."
A delicate pink f=
lush
might have been seen to spread itself over Lord Dreever's face. He began to
look like an angry rabbit. He had not a great deal of pride in his composit=
ion,
but the thought of the ignominious role that Hargate was sketching out for =
him
stirred what he had to its shallow bottom. Talking on, Hargate managed to a=
dd
the last straw.
"Of
course," he said, "that money you lost to me at picquet--what was=
it?
Twenty? Twenty pounds, wasn't it? Well, we would look on that as canceled, =
of
course. That will be all right."
His lordship
exploded.
"Will it?&qu=
ot;
he cried, pink to the ears. "Will it, by George? I'll pay you every
frightful penny of it to-morrow, and then you can clear out, instead of Pit=
t.
What do you take me for, I should like to know?"
"A fool, if =
you
refuse my offer."
"I've a jolly
good mind to give you a most frightful kicking."
"I shouldn't
try, if I were you. It's not the sort of game you'd shine at. Better stick =
to
picquet."
"If you thin=
k I
can't pay your rotten money--"
"I do. But, =
if
you can, so much the better. Money is always useful."
"I may be a =
fool
in some ways--"
"You underst=
ate
it, my dear man."
"--but I'm n=
ot a
cad."
"You're gett=
ing
quite rosy, Dreever. Wrath is good for the complexion."
"And, if you
think you can bribe me, you never made a bigger mistake in your life."=
"Yes, I
did," said Hargate, "when I thought you had some glimmerings of
intelligence. But, if it gives you any pleasure to behave like the juvenile
lead in a melodrama, by all means do. Personally, I shouldn't have thought =
the
game would be worth the candle. But, if your keen sense of honor compels yo=
u to
pay the twenty pounds, all right. You mentioned to-morrow? That will suit m=
e.
So, we'll let it go it at that."
He walked off,
leaving Lord Dreever filled with the comfortable glow that comes to the weak
man who for once has displayed determination. He felt that he must not go b=
ack
from his dignified standpoint. That money would have to be paid, and on the
morrow. Hargate was the sort of man who could, and would, make it exceeding=
ly
unpleasant for him if he failed. A debt of honor was not a thing to be trif=
led
with.
But he felt quite
safe. He knew he could get the money when he pleased. It showed, he reflect=
ed
philosophically, how out of evil cometh good. His greater misfortune, the
engagement, would, as it were, neutralize the less, for it was ridiculous to
suppose that Sir Thomas, having seen his ends accomplished, and being
presumably in a spacious mood in consequence, would not be amenable to a
request for a mere twenty pounds.
He went on into t=
he
hall. He felt strong and capable. He had shown Hargate the stuff there was =
in
him. He was Spennie Dreever, the man of blood and iron, the man with whom it
were best not to trifle. But it was really, come to think of it, uncommonly
lucky that he was engaged to Molly. He recoiled from the idea of attempting=
, unfortified
by that fact, to extract twenty pounds from Sir Thomas for a card-debt.
In the hall, he m=
et
Saunders.
"I have been
looking for your lordship," said the butler.
"Eh? Well, h=
ere
I am."
"Just so, yo=
ur
lordship. Miss McEachern entrusted me with this note to deliver to you in t=
he
event of her not being h'able to see you before dinner personally, your
lordship."
"Right ho.
Thanks."
He started to go
upstairs, opening the envelope as he went. What could the girl be writing to
him about? Surely, she wasn't going to start sending him love-letters, or a=
ny
of that frightful rot? Deuced difficult it would be to play up to that sort=
of
thing!
He stopped on the
first landing to read the note, and at the opening line his jaw fell. The
envelope fluttered to the ground.
"Oh, my sain=
ted
aunt!" he moaned, clutching at the banisters. "Now, I am in the
soup!"
CHAPTER XXI - LOATHSOME G=
IFTS
There are doubtless men so construc=
ted
that they can find themselves accepted suitors without any particular whirl=
of
emotion. King Solomon probably belonged to this class, and even Henry the
Eighth must have become a trifle blase in time. But, to the average man, the
sensations are complex and overwhelming. A certain stunned feeling is perha=
ps
predominant. Blended with this is relief, the relief of a general who has b=
rought
a difficult campaign to a successful end, or of a member of a forlorn hope =
who
finds that the danger is over and that he is still alive. To this must be a=
dded
a newly born sense of magnificence. Our suspicion that we were something ra=
ther
out of the ordinary run of men is suddenly confirmed. Our bosom heaves with
complacency, and the world has nothing more to offer.
With some, there =
is
an alloy of apprehension in the metal of their happiness, and the strain of=
an
engagement sometimes brings with it even a faint shadow of regret. "She
makes me buy things," one swain, in the third quarter of his engagemen=
t,
was overheard to moan to a friend. "Two new ties only yesterday."=
He
seemed to be debating with himself whether human nature could stand the str=
ain.
But, whatever
tragedies may cloud the end of the period, its beginning at least is bathed=
in
sunshine.
Jimmy, regarding =
his
lathered face in the glass as he dressed for dinner that night, marveled at=
the
excellence of this best of all possible worlds.
No doubts disturb=
ed
him. That the relations between Mr. McEachern and himself offered a permane=
nt
bar to his prospects, he did not believe. For the moment, he declined to
consider the existence of the ex-constable at all. In a world that contained
Molly, there was no room for other people. They were not in the picture. Th=
ey
did not exist.
To him, musing
contentedly over the goodness of life, there entered, in the furtive manner
habitual to that unreclaimed buccaneer, Spike Mullins. It may have been tha=
t Jimmy
read his own satisfaction and happiness into the faces of others, but it
certainly seemed to him that there was a sort of restrained joyousness about
Spike's demeanor. The Bowery boy's shuffles on the carpet were almost a dan=
ce.
His face seemed to glow beneath his crimson hair.
"Well,"
said Jimmy, "and how goes the world with young Lord Fitz-Mullins? Spik=
e,
have you ever been best man?
"What's dat,
boss?"
"Best man at=
a
wedding. Chap who stands by the bridegroom with a hand on the scruff of his
neck to see that he goes through with it. Fellow who looks after everything,
crowds the money on to the minister at the end of the ceremony, and then go=
es
off and mayries the first bridesmaid, and lives happily ever."
Spike shook his h=
ead.
"I ain't got=
no
use for gittin' married, boss."
"Spike, the
misogynist! You wait, Spike. Some day, love will awake in your heart, and
you'll start writing poetry."
"I'se not dat
kind of mug, boss," protested the Bowery boy. "I ain't got no use=
fer
goils. It's a mutt's game."
This was rank her=
esy.
Jimmy laid down the razor from motives of prudence, and proceeded to lighten
Spike's reprehensible darkness.
"Spike, you'=
re
an ass," he said. "You don't know anything about it. If you had a=
ny
sense at all, you'd understand that the only thing worth doing in life is to
get married. You bone-headed bachelors make me sick. Think what it would me=
an
to you, having a wife. Think of going out on a cold winter's night to crack=
a
crib, knowing that there would be a cup of hot soup waiting for you when you
got back, and your slippers all warmed and comfortable. And then she'd sit =
on your
knee, and you'd tell her how you shot the policeman, and you'd examine the =
swag
together--! Why, I can't imagine anything cozier. Perhaps there would be li=
ttle
Spikes running about the house. Can't you see them jumping with joy as you =
slid
in through the window, and told the great news? 'Fahzer's killed a pleecema=
n!'
cry the tiny, eager voices. Candy is served out all round in honor of the
event. Golden-haired little Jimmy Mullins, my god-son, gets a dime for havi=
ng
thrown a stone at a plain-clothes detective that afternoon. All is joy and
wholesome revelry. Take my word for it, Spike, there's nothing like
domesticity."
"Dere was a =
goil
once," said Spike, meditatively. "Only, I was never her steady. S=
he
married a cop."
"She wasn't
worthy of you, Spike," said Jimmy, sympathetically. "A girl capab=
le
of going to the bad like that would never have done for you. You must pick =
some
nice, sympathetic girl with a romantic admiration for your line of business.
Meanwhile, let me finish shaving, or I shall be late for dinner. Great doin=
gs
on to-night, Spike."
Spike became
animated.
"Sure, boss I
Dat's just what--"
"If you could
collect all the blue blood that will be under this roof to-night, Spike, in=
to
one vat, you'd be able to start a dyeing-works. Don't try, though. They
mightn't like it. By the way, have you seen anything more--of course, you h=
ave.
What I mean is, have you talked at all with that valet man, the one you thi=
nk
is a detective?"
"Why, boss,
dat's just--"
"I hope for =
his
own sake he's a better performer than my old friend, Galer. That man is get=
ting
on my nerves, Spike. He pursues me like a smell-dog. I expect he's lurking =
out
in the passage now. Did you see him?"
"Did I! Boss!
Why--"
Jimmy inspected S=
pike
gravely.
"Spike,"=
; he
said, "there's something on your mind. You're trying to say something.
What is it? Out with it."
Spike's excitement
vented itself in a rush of words.
"Gee, boss!
There's bin doin's to-night fer fair.
Me coco's still buzzin'. Sure t'ing! Why, say, when I was to Sir Tum=
mas'
dressin'-room dis afternoon--"
"What!"=
"Surest t'ing
you know. Just before de storm come on, when it was all as dark as could be.
Well, I was--"
Jimmy interrupted=
.
"In Sir Thom=
as's
dressing-room! What the--"
Spike looked some=
what
embarrassed. He grinned apologetically, and shuffled his feet.
"I've got de=
m,
boss!" he said, with a smirk.
"Got them? G=
ot
what?"
"Dese."=
Spike plunged a h=
and
in a pocket, and drew forth in a glittering mass Lady Julia Blunt's rope of
diamonds.
CHAPTER XXII - TWO OF A T=
RADE
DISAGREE
"One hundred t'ousand plunks,&= quot; murmured Spike, gazing lovingly at them. "I says to myself, de boss ai= n't got no time to be gittin' after dem himself. He's too busy dese days wit' jollyin' along de swells. So, it's up to me, I says, 'cos de boss'll be tic= kled to deat', all right, all right, if we can git away wit' dem. So, I--"<= o:p>
Jimmy gave tongue
with an energy that amazed his faithful follower. The nightmare horror of t=
he
situation had affected him much as a sudden blow in the parts about the
waistcoat might have done. But, now, as Spike would have said, he caught up
with his breath. The smirk faded slowly from the other's face as he listene=
d.
Not even in the Bowery, full as it was of candid friends, had he listened t=
o such
a trenchant summing-up of his mental and moral deficiencies.
"Boss!"=
he
protested.
"That's just=
a
sketchy outline," said Jimmy, pausing for breath. "I can't do you
justice impromptu like this--you're too vast and overwhelming."
"But, boss,
what's eatin' you? Ain't youse tickled?"
"Tickled!&qu=
ot;
Jimmy sawed the air. "Tickled! You lunatic! Can't you see what you've
done?"
"I've got
dem," said Spike, whose mind was not readily receptive of new ideas. It
seemed to him that Jimmy missed the main point.
"Didn't I te=
ll
you there was nothing doing when you wanted to take those things the other
day?"
Spike's face clea=
red.
As he had suspected, Jimmy had missed the point.
"Why, say, b=
oss,
yes. Sure! But dose was little, dinky t'ings. Of course, youse wouldn't sta=
nd
fer swipin' chicken-feed like dem. But dese is different. Dese di'monds is
boids. It's one hundred t'ousand plunks fer dese."
"Spike,"
said Jimmy with painful calm.
"Huh?"<= o:p>
"Will you li=
sten
for a moment?"
"Sure."=
"I know it's
practically hopeless. To get an idea into your head, one wants a proper
outfit--drills, blasting-powder, and so on. But there's just a chance, perh=
aps,
if I talk slowly. Has it occurred to you, Spike, my bonny, blue-eyed Spike,
that every other man, more or less, in this stately home of England, is a
detective who has probably received instructions to watch you like a lynx? =
Do
you imagine that your blameless past is a sufficient safeguard? I suppose y=
ou
think that these detectives will say to themselves, 'Now, whom shall we
suspect? We must leave out Spike Mullins, of course, because he naturally
wouldn't dream of doing such a thing. It can't be dear old Spike who's got =
the
stuff.'"
"But,
boss," interposed Spike brightly, "I ain't! Dat's right. I ain't =
got
it. Youse has!"
Jimmy looked at t=
he
speaker with admiration. After all, there was a breezy delirium about Spike=
's
methods of thought that was rather stimulating when you got used to it. The
worst of it was that it did not fit in with practical, everyday life. Under
different conditions--say, during convivial evenings at Bloomingdale--he co=
uld imagine
the Bowery boy being a charming companion. How pleasantly, for instance, su=
ch
remarks as that last would while away the monotony of a padded cell!
"But,
laddie," he said with steely affection, "listen once more. Reflec=
t!
Ponder! Does it not seep into your consciousness that we are, as it were,
subtly connected in this house in the minds of certain bad persons? Are we =
not
imagined by Mr. McEachern, for instance, to be working hand-in-hand like
brothers? Do you fancy that Mr. McEachern, chatting with his tame sleuth-ho=
und
over their cigars, will have been reticent on this point? I think not. How =
do you
propose to baffle that gentlemanly sleuth, Spike, who, I may mention once
again, has rarely moved more than two yards away from me since his
arrival?"
An involuntary
chuckle escaped Spike.
"Sure, boss,
dat's all right."
"All right, =
is
it? Well, well! What makes you think it is all right?"
"Why, say, b=
oss,
dose sleut's is out of business." A merry grin split Spike's face.
"It's funny, boss. Gee! It's got a circus skinned! Listen. Dey's bin a=
n'
arrest each other."
Jimmy moodily rev=
ised
his former view. Even in Bloomingdale, this sort of thing would be coldly
received. Genius must ever walk alone. Spike would have to get along without
hope of meeting a kindred spirit, another fellow-being in tune with his
brain-processes.
"Dat's
right," chuckled Spike. "Leastways, it ain't."
"No, no,&quo=
t;
said Jimmy, soothingly. "I quite understand."
"It's dis wa=
y,
boss. One of dem has bin an' arrest de odder mug. Dey had a scrap, each
t'inkin' de odder guy was after de jools, an' not knowin' dey was bot' sleu=
t's,
an' now one of dem's bin an' taken de odder off, an'"--there were tear=
s of
innocent joy in Spike's eyes--"an' locked him into de coal-cellar.&quo=
t;
"What on ear=
th
do you mean?"
Spike giggled
helplessly.
"Listen, bos=
s.
It's dis way. Gee! It beat de band! When it's all dark 'cos of de storm com=
in'
on, I'm in de dressin'-room, chasin' around fer de jool-box, an' just as I =
gits
a line on it, gee! I hears a footstep comin' down de passage, very soft,
straight fer de door. Was I to de bad? Dat's right. I says to meself, here'=
s one
of de sleut' guys what's bin and got wise to me, an' he's comin' in to put =
de
grip on me. So, I gits up quick, an' I hides behind a coitain. Dere's a coi=
tain
at de side of de room. Dere's dude suits an' t'ings hangin' behind it. I ch=
ases
meself in dere, and stands waitin' fer de sleut' to come in. 'Cos den, you =
see,
I'm goin' to try an' get busy before he can see who I am--it's pretty dark =
'cos
of de storm--an' jolt him one on de point of de jaw, an' den, while he's do=
wn
an' out, chase meself fer de soivants' hall."
"Yes?" =
said
Jimmy.
"Well, dis g=
uy,
he gits to de door, an' opens it, an' I'm just gittin' ready fer one sudden
boist of speed, when dere jumps out from de room on de odder side de
passage--you know de room--anodder guy, an' gits de rapid strangleholt on de
foist mug. Say, wouldn't dat make youse glad you hadn't gone to de circus?
Honest, it was better dan Coney Island."
"Go on. What
happened then?"
"Dey falls to
scrappin' good an' hard. Dey couldn't see me, an' I couldn't see dem, but I=
could
hear dem bumpin' about and sluggin' each other to beat de band. An', by and=
by,
one of de mugs puts do odder mug to de bad, so dat he goes down and takes de
count; an' den I hears a click. An' I know what dat is. It's one of de gaze=
bos
has put de irons on de odder gazebo."
"Call them A,
and B," suggested Jimmy.
"Den I hears
him--de foist mug--strike a light, 'cos it's dark dere 'cos of de storm, an'
den he says, 'Got youse, have I?' he says. 'I've had my eye on youse, t'ink=
in'
youse was up to somet'in' of dis kind. I've bin watching youse!' I knew de
voice. It's dat mug what calls himself Sir Tummas' vally. An' de odder--&qu=
ot;
Jimmy burst into a
roar of laughter.
"Don't, Spik=
e!
This is more than man was meant to stand. Do you mean to tell me it is my b=
right,
brainy, persevering friend Galer who has been handcuffed and locked in the
coal-cellar?"
Spike grinned
broadly.
"Sure, dat's
right," he said.
"It's a
judgment," said Jimmy, delightedly. "That's what it is! No man ha=
s a
right to be such a consummate ass as Galer. It isn't decent."
There had been
moments when McEachern's faithful employee had filled Jimmy with an odd sor=
t of
fury, a kind of hurt pride, almost to the extent of making him wish that he
really could have been the desperado McEachern fancied him. Never in his li=
fe
before had he sat still under a challenge, and this espionage had been one.
Behind the clumsy watcher, he had seen always the self-satisfied figure of =
McEachern.
If there had been anything subtle about the man from Dodson's, he could have
forgiven him; but there was not. Years of practise had left Spike with a so=
rt
of sixth sense as regarded representatives of the law. He could pierce the =
most
cunning disguise. But, in the case of Galer, even Jimmy could detect the de=
tective.
"Go on,"=
; he
said.
Spike proceeded.<= o:p>
"Well, de od=
der
mug, de one down an' out on de floor wit' de irons on--"
"Galer, in
fact," said Jimmy. "Handsome, dashing Galer!"
"Sure. Well,
he's too busy catchin' up wit' his breat' to shoot it back swift, but, afte=
r he's
bin doin' de deep-breathin' strut for a while, he says, 'You mutt,' he says,
'youse is to de bad. You've made a break, you have. Dat's right. Surest t'i=
ng
you know.' He puts it different, but dat's what he means. 'I'm a sleut', he
says. 'Take dese t'ings off!'--meanin' de irons. Does de odder mug, de vall=
y gazebo,
give him de glad eye? Not so's you could notice it. He gives him de merry
ha-ha. He says dat dat's de woist tale dat's ever bin handed to him. 'Tell =
it
to Sweeney!' he says. 'I knows youse. Youse woims yourself into de house as=
a
guest, when youse is really after de loidy's jools.' At dese crool woids, de
odder mug, Galer, gits hot under de collar. 'I'm a sure-'nough sleut',' he
says. 'I blows into dis house at de special request of Mr. McEachern, de
American gent.' De odder mug hands de lemon again. 'Tell it to de King of D=
enmark,'
he says. 'Dis cop's de limit. Youse has enough gall fer ten strong men,' he
says. 'Show me to Mr. McEachern,' says Galer. 'He'll--' crouch, is dat
it?"
"Vouch?"=
; suggested
Jimmy. "Meaning give the glad hand to."
"Dat's right.
Vouch. I wondered what he meant at de time. 'He'll vouch for me,' he says. =
Dat
puts him all right, he t'inks; but no, he's still in Dutch, 'cos de vally m=
ug
says, 'Nix on dat! I ain't goin' to chase around de house wit' youse, looki=
n'
fer Mr. McEachern. It's youse fer de coal-cellar, me man, an' we'll see wha=
t youse
has to say when I makes me report to Sir Tummas.' 'Well, dat's to de good,'
says Galer. 'Tell Sir Tummas. I'll explain to him.' 'Not me!' says de vally.
'Sir Tummas has a hard evenin's woik before him, jollyin' along de swells
what's comin' to see dis stoige-piece dey're actin'. I ain't goin' to worry=
him
till he's good and ready. To de coal-cellar fer yours! G'wan!' an' off dey
goes! An' I gits busy ag'in, swipes de jools, an' chases meself here."=
Jimmy wiped his e=
yes.
"Have you ev=
er
heard of poetic justice, Spike?" he asked. "This is it. But, in t=
his
hour of mirth and good-will, we must not forget--"
Spike interrupted.
Pleased by the enthusiastic reception of his narrative, he proceeded to poi=
nt
out the morals that were to be deduced there-from.
"So, youse s=
ee,
boss," he said, "it's all to de merry. When dey rubbers for de jo=
ols,
an' finds dem gone, dey'll t'ink dis Galer guy swiped dem. Dey won't t'ink =
of
us."
Jimmy looked at t=
he
speaker gravely.
"Of
course," said he. "What a reasoner you are, Spike! Galer was just
opening the door from the outside, by your account, when the valet man spra=
ng
at him. Naturally, they'll think that he took the jewels. Especially, as th=
ey
won't find them on him. A man who can open a locked safe through a closed d=
oor
is just the sort of fellow who would be able to get rid of the swag neatly
while rolling about the floor with the valet. His not having the jewels will
make the case all the blacker against him. And what will make them still mo=
re certain
that he is the thief is that he really is a detective. Spike, you ought to =
be
in some sort of a home, you know."
The Bowery boy lo=
oked
disturbed.
"I didn't t'=
ink
of dat, boss," he admitted.
"Of course n=
ot.
One can't think of everything. Now, if you will just hand me those diamonds=
, I
will put them back where they belong."
"Put dem bac=
k,
boss!"
"What else w=
ould
you propose? I'd get you to do it, only I don't think putting things back is
quite in your line."
Spike handed over=
the
jewels. The boss was the boss, and what he said went. But his demeanor was
tragic, telling eloquently of hopes blighted.
Jimmy took the
necklace with something of a thrill. He was a connoisseur of jewels, and a =
fine
gem affected him much as a fine picture affects the artistic. He ran the
diamonds through his fingers, then scrutinized them again, more closely this
time.
Spike watched him
with a slight return of hope. It seemed to him that the boss was wavering.
Perhaps, now that he had actually handled the jewels, he would find it
impossible to give them up. To Spike, a diamond necklace of cunning workman=
ship
was merely the equivalent of so many "plunks"; but he knew that t=
here
were men, otherwise sane, who valued a jewel for its own sake.
"It's a boid=
of
a necklace, boss," he murmured, encouragingly.
"It is,"
said Jimmy; "in its way, I've never seen anything much better. Sir Tho=
mas
will be glad to have it back."
"Den, you're=
goin'
to put it back, boss?"
"I am,"
said Jimmy. "I'll do it just before the theatricals. There should be a
chance, then. There's one good thing. This afternoon's affair will have cle=
ared
the air of sleuth-hounds a little."
CHAPTER XXIII - FAMILY JA=
RS
Hildebrand Spencer Poynt de Burgh J=
ohn
Hannasyde Coombe-Crombie, twelfth Earl of Dreever, was feeling like a toad
under the harrow. He read the letter again, but a second perusal made it no
better. Very briefly and clearly, Molly had broken off the engagement. She =
"thought
it best." She was "afraid it could make neither of us happy."
All very true, thought his lordship miserably. His sentiments to a T. At the
proper time, he would have liked nothing better. But why seize for this
declaration the precise moment when he was intending, on the strength of the
engagement, to separate his uncle from twenty pounds? That was what rankled.
That Molly could have no knowledge of his sad condition did not occur to hi=
m.
He had a sort of feeling that she ought to have known by instinct. Nature, =
as
has been pointed out, had equipped Hildebrand Spencer Poynt de Burgh with o=
ne
of those cheap-substitute minds. What passed for brain in him was to genuine
gray matter as just-as-good imitation coffee is to real Mocha. In moments of
emotion and mental stress, consequently, his reasoning, like Spike's, was a=
pt
to be in a class of its own.
He read the letter
for the third time, and a gentle perspiration began to form on his forehead.
This was awful. The presumable jubilation of Katie, the penniless ripper of=
the
Savoy, when he should present himself to her a free man, did not enter into=
the
mental picture that was unfolding before him. She was too remote. Between h=
im
and her lay the fearsome figure of Sir Thomas, rampant, filling the entire
horizon. Nor is this to be wondered at. There was probably a brief space du=
ring
which Perseus, concentrating his gaze upon the monster, did not see Androme=
da;
and a knight of the Middle Ages, jousting in the Gentlemen's Singles for a
smile from his lady, rarely allowed the thought of that smile to occupy his
whole mind at the moment when his boiler-plated antagonist was descending u=
pon
him in the wake of a sharp spear.
So with Spennie
Dreever. Bright eyes might shine for him when all was over, but in the mean=
time
what seemed to him more important was that bulging eyes would glare.
If only this had
happened later--even a day later! The reckless impulsiveness of the modern =
girl
had undone him. How was he to pay Hargate the money? Hargate must be paid. =
That
was certain. No other course was possible. Lord Dreever's was not one of th=
ose
natures that fret restlessly under debt. During his early career at college=
, he
had endeared himself to the local tradesmen by the magnitude of the liabili=
ties
he had contracted with them. It was not the being in debt that he minded. It
was the consequences. Hargate, he felt instinctively, was of a revengeful
nature. He had given Hargate twenty pounds' worth of snubbing, and the latt=
er
had presented the bills. If it were not paid, things would happen. Hargate =
and
he were members of the same club, and a member of a club who loses money at=
cards
to a fellow member, and fails to settle up, does not make himself popular w=
ith
the committee.
He must get the
money. There was no avoiding that conclusion. But how?
Financially, his lordship was like a fallen country with a glorious history. There had been a time, during his first two years at college, when he had reveled in the lux= ury of a handsome allowance. This was the golden age, when Sir Thomas Blunt, be= ing, so to speak, new to the job, and feeling that, having reached the best circ= les, he must live up to them, had scattered largesse lavishly. For two years aft= er his marriage with Lady Julia, he had maintained this admirable standard, crushing his natural parsimony. He had regarded the money so spent as capit= al sunk in an investment. By the end of the second year, he had found his feet, and began to look about him for ways of retrenchment. His lordship's allowa= nce was an obvious way. He had not to wait long for an excuse for annihilating = it. There is a game called poker, at which a man without much control over his featur= es may exceed the limits of the handsomest allowance. His lordship's face duri= ng a game of poker was like the surface of some quiet pond, ruffled by every bre= eze. The blank despair of his expression when he held bad cards made bluffing expensive. The honest joy that bubbled over in his eyes when his hand was g= ood acted as an efficient danger-signal to his grateful opponents. Two weeks of poker= had led to his writing to his uncle a distressed, but confident, request for mo= re funds; and the avuncular foot had come down with a joyous bang. Taking his stand on the evils of gambling, Sir Thomas had changed the conditions of the money-market for his nephew with a thoroughness that effectually prevented = the possibility of the youth's being again caught by the fascinations of poker. The allowan= ce vanished absolutely; and in its place there came into being an arrangement.= By this, his lordship was to have whatever money he wished, but he must ask for it, = and state why it was needed. If the request were reasonable, the cash would be = forthcoming; if preposterous, it would not. The flaw in the scheme, from his lordship's point of view, was the difference of opinion that can exist in the minds of= two men as to what the words reasonable and preposterous may be taken to mean.<= o:p>
Twenty pounds, for
instance, would, in the lexicon of Sir Thomas Blunt, be perfectly reasonable
for the current expenses of a man engaged to Molly McEachern, but preposter=
ous
for one to whom she had declined to remain engaged. It is these subtle shad=
es
of meaning that make the English language so full of pitfalls for the forei=
gner.
So engrossed was =
his
lordship in his meditations that a voice spoke at his elbow ere he became a=
ware
of Sir Thomas himself, standing by his side.
"Well, Spenn=
ie,
my boy," said the knight. "Time to dress for dinner, I think. Eh?
Eh?"
He was plainly in
high good humor. The thought of the distinguished company he was to enterta=
in
that night had changed him temporarily, as with some wave of a fairy wand, =
into
a thing of joviality and benevolence. One could almost hear the milk of hum=
an
kindness gurgling and splashing within him. The irony of fate! Tonight, suc=
h was
his mood, a dutiful nephew could have come and felt in his pockets and help=
ed
himself--if circumstances had been different. Oh, woman, woman, how you bar=
us
from paradise!
His lordship gurg=
led
a wordless reply, thrusting the fateful letter hastily into his pocket. He
would break the news anon. Soon--not yet--later on--in fact, anon!
"Up in your
part, my boy?" continued Sir Thomas. "You mustn't spoil the play =
by
forgetting your lines. That wouldn't do!"
His eye was caugh=
t by
the envelope that Spennie had dropped. A momentary lapse from the jovial and
benevolent was the result. His fussy little soul abhorred small untidinesse=
s.
"Dear me,&qu=
ot;
he said, stooping, "I wish people would not drop paper about the house=
. I
cannot endure a litter." He spoke as if somebody had been playing
hare-and-hounds, and scattering the scent on the stairs. This sort of thing
sometimes made him regret the old days. In Blunt's Stores, Rule Sixty-seven
imposed a fine of half-a-crown on employees convicted of paper-dropping.
"I--" b=
egan
his lordship.
"Why"--=
Sir
Thomas straightened himself--"it's addressed to you."
"I was just
going to pick it up. It's--er--there was a note in it."
Sir Thomas gazed =
at
the envelope again. Joviality and benevolence resumed their thrones.
"And in a
feminine handwriting," he chuckled. He eyed the limp peer almost
roguishly. "I see, I see," he said. "Very charming, quite de=
lightful!
Girls must have their little romance! I suppose you two young people are
exchanging love-letters all day. Delightful, quite delightful! Don't look a=
s if
you were ashamed of it, my boy! I like it. I think it's charming."
Undoubtedly, this=
was
the opening. Beyond a question, his lordship should have said at this point=
:
"Uncle, I ca=
nnot
tell a lie. I cannot even allow myself to see you laboring under a delusion
which a word from me can remove. The contents of this note are not what you
suppose. They run as follows--"
What he did say w=
as:
"Uncle, can =
you
let me have twenty pounds?"
Those were his am=
azing
words. They slipped out. He could not stop them.
Sir Thomas was ta=
ken
aback for an instant, but not seriously. He started, as might a man who,
stroking a cat, receives a sudden, but trifling scratch.
"Twenty poun=
ds,
eh?" he said, reflectively.
Then, the milk of
human kindness swept over displeasure like a tidal wave. This was a night f=
or
rich gifts to the deserving.
"Why, certai=
nly,
my boy, certainly. Do you want it at once?"
His lordship repl=
ied
that he did, please; and he had seldom said anything more fervently.
"Well, well.
We'll see what we can do. Come with me."
He led the way to=
his
dressing-room. Like nearly all the rooms at the castle, it was large. One w=
all
was completely hidden by the curtain behind which Spike had taken refuge th=
at
afternoon.
Sir Thomas went to
the dressing-table, and unlocked a small drawer.
"Twenty, you
said? Five, ten, fifteen--here you are, my boy."
Lord Dreever mutt=
ered
his thanks. Sir Thomas accepted the guttural acknowledgment with a friendly=
pat
on the shoulder.
"I like a li=
ttle
touch like that," he said.
His lordship look=
ed
startled.
"I wouldn't =
have
touched you," he began, "if it hadn't been--"
"A little to=
uch
like that letter-writing," Sir Thomas went on. "It shows a warm
heart. She is a warm-hearted girl, Spennie. A charming, warm-hearted girl!
You're uncommonly lucky, my boy."
His lordship,
crackling the four bank-notes, silently agreed with him.
"But, come, I
must be dressing. Dear me, it is very late. We shall have to hurry. By the =
way,
my boy, I shall take the opportunity of making a public announcement of the
engagement tonight. It will be a capital occasion for it. I think, perhaps,=
at
the conclusion of the theatricals, a little speech--something quite impromp=
tu
and informal, just asking them to wish you happiness, and so on. I like the
idea. There is an old-world air about it that appeals to me. Yes."
He turned to the
dressing-table, and removed his collar.
"Well, run
along, my boy," he said. "You must not be late." His lordship
tottered from the room.
He did quite an
unprecedented amount of thinking as he hurried into his evening clothes; but
the thought occurring most frequently was that, whatever happened, all was =
well
in one way, at any rate. He had the twenty pounds. There would be something
colossal in the shape of disturbances when his uncle learned the truth. It
would be the biggest thing since the San Francisco earthquake. But what of =
it?
He had the money.
He slipped it into
his waistcoat-pocket. He would take it down with him, and pay Hargate direc=
tly
after dinner.
He left the room.=
The
flutter of a skirt caught his eye as he reached the landing. A girl was com=
ing
down the corridor on the other side. He waited at the head of the stairs to=
let
her go down before him. As she came on to the landing, he saw that it was
Molly.
For a moment, the=
re
was an awkward pause.
"Er--I got y=
our
note," said his lordship.
She looked at him,
and then burst out laughing.
"You know, y=
ou
don't mind the least little bit," she said; "not a scrap. Now, do
you?"
"Well, you
see--"
"Don't make
excuses! Do you?"
"Well, it's =
like
this, you see, I--"
He caught her eye.
Next moment, they were laughing together.
"No, but look
here, you know," said his lordship. "What I mean is, it isn't tha=
t I
don't--I mean, look here, there's no reason why we shouldn't be the best of
pals."
"Why, of cou=
rse,
there isn't."
"No, really,=
I
say? That's ripping. Shake hands on it."
They clasped hand=
s;
and it was in this affecting attitude that Sir Thomas Blunt, bustling downs=
tairs,
discovered them.
"Aha!" =
he
cried, archly. "Well, well, well! But don't mind me, don't mind me!&qu=
ot;
Molly flushed
uncomfortably; partly, because she disliked Sir Thomas even when he was not
arch, and hated him when he was; partly, because she felt foolish; and,
principally, because she was bewildered. She had not looked forward to meet=
ing
Sir Thomas that night. It was always unpleasant to meet him, but it would be
more unpleasant than usual after she had upset the scheme for which he had
worked so earnestly. She had wondered whether he would be cold and distant,=
or
voluble and heated. In her pessimistic moments, she had anticipated a long =
and
painful scene. That he should be behaving like this was not very much short=
of
a miracle. She could not understand it.
A glance at Lord
Dreever enlightened her. That miserable creature was wearing the air of a t=
imid
child about to pull a large cracker. He seemed to be bracing himself up for=
an
explosion.
She pitied him
sincerely. So, he had not told his uncle the news, yet! Of course, he had
scarcely had time. Saunders must have given him the note as he was going up=
to
dress.
There was, howeve=
r,
no use in prolonging the agony. Sir Thomas must be told, sooner or later. S=
he
was glad of the chance to tell him herself. She would be able to explain th=
at
it was all her doing.
"I'm afraid
there's a mistake," she said.
"Eh?" s=
aid
Sir Thomas.
"I've been
thinking it over, and I came to the conclusion that we weren't--well, I bro=
ke
off the engagement!"
Sir Thomas' always
prominent eyes protruded still further. The color of his florid face deepen=
ed.
Suddenly, he chuckled.
Molly looked at h=
im,
amazed. Sir Thomas was indeed behaving unexpectedly to-night.
"I see it,&q=
uot;
he wheezed. "You're having a joke with me! So this is what you were
hatching as I came downstairs! Don't tell me! If you had really thrown him
over, you wouldn't have been laughing together like that. It's no good, my
dear. I might have been taken in, if I had not seen you, but I did."
"No, no,&quo=
t;
cried Molly. "You're wrong. You're quite wrong. When you saw us, we we=
re
just agreeing that we should be very good friends. That was all. I broke off
the engagement before that. I--"
She was aware that
his lordship had emitted a hollow croak, but she took it as his method of
endorsing her statement, not as a warning.
"I wrote Lord
Dreever a note this evening," she went on, "telling him that I
couldn't possibly--"
She broke off in alarm. With the beginning of her last speech, Sir Thomas had begun to swell, until now he looked as if he were in imminent danger of bursting. His face = was purple. To Molly's lively imagination, his eyes appeared to move slowly out= of his head, like a snail's. From the back of his throat came strange noises.<= o:p>
"S-s-so--&qu=
ot;
he stammered.
He gulped, and tr=
ied
again.
"So this,&qu=
ot;
he said, "so this--! So that was what was in that letter, eh?"
Lord Dreever, a l=
imp
bundle against the banisters, smiled weakly.
"Eh?"
yelled Sir Thomas.
His lordship star=
ted
convulsively.
"Er, yes,&qu=
ot;
he said, "yes, yes! That was it, don't you know!"
Sir Thomas eyed h=
is
nephew with a baleful stare. Molly looked from one to the other in
bewilderment.
There was a pause,
during which Sir Thomas seemed partially to recover command of himself. Dou=
bts
as to the propriety of a family row in mid-stairs appeared to occur to him.=
He
moved forward.
"Come with
me," he said, with awful curtness.
His lordship
followed, bonelessly. Molly watched them go, and wondered more than ever. T=
here
was something behind this. It was not merely the breaking-off of the engage=
ment
that had roused Sir Thomas. He was not a just man, but he was just enough t=
o be
able to see that the blame was not Lord Dreever's. There had been something=
more.
She was puzzled.
In the hall, Saun=
ders
was standing, weapon in hand, about to beat the gong.
"Not yet,&qu=
ot;
snapped Sir Thomas. "Wait!"
Dinner had been
ordered especially early that night because of the theatricals. The necessi=
ty
for strict punctuality had been straitly enjoined upon Saunders. At some
inconvenience, he had ensured strict punctuality. And now--But we all have =
our
cross to bear in this world. Saunders bowed with dignified resignation.
Sir Thomas led the
way into his study.
"Be so good =
as
to close the door," he said.
His lordship was =
so
good.
Sir Thomas backed=
to
the mantelpiece, and stood there in the attitude which for generations has =
been
sacred to the elderly Briton, feet well apart, hands clasped beneath his
coat-tails. His stare raked Lord Dreever like a searchlight.
"Now, sir!&q=
uot;
he said.
His lordship wilt=
ed
before the gaze.
"The fact is,
uncle--"
"Never mind =
the
facts. I know them! What I require is an explanation."
He spread his feet
further apart. The years had rolled back, and he was plain Thomas Blunt aga=
in,
of Blunt's Stores, dealing with an erring employee.
"You know wh=
at I
mean," he went on. "I am not referring to the breaking-off of the
engagement. What I insist upon learning is your reason for failing to infor=
m me
earlier of the contents of that letter."
His lordship said
that somehow, don't you know, there didn't seem to be a chance, you know. He
had several times been on the point--but--well, some-how--well, that's how =
it
was.
"No
chance?" cried Sir Thomas. "Indeed! Why did you require that mone=
y I
gave you?"
"Oh, er--I
wanted it for something."
"Very possib=
ly.
For what?"
"I--the fact=
is,
I owed it to a fellow."
"Ha! How did=
you
come to owe it?"
His lordship
shuffled.
"You have be=
en
gambling," boomed Sit Thomas "Am I right?"
"No, no. I s=
ay,
no, no. It wasn't gambling. It was a game of skill. We were playing
picquet."
"Kindly refr=
ain
from quibbling. You lost this money at cards, then, as I supposed. Just
so."
He widened the sp=
ace
between his feet. He intensified his glare. He might have been posing to an
illustrator of "Pilgrim's Progress" for a picture of "Apolly=
on
straddling right across the way."
"So," he
said, "you deliberately concealed from me the contents of that letter =
in
order that you might extract money from me under false pretenses? Don't
speak!" His lordship had gurgled, "You did! Your behavior was tha=
t of
a--of a--"
There was a very =
fair
selection of evil-doers in all branches of business from which to choose. He
gave the preference to the race-track.
"--of a comm=
on
welsher," he concluded. "But I won't put up with it. No, not for =
an
instant! I insist upon your returning that money to me here and now. If you
have not got it with you, go and fetch it."
His lordship's fa=
ce
betrayed the deepest consternation. He had been prepared for much, but not =
for
this. That he would have to undergo what in his school-days he would have
called "a jaw" was inevitable, and he had been ready to go through
with it. It might hurt his feelings, possibly, but it would leave his purse
intact. A ghastly development of this kind he had not foreseen.
"But, I say,
uncle!" he bleated.
Sir Thomas silenc=
ed
him with a grand gesture.
Ruefully, his
lordship produced his little all. Sir Thomas took it with a snort, and went=
to
the door.
Saunders was still
brooding statuesquely over the gong.
"Sound it!&q=
uot;
said Sir Thomas.
Saunders obeyed h=
im,
with the air of an unleashed hound.
"And now,&qu=
ot;
said Sir Thomas, "go to my dressing-room, and place these notes in the
small drawer of the table."
The butler's calm,
expressionless, yet withal observant eye took in at a glance the signs of
trouble. Neither the inflated air of Sir Thomas nor the punctured-balloon
bearing of Lord Dreever escaped him.
"Something
h'up," he said to his immortal soul, as he moved upstairs. "Been a
fair old, rare old row, seems to me!"
He reserved his m=
ore
polished periods for use in public. In conversation with his immortal soul,=
he
was wont to unbend somewhat.
CHAPTER XXIV - THE TREASU=
RE
SEEKER
Gloom wrapped his lordship about, d=
uring
dinner, as with a garment. He owed twenty pounds. His assets amounted to se=
ven
shillings and four-pence. He thought, and thought again. Quite an intellect=
ual pallor
began to appear on his normally pink cheeks. Saunders, silently sympathetic=
--he
hated Sir Thomas as an interloper, and entertained for his lordship, under
whose father also he had served, a sort of paternal fondness--was ever at h=
is
elbow with the magic bottle; and to Spennie, emptying and re-emptying his g=
lass
almost mechanically, wine, the healer, brought an idea. To obtain twenty po=
unds
from any one person of his acquaintance was impossible. To divide the twent=
y by
four, and persuade a generous quartette to contribute five pounds apiece was
more feasible.
Hope began to stir
within him again.
Immediately after
dinner, he began to flit about the castle like a family specter of active
habits. The first person he met was Charteris.
"Hullo,
Spennie," said Charteris, "I wanted to see you. It is currently
reported that you are in love. At dinner, you looked as if you had influenz=
a.
What's your trouble? For goodness' sake, bear up till the show's over. Don'=
t go
swooning on the stage, or anything. Do you know your lines?"
"The fact
is," said his lordship eagerly, "it's this way. I happen to want-=
-Can
you lend me a fiver?"
"All I have =
in the
world at this moment," said Charteris, "is eleven shillings and a
postage-stamp. If the stamp would be of any use to you as a start--? No? You
know, it's from small beginnings like that that great fortunes are amassed.
However--"
Two minutes later,
Lord Dreever had resumed his hunt.
The path of the
borrower is a thorny one, especially if, like Spennie, his reputation as a
payer-back is not of the best.
Spennie, in his t=
ime,
had extracted small loans from most of his male acquaintances, rarely repay=
ing
the same. He had a tendency to forget that he had borrowed half-a-crown her=
e to
pay a cab and ten shillings there to settle up for a dinner; and his memory=
was
not much more retentive of larger sums. This made his friends somewhat wary.
The consequence was that the great treasure-hunt was a failure from start to
finish. He got friendly smiles. He got honeyed apologies. He got earnest
assurances of good-will. But he got no money, except from Jimmy Pitt.
He had approached
Jimmy in the early stages of the hunt; and Jimmy, being in the mood when he
would have loaned anything to anybody, yielded the required five pounds wit=
hout
a murmur.
But what was five
pounds? The garment of gloom and the intellectual pallor were once more
prominent when his lordship repaired to his room to don the loud tweeds whi=
ch,
as Lord Herbert, he was to wear in the first act.
There is a good d=
eal
to be said against stealing, as a habit; but it cannot be denied that, in
certain circumstances, it offers an admirable solution of a financial
difficulty, and, if the penalties were not so exceedingly unpleasant, it is
probable that it would become far more fashionable than it is.
His lordship's mi=
nd
did not turn immediately to this outlet from his embarrassment. He had never
stolen before, and it did not occur to him directly to do so now. There is a
conservative strain in all of us. But, gradually, as it was borne in upon h=
im
that it was the only course possible, unless he were to grovel before Harga=
te
on the morrow and ask for time to pay--an unthinkable alternative--he found=
himself
contemplating the possibility of having to secure the money by unlawful mea=
ns.
By the time he had finished his theatrical toilet, he had definitely decided
that this was the only thing to be done.
His plan was simp=
le.
He knew where the money was, in the dressing-table in Sir Thomas's room. He=
had
heard Saunders instructed to put it there. What could be easier than to go =
and
get it? Everything was in his favor. Sir Thomas would be downstairs, receiv=
ing
his guests. The coast would be clear. Why, it was like finding the money.
Besides, he
reflected, as he worked his way through the bottle of Mumm's which he had h=
ad
the forethought to abstract from the supper-table as a nerve-steadier, it
wasn't really stealing. Dash it all, the man had given him the money! It was
his own! He had half a mind--he poured himself out another glass of the
elixir--to give Sir Thomas a jolly good talking-to into the bargain. Yes, d=
ash
it all!
He shot his cuffs
fiercely. The British Lion was roused.
A man's first cri=
me
is, as a rule, a shockingly amateurish affair. Now and then, it is true, we
find beginners forging with the accuracy of old hands, or breaking into hou=
ses
with the finish of experts. But these are isolated cases. The average tyro
lacks generalship altogether. Spennie Dreever may be cited as a typical nov=
ice.
It did not strike him that inquiries might be instituted by Sir Thomas, whe=
n he
found the money gone, and that suspicion might conceivably fall upon himsel=
f.
Courage may be born of champagne, but rarely prudence.
The theatricals b=
egan
at half-past eight with a duologue. The audience had been hustled into their
seats, happier than is usual in such circumstances, owing to the rumor which
had been circulated that the proceedings were to terminate with an informal
dance. The castle was singularly well constructed for such a purpose. There=
was
plenty of room, and a sufficiency of retreat for those who sat out, in addi=
tion
to a conservatory large enough to have married off half the couples in the
county.
Spennie's idea had
been to establish an alibi by mingling with the throng for a few minutes, a=
nd
then to get through his burglarious specialty during the duologue, when his
absence would not be noticed. It might be that, if he disappeared later in =
the
evening, people would wonder what had become of him.
He lurked about u=
ntil
the last of the audience had taken their seats. As he was moving off through
the hall, a hand fell upon his shoulder. Conscience makes cowards of us all=
. Spennie
bit his tongue and leaped three inches into the air.
"Hello,
Charteris!" he said, gaspingly.
Charteris appeare=
d to
be in a somewhat overwrought condition. Rehearsals had turned him into a
pessimist, and, now that the actual moment of production had arrived, his
nerves were in a thoroughly jumpy condition, especially as the duologue was=
to
begin in two minutes and the obliging person who had undertaken to prompt h=
ad disappeared.
"Spennie,&qu=
ot;
said Charteris, "where are you off to?"
"What--what =
do
you mean? I was just going upstairs."
"No, you don=
't.
You've got to come and prompt. That devil Blake has vanished. I'll wring his
neck! Come along."
Spennie went,
reluctantly. Half-way through the duologue, the official prompter returned =
with
the remark that he had been having a bit of a smoke on the terrace, and that
his watch had gone wrong. Leaving him to discuss the point with Charteris,
Spennie slipped quietly away.
The delay, howeve=
r,
had had the effect of counteracting the uplifting effects of the Mumm's. The
British Lion required a fresh fillip. He went to his room to administer it.=
By
the time he emerged, he was feeling just right for the task in hand. A
momentary doubt occurred to him as to whether it would not be a good thing =
to go
down and pull Sir Thomas' nose as a preliminary to the proceedings; but he =
put
the temptation aside. Business before pleasure.
With a jaunty, if
somewhat unsteady, step, he climbed the stairs to the floor above, and made=
his
way down the corridor to Sir Thomas's room. He switched on the light, and w=
ent
to the dressing-table. The drawer was locked, but in his present mood Spenn=
ie,
like Love, laughed at locksmiths. He grasped the handle, and threw his weig=
ht into
a sudden tug. The drawer came out with a report like a pistol-shot.
"There!"
said his lordship, wagging his head severely.
In the drawer lay=
the
four bank-notes. The sight of them brought back his grievance with a rush. =
He
would teach Sir Thomas to treat him like a kid! He would show him!
He was removing t=
he notes,
frowning fiercely the while, when he heard a cry of surprise from behind hi=
m.
He turned, to see
Molly. She was still dressed in the evening gown she had worn at dinner; and
her eyes were round with wonder. A few moments earlier, as she was seeking =
her
room in order to change her costume for the theatricals, she had almost rea=
ched
the end of the corridor that led to the landing, when she observed his
lordship, flushed of face and moving like some restive charger, come curvet=
ting
out of his bedroom in a dazzling suit of tweeds, and make his way upstairs.
Ever since their mutual encounter with Sir Thomas before dinner, she had be=
en
hoping for a chance of seeing Spennie alone. She had not failed to notice h=
is
depression during the meal, and her good little heart had been troubled by =
the
thought that she must have been responsible for it. She knew that, for some
reason, what she had said about the letter had brought his lordship into hi=
s uncle's
bad books, and she wanted to find him and say she was sorry.
Accordingly, she =
had
followed him. His lordship, still in the war-horse vein, had made the pace
upstairs too hot, and had disappeared while she was still halfway up. She h=
ad
arrived at the top just in time to see him turn down the passage into Sir
Thomas's dressing-room. She could not think what his object might be. She k=
new
that Sir Thomas was downstairs, so it could not be from the idea of a chat =
with
him that Spennie was seeking the dressing-room.
Faint, yet pursui=
ng,
she followed on his trail, and arrived in the doorway just as the pistol-re=
port
of the burst lock rang out.
She stood looking=
at
him blankly. He was holding a drawer in one hand. Why, she could not imagin=
e.
"Lord
Dreever!" she exclaimed.
The somber
determination of his lordship's face melted into a twisted, but kindly smil=
e.
"Good!"=
he
said, perhaps a trifle thickly. "Good! Glad you've come. We're pals. Y=
ou
said so--on stairs--b'fore dinner. Very glad you've come. Won't you sit
down?"
He waved the draw=
er
benevolently, by way of making her free of the room. The movement disturbed=
one
of the bank-notes, which fluttered in Molly's direction, and fell at her fe=
et.
She stooped and
picked it up. When she saw what it was, her bewilderment increased.
"But--but--&=
quot;
she said.
His lordship beam=
ed--upon
her with a pebble-beached smile of indescribable good-will.
"Sit down,&q=
uot;
he urged. "We're pals.--No quol with you. You're good friend. Quol--Un=
cle
Thomas."
"But, Lord
Dreever, what are you doing? What was that noise I heard?"
"Opening
drawer," said his lordship, affably.
"But--"=
she
looked again at what she had in her hand--"but this is a five-pound
note."
"Five-pound
note," said his lordship. "Quite right. Three more of them in
here."
Still, she could =
not
understand.
"But--were
you--stealing them?"
His lordship drew
himself up.
"No," he
said, "no, not stealing, no!"
"Then--?&quo=
t;
"Like this.
Before dinner. Old boy friendly as you please--couldn't do enough for me.
Touched him for twenty of the best, and got away with it. So far, all well.
Then, met you on stairs. You let cat out of bag."
"But why--?
Surely--!"
His lordship gave=
the
drawer a dignified wave.
"Not blaming
you," he said, magnanimously. "Not your fault; misfortune. You di=
dn't
know. About letter."
"About the
letter?" said Molly. "Yes, what was the trouble about the letter?=
I
knew something was wrong directly I had said that I wrote it."
"Trouble
was," said his lordship, "that old boy thought it was love-letter.
Didn't undeceive him."
"You didn't =
tell
him? Why?"
His lordship rais=
ed
his eyebrows.
"Wanted touch
him twenty of the best," he explained, simply.
For the life of h=
er,
Molly could not help laughing.
"Don't
laugh," protested his lordship, wounded. "No joke. Serious. Honor=
at
stake."
He removed the th=
ree
notes, and replaced the drawer.
"Honor of the
Dreevers!" he added, pocketing the money.
Molly was horrifi=
ed.
"But, Lord
Dreever!" she cried. "You can't! You mustn't! You can't be going,
really, to take that money! It's stealing! It isn't yours! You must put it
back."
His lordship wagg=
ed a
forefinger very solemnly at her.
"That,"=
he
said, "is where you make error! Mine! Old boy gave them to me."
"Gave them to
you? Then, why did you break open the drawer?"
"Old boy took
them back again--when he found out about letter."
"Then, they
don't belong to you."
"Yes. Error!
They do. Moral right."
Molly wrinkled her
forehead in her agitation. Men of Lord Dreever's type appeal to the motherly
instinct of women. As a man, his lordship was a negligible quantity. He did=
not
count. But as a willful child, to be kept out of trouble, he had a claim on
Molly.
She spoke soothin=
gly.
"But, Lord
Dreever,--" she began.
"Call me Spennie," he urged. "We're pals. You said so=
--on
stairs. Everybody calls me Spennie--even Uncle Thomas. I'm going to pull his
nose," he broke off suddenly, as one recollecting a forgotten appointm=
ent.
"Spennie,
then," said Molly. "You mustn't, Spennie. You mustn't, really.
You--"
"You look
rippin' in that dress," said his lordship, irrelevantly.
"Thank you, =
Spennie,
dear. But listen." Molly spoke as if she were humoring a rebellious
infant. "You really mustn't take that money. You must put it back. See,
I'm putting this note back. Give me the others, and I'll put them in the
drawer, too. Then, we'll shut the drawer, and nobody will know."
She took the notes
from him, and replaced them in the drawer. He watched her thoughtfully, as =
if
he were pondering the merits of her arguments.
"No," he
said, suddenly, "no! Must have them! Moral right. Old boy--"
She pushed him ge=
ntly
away.
"Yes, yes, I
know," she said. "I know. It's a shame that you can't have them. =
But
you mustn't take them. Don't you see that he would suspect you the moment he
found they were gone, and then you'd get into trouble?"
"Something in
that," admitted his lordship.
"Of course t=
here
is, Spennie, dear. I'm so glad you see! There they all are, safe again in t=
he
drawer. Now, we can go downstairs again, and--"
She stopped. She =
had
closed the door earlier in the proceedings, but her quick ear caught the so=
und
of a footstep in the passage outside.
"Quick!"
she whispered, taking his hand and darting to the electric-light switch.
"Somebody's coming. We mustn't be caught here. They'd see the broken,
drawer, and you'd get into awful trouble. Quick!"
She pushed him be=
hind
the curtain where the clothes hung, and switched off the light.
From behind the
curtain came the muffled voice of his lordship.
"It's Uncle
Thomas. I'm coming out. Pull his nose."
"Be quiet!&q=
uot;
She sprang to the
curtain, and slipped noiselessly behind it.
"But, I
say--!" began his lordship.
"Hush!"= She gripped his arm. He subsided.<= o:p>
The footsteps had
halted outside the door. Then, the handle turned softly. The door opened, a=
nd
closed again with hardly a sound.
The footsteps pas=
sed
on into the room.
Jimmy, like his lordship, had been
trapped at the beginning of the duologue, and had not been able to get away
till it was nearly over. He had been introduced by Lady Julia to an elderly=
and
adhesive baronet, who had recently spent ten days in New York, and escape h=
ad not
been won without a struggle. The baronet on his return to England had publi=
shed
a book, entitled, "Modern America and Its People," and it was with
regard to the opinions expressed in this volume that he invited Jimmy's vie=
ws.
He had no wish to see the duologue, and it was only after the loss of much
precious time that Jimmy was enabled to tear himself away on the plea of ha=
ving
to dress. He cursed the authority on "Modern America and Its People&qu=
ot; freely,
as he ran upstairs. While the duologue was in progress, there had been no
chance of Sir Thomas taking it into his head to visit his dressing-room. He=
had
been, as his valet-detective had observed to Mr. Galer, too busy jollying a=
long
the swells. It would be the work of a few moments only to restore the neckl=
ace
to its place. But for the tenacity of the elderly baronet, the thing would =
have
been done by this time. Now, however, there was no knowing what might not
happen. Anybody might come along the passage, and see him. He had one point=
in
his favor. There was no likelihood of the jewels being required by their ow=
ner
till the conclusion of the theatricals. The part that Lady Julia had been
persuaded by Charteris to play mercifully contained no scope for the displa=
y of
gems.
Before going down=
to
dinner, Jimmy had locked the necklace in a drawer. It was still there, Spike
having been able apparently to resist the temptation of recapturing it. Jim=
my
took it, and went into the corridor. He looked up and down. There was nobody
about. He shut his door, and walked quickly in the direction of the
dressing-room.
He had provided
himself with an electric pocket-torch, equipped with a reflector, which he =
was
in the habit of carrying when on his travels. Once inside, having closed the
door, he set this aglow, and looked about him.
Spike had given h=
im
minute directions as to the position of the jewel-box. He found it without
difficulty. To his untrained eye, it seemed tolerably massive and impregnab=
le,
but Spike had evidently known how to open it without much difficulty. The l=
id
was shut, but it came up without an effort when he tried to raise it, and he
saw that the lock had been broken.
"Spike's com=
ing
on!" he said.
He was dangling t=
he
necklace over the box, preparatory to dropping it in, when there was a quick
rustle at the other side of the room. The curtain was plucked aside, and Mo=
lly
came out.
"Jimmy!"
she cried.
Jimmy's nerves we=
re
always in pretty good order, but at the sight of this apparition he visibly
jumped.
"Great
Scott!" he said.
The curtain again
became agitated by some unseen force, violently this time, and from its dep=
ths
a plaintive voice made itself heard.
"Dash it
all," said the voice, "I've stuck!"
There was another
upheaval, and his lordship emerged, his yellow locks ruffled and upstanding,
his face crimson.
"Caught my h=
ead
in a coat or something," he explained at large. "Hullo, Pitt!&quo=
t;
Pressed rigidly
against the wall, Molly had listened with growing astonishment to the movem=
ents
on the other side of the curtain. Her mystification deepened every moment. =
It
seemed to her that the room was still in darkness. She could hear the sound=
of
breathing; and then the light of the torch caught her eye. Who could this b=
e,
and why had he not switched on the regular room lights?
She strained her =
ears
to catch a sound. For a while, she heard nothing except the soft breathing.
Then came a voice that she knew well; and, abandoning her hiding-place, she
came out into the room, and found Jimmy standing, with the torch in his han=
d,
over some dark object in the corner of the room.
It was a full min=
ute
after Jimmy's first exclamation of surprise before either of them spoke aga=
in.
The light of the torch hurt Molly's eyes. She put up a hand, to shade them.=
It
seemed to her that they had been standing like this for years.
Jimmy had not mov=
ed.
There was something in his attitude that filled Molly with a vague fear. In=
the
shadow behind the torch, he looked shapeless and inhuman.
"You're hurt=
ing
my eyes," she said, at last.
"I'm
sorry," said Jimmy. "I didn't think. Is that better?" He tur=
ned the
light from her face. Something in his voice and the apologetic haste with w=
hich
he moved the torch seemed to relax the strain of the situation. The feeling=
of
stunned surprise began to leave her. She found herself thinking coherently
again.
The relief was but
momentary. Why was Jimmy in the room at that time? Why had he a torch? What=
had
he been doing? The questions shot from her brain like sparks from an anvil.=
The darkness bega=
n to
tear at her nerves. She felt along the wall for the switch, and flooded the
whole room with light.
Jimmy laid down t=
he
torch, and stood for a moment, undecided. He had concealed the necklace beh=
ind
him. Now, he brought it forward, and dangled it silently before the eyes of
Molly and his lordship. Excellent as were his motives for being in that room
with the necklace in his hand, he could not help feeling, as he met Molly's=
startled
gaze, quite as guilty as if his intentions had been altogether different.
His lordship, hav=
ing
by this time pulled himself together to some extent, was the first to speak=
.
"I say, you
know, what ho!" he observed, not without emotion. "What?"
Molly drew back.<= o:p>
"Jimmy! You
were--oh, you can't have been!"
"Looks jolly
like it!" said his lordship, judicially.
"I wasn't,&q=
uot;
said Jimmy. "I was putting them back."
"Putting them
back?"
"Pitt, old man," said his lordship solemnly, "that sounds a bit thin."<= o:p>
"Dreever, old
man," said Jimmy. "I know it does. But it's the truth."
His lordship's ma=
nner
became kindly.
"Now, look h=
ere,
Pitt, old son," he said, "there's nothing to worry about. We're a=
ll
pals here. You can pitch it straight to us. We won't give you away. We--&qu=
ot;
"Be quiet!&q=
uot;
cried Molly. "Jimmy!"
Her voice was
strained. She spoke with an effort. She was suffering torments. The words h=
er
father had said to her on the terrace were pouring back into her mind. She
seemed to hear his voice now, cool and confident, warning her against Jimmy,
saying that he was crooked. There was a curious whirring in her head.
Everything in the room was growing large and misty. She heard Lord Dreever
begin to say something that sounded as if someone were speaking at the end =
of a
telephone; and, then, she was aware that Jimmy was holding her in his arms,=
and
calling to Lord Dreever to bring water.
"When a girl
goes like that," said his lordship with an insufferable air of
omniscience, "you want to cut her--"
"Come
along!" said Jimmy. "Are you going to be a week getting that wate=
r?"
His lordship
proceeded to soak a sponge without further parley; but, as he carried his
dripping burden across the room, Molly recovered. She tried weakly to free
herself.
Jimmy helped her =
to a
chair. He had dropped the necklace on the floor, and Lord Dreever nearly tr=
od
on it.
"What ho!&qu=
ot;
observed his lordship, picking it up. "Go easy with the jewelry!"=
Jimmy was bending
over Molly. Neither of them seemed to be aware of his lordship's presence.
Spennie was the sort of person whose existence is apt to be forgotten. Jimmy
had had a flash of intuition. For the first time, it had occurred to him th=
at
Mr. McEachern might have hinted to Molly something of his own suspicions.
"Molly,
dear," he said, "it isn't what you think. I can explain everythin=
g.
Do you feel better now? Can you listen? I can explain everything."
"Pitt, old
boy," protested his lordship, "you don't understand. We aren't go=
ing
to give you away. We're all--"
Jimmy ignored him=
.
"Molly,
listen," he said.
She sat up.
"Go on,
Jimmy," she said.
"I wasn't
stealing the necklace. I was putting it back. The man who came to the castle
with me, Spike Mullins, took it this afternoon, and brought it to me."=
Spike Mullins! Mo=
lly
remembered the name.
"He thinks I=
am
a crook, a sort of Raffles. It was my fault. I was a fool. It all began that
night in New York, when we met at your house. I had been to the opening
performance of a play called, 'Love, the Cracksman,' one of those burglar
plays."
"Jolly good
show," interpolated his lordship, chattily. "It was at the Circle
over here. I went twice."
"A friend of
mine, a man named Mifflin, had been playing the hero in it, and after the s=
how,
at the club, he started in talking about the art of burglary--he'd been
studying it--and I said that anybody could burgle a house. And, in another
minute, it somehow happened that I had made a bet that I would do it that
night. Heaven knows whether I ever really meant to; but, that same night, t=
his
man Mullins broke into my flat, and I caught him. We got into conversation,=
and
I worked off on him a lot of technical stuff I'd heard from this actor frie=
nd
of mine, and he jumped to the conclusion that I was an expert. And, then, it
suddenly occurred to me that it would be a good joke on Mifflin if I went o=
ut
with Mullins, and did break into a house. I wasn't in the mood to think wha=
t a
fool I was at the time. Well, anyway, we went out, and--well, that's how it=
all
happened. And, then, I met Spike in London, down and out, and brought him
here."
He looked at her
anxiously. It did not need his lordship's owlish expression of doubt to tell
him how weak his story must sound. He had felt it even as he was telling it=
. He
was bound to admit that, if ever a story rang false in every sentence, it w=
as
this one.
"Pitt, old
man," said his lordship, shaking his head, more in sorrow than in ange=
r,
"it won't do, old top. What's the point of putting up any old yarn like
that? Don't you see, what I mean is, it's not as if we minded. Don't I keep
telling you we're all pals here? I've often thought what a jolly good feller
old Raffles was. Regular sportsman! I don't blame a chappie for doing the
gentleman burglar touch. Seems to me it's a dashed sporting--"
Molly turned on h=
im
suddenly, cutting short his views on the ethics of gentlemanly theft in a b=
laze
of indignation.
"What do you
mean?" she cried. "Do you think I don't believe every word Jimmy =
has
said?"
His lordship jump=
ed.
"Well, don't=
you
know, it seemed to me a bit thin. What I mean is--" He met Molly's eye.
"Oh, well!" he concluded, lamely.
Molly turned to
Jimmy.
"Jimmy, of
course, I believe you. I believe every word."
"Molly!"=
;
His lordship look=
ed
on, marveling. The thought crossed his mind that he had lost the ideal wife=
. A
girl who would believe any old yarn a feller cared to--If it hadn't been for
Katie! For a moment, he felt almost sad.
Jimmy and Molly w=
ere
looking at each other in silence. From the expression on their faces, his
lordship gathered that his existence had once more been forgotten. He saw h=
er
hold out her hands to Jimmy, and it seemed to him that the time had come to
look away. It was embarrassing for a chap! He looked away.
The next moment, =
the
door opened and closed again, and she had gone.
He looked at Jimm=
y.
Jimmy was still apparently unconscious of his presence.
His lordship coug=
hed.
"Pitt, old
man--"
"Hullo!"
said Jimmy, coming out of his thoughts with a start. "You still here? =
By
the way--" he eyed Lord Dreever curiously--"I never thought of as=
king
before--what on earth are you doing here? Why were you behind the curtain? =
Were
you playing hide-and-seek?"
His lordship was =
not
one of those who invent circumstantial stories easily on the spur of the
moment. He searched rapidly for something that would pass muster, then
abandoned the hopeless struggle. After all, why not be frank? He still beli=
eved
Jimmy to be of the class of the hero of "Love, the Cracksman." Th=
ere
would be no harm in confiding in him. He was a good fellow, a kindred soul,=
and
would sympathize.
"It's like
this," he said. And, having prefaced his narrative with the sound rema=
rk
that he had been a bit of an ass, he gave Jimmy a summary of recent events.=
"What!"
said Jimmy. "You taught Hargate picquet? Why, my dear man, he was play=
ing
picquet like a professor when you were in short frocks. He's a wonder at
it."
His lordship star=
ted.
"How's
that?" he said. "You don't know him, do you?"
"I met him in
New York, at the Strollers' Club. A pal of mine, an actor, this fellow Miff=
lin
I mentioned just now, put him up as a guest. He coined money at picquet. And
there were some pretty useful players in the place, too. I don't wonder you
found him a promising pupil."
"Then--then-=
-why,
dash it, then he's a bally sharper!"
"You're a ge=
nius
at crisp description," said Jimmy. "You've got him summed up to r=
ights
first shot."
"I sha'n't p=
ay
him a bally penny!"
"Of course n=
ot.
If he makes any objection, refer him to me."
His lordship's re=
lief
was extreme. The more overpowering effects of the elixir had passed away, a=
nd
he saw now, what he had not seen in his more exuberant frame of mind, the c=
loud
of suspicion that must have hung over him when the loss of the banknotes was
discovered.
He wiped his
forehead.
"By Jove!&qu=
ot;
he said. "That's something off my mind! By George, I feel like a
two-year-old. I say, you're a dashed good sort, Pitt."
"You flatter
me," said Jimmy. "I strive to please."
"I say, Pitt,
that yarn you told us just now--the bet, and all that. Honestly, you don't =
mean
to say that was true, was it? I mean--By Jove! I've got an idea."
"We live in =
stirring
times!"
"Did you say
your actor pal's name was Mifflin?" He broke off suddenly before Jimmy
could answer. "Great Scott!" he whispered. "What's that! Good
lord! Somebody's coming!"
He dived behind t=
he
curtain, like a rabbit. The drapery had only just ceased to shake when the =
door
opened, and Sir Thomas Blunt walked in.
CHAPTER XXVI - STIRRING T=
IMES
FOR SIR THOMAS
For a man whose intentions toward t=
he
jewels and their owner were so innocent, and even benevolent, Jimmy was in a
singularly compromising position. It would have been difficult even under m=
ore favorable
conditions to have explained to Sir Thomas's satisfaction his presence in t=
he
dressing-room. As things stood, it was even harder, for his lordship's last
action before seeking cover had been to fling the necklace from him like a
burning coal. For the second time in ten minutes, it had fallen to the carp=
et,
and it was just as Jimmy straightened himself after picking it up that Sir
Thomas got a full view of him.
The knight stood =
in
the doorway, his face expressing the most lively astonishment. His bulging =
eyes
were fixed upon the necklace in Jimmy's hand. Jimmy could see him strugglin=
g to
find words to cope with so special a situation, and felt rather sorry for h=
im. Excitement
of this kind was bad for a short-necked man of Sir Thomas's type.
With kindly tact,=
he
endeavored to help his host out.
"Good-evenin=
g,"
he said, pleasantly.
Sir Thomas stamme=
red.
He was gradually nearing speech.
"What--what-=
-what--"
he said.
"Out with
it," said Jimmy.
"--what--&qu=
ot;
"I knew a man
once in South Dakota who stammered," said Jimmy. "He used to chew
dog-biscuit while he was speaking. It cured him--besides being nutritious.
Another good way is to count ten while you're thinking what to say, and then
get it out quick."
"You--you
blackguard!"
Jimmy placed the
necklace carefully on the dressing-table. Then, he turned to Sir Thomas, wi=
th
his hands thrust into his pockets. Over the knight's head, he could see the
folds of the curtain quivering gently, as if stirred by some zephyr. Eviden=
tly,
the drama of the situation was not lost on Hildebrand Spencer, twelfth Earl=
of Dreever.
Nor was it lost on
Jimmy. This was precisely the sort of situation that appealed to him. He had
his plan of action clearly mapped out. He knew that it would be useless to =
tell
the knight the true facts of the case. Sir Thomas was as deficient in simple
faith as in Norman blood. Though a Londoner by birth, he had one, at least,=
of the
characteristic traits of the natives of Missouri.
To all appearance=
s,
this was a tight corner, but Jimmy fancied that he saw his way out of it.
Meanwhile, the situation appealed to him. Curiously enough, it was almost
identical with the big scene in act three of "Love, the Cracksman,&quo=
t;
in which Arthur Mifflin had made such a hit as the debonair burglar.
Jimmy proceeded to
give his own idea of what the rendering of a debonair burglar should be. Ar=
thur
Mifflin had lighted a cigarette, and had shot out smoke-rings and repartee
alternately. A cigarette would have been a great help here, but Jimmy prepa=
red
to do his best without properties.
"So--so, it's
you, is it?" said Sir Thomas.
"Who told
you?"
"Thief! Low
thief!"
"Come,
now," protested Jimmy. "Why low? Just because you don't know me o=
ver
here, why scorn me? How do you know I haven't got a big American reputation?
For all you can tell, I may be Boston Billie or Sacramento Sam, or someone.=
Let
us preserve the decencies of debate."
"I had my
suspicions of you. I had my suspicions from the first, when I heard that my
idiot of a nephew had made a casual friend in London. So, this was what you
were! A thief, who--"
"I don't min=
d,
personally," interrupted Jimmy, "but I hope, if ever you mix with
cracksmen, you won't go calling them thieves. They are frightfully sensitiv=
e.
You see! There's a world of difference between the two branches of the
profession and a good deal of snobbish caste-prejudice. Let us suppose that=
you
were an actor-manager. How would you enjoy being called a super? You see the
idea, don't you? You'd hurt their feelings. Now, an ordinary thief would pr=
obably
use violence in a case like this. But violence, except in extreme cases--I =
hope
this won't be one of them--is contrary, I understand, to cracksman's etique=
tte.
On the other hand, Sir Thomas, candor compels me to add that I have you
covered."
There was a pipe =
in
the pocket of his coat. He thrust the stem earnestly against the lining. Sir
Thomas eyed the protuberance apprehensively, and turned a little pale. Jimmy
was scowling ferociously. Arthur Mifflin's scowl in act three had been much=
admired.
"My gun,&quo= t; said Jimmy, "is, as you see, in my pocket. I always shoot from the poc= ket, in spite of the tailor's bills. The little fellow is loaded and cocked. He's pointing straight at your diamond solitaire. That fatal spot! No one has ev= er been hit in the diamond solitaire, and survived. My finger is on the trigge= r. So, I should recommend you not to touch that bell you are looking at. There= are other reasons why you shouldn't, but those I will go into presently."<= o:p>
Sir Thomas's hand
wavered.
"Do if you l=
ike,
of course," said Jimmy, agreeably. "It's your own house. But I
shouldn't. I am a dead shot at a yard and a half. You wouldn't believe the
number of sitting haystacks I've picked off at that distance. I just can't
miss. On second thoughts, I sha'n't fire to kill you. Let us be humane on t=
his
joyful occasion. I shall just smash your knees. Painful, but not fatal.&quo=
t;
He waggled the pi=
pe
suggestively. Sir Thomas blenched. His hand fell to his side.
"Great!"
said Jimmy. "After all, why should you be in a hurry to break up this =
very
pleasant little meeting. I'm sure I'm not. Let us chat. How are the theatri=
cals
going? Was the duologue a success? Wait till you see our show. Three of us =
knew
our lines at the dress-rehearsal."
Sir Thomas had ba=
cked
away from the bell, but the retreat was merely for the convenience of the
moment. He understood that it might be injudicious to press the button just
then; but he had recovered his composure by this time, and he saw that
ultimately the game must be his. His face resumed its normal hue.
Automatically, his hands began to move toward his coat-tails, his feet to
spread themselves. Jimmy noted with a smile these signs of restored
complacency. He hoped ere long to upset that complacency somewhat.
Sir Thomas addres=
sed
himself to making Jimmy's position clear to him.
"How, may I
ask," he said, "do you propose to leave the castle?"
"Won't you l=
et
me have the automobile?" said Jimmy. "But I guess I sha'n't be
leaving just yet."
Sir Thomas laughed
shortly.
"No," he
said--"no! I fancy not. I am with you there!"
"Great
minds," said Jimmy. "I shouldn't be surprised if we thought alike=
on
all sorts of subjects. Just think how you came round to my views on ringing
bells. But what made you fancy that I intended to leave the castle?"
"I should ha=
rdly
have supposed that you would be anxious to stay."
"On the
contrary! It's the one place I have been in, in the last two years, that I =
have
felt really satisfied with. Usually, I want to move on after a week. But I
could stop here forever."
"I am afraid,
Mr. Pitt--By the way, an alias, of course?"
Jimmy shook his h=
ead.
"I fear
not," he said. "If I had chosen an alias, it would have been Tres=
silyan,
or Trevelyan, or something. I call Pitt a poor thing in names. I once knew a
man called Ronald Cheylesmore. Lucky devil!"
Sir Thomas return=
ed
to the point on which he had been about to touch.
"I am afraid,
Mr. Pitt," he said, "that you hardly realize your position."=
"No?" s=
aid
Jimmy, interested.
"I find you =
in
the act of stealing my wife's necklace--"
"Would there=
be
any use in telling you that I was not stealing it, but putting it back?&quo=
t;
Sir Thomas raised=
his
eyebrows in silence.
"No?" s=
aid
Jimmy. "I was afraid not. You were saying--?"
"I find you =
in
the act of stealing my wife's necklace," proceeded Sir Thomas, "a=
nd,
because for the moment you succeed in postponing arrest by threatening me w=
ith
a revolver--"
An agitated look =
came
into Jimmy's face.
"Great
Scott!" he cried. He felt hastily in his pocket.
"Yes," =
he
said; "as I had begun to fear. I owe you an apology, Sir Thomas,"=
he
went on with manly dignity, producing the briar, "I am entirely to bla=
me.
How the mistake arose I cannot imagine, but I find it isn't a revolver after
all."
Sir Thomas' cheeks
took on a richer tint of purple. He glared dumbly at the pipe.
"In the
excitement of the moment, I guess--" began Jimmy.
Sir Thomas
interrupted. The recollection of his needless panic rankled within him.
"You--you--y=
ou--"
"Count
ten!"
"You--what y=
ou
propose to gain by this buffoonery, I am at a loss--"
"How can you=
say
such savage things!" protested Jimmy. "Not buffoonery! Wit! Espri=
t!
Flow of soul such as circulates daily in the best society."
Sir Thomas almost
leaped toward the bell. With his finger on it, he turned to deliver a final
speech.
"I believe
you're insane," he cried, "but I'll have no more of it. I have
endured this foolery long enough. I'll-"
"Just one
moment," said Jimmy. "I said just now that there were reasons bes=
ides
the revol--well, pipe--why you should not ring that bell. One of them is th=
at
all the servants will be in their places in the audience, so that there won=
't
be anyone to answer it. But that's not the most convincing reason. Will you
listen to one more before getting busy?"
"I see your
game. Don't imagine for a moment that you can trick me."
"Nothing cou=
ld
be further--"
"You fancy y=
ou
can gain time by talking, and find some way to escape--"
"But I don't
want to escape. Don't you realize that in about ten minutes I am due to pla=
y an
important part in a great drama on the stage?"
"I'll keep y=
ou
here, I tell you. You'll leave this room," said Sir Thomas, grandly,
"over my body."
"Steeple-cha=
sing
in the home," murmured Jimmy. "No more dull evenings. But listen.=
Do
listen! I won't keep you a minute, and, if you want to--push that bell after
I'm through, you may push it six inches into the wall if you like."
"Well,"
said Sir Thomas, shortly.
"Would you l=
ike
me to lead gently up to what I want to say, gradually preparing you for the
reception of the news, or shall I--?"
The knight took o=
ut
his watch.
"I shall give
you one minute," he said.
"Heavens, I =
must
hustle! How many seconds have I got now?"
"If you have
anything to say, say it."
"Very well,
then," said Jimmy. "It's only this: That necklace is a fraud. The
diamonds aren't diamonds at all. They're paste!"
CHAPTER XXVII - A DECLARA=
TION
OF INDEPENDENCE
If Jimmy had entertained any doubts
concerning the effectiveness of this disclosure, they would have vanished at
the sight of the other's face. Just as the rich hues of a sunset pale slowly
into an almost imperceptible green, so did the purple of Sir Thomas's cheek=
s become,
in stages, first a dull red, then pink, and finally take on a uniform pallo=
r.
His mouth hung open. His attitude of righteous defiance had crumpled.
Unsuspected creases appeared in his clothes. He had the appearance of one w=
ho
has been caught in the machinery.
Jimmy was a little
puzzled. He had expected to check the enemy, to bring him to reason, but no=
t to
demolish him in this way. There was something in this which he did not
understand. When Spike had handed him the stones, and his trained eye, afte=
r a
moment's searching examination, had made him suspicious, and when, finally,=
a
simple test had proved his suspicions correct, he was comfortably aware tha=
t,
though found with the necklace on his person, he had knowledge, which,
communicated to Sir Thomas, would serve him well. He knew that Lady Julia w=
as
not the sort of lady who would bear calmly the announcement that her treasu=
red
rope of diamonds was a fraud. He knew enough of her to know that she would
demand another necklace, and see that she got it; and that Sir Thomas was n=
ot
one of those generous and expansive natures which think nothing of an expen=
diture
of twenty thousand pounds.
This was the line=
of
thought that had kept him cheerful during what might otherwise have been a
trying interview. He was aware from the first that Sir Thomas would not bel=
ieve
in the purity of his motives; but he was convinced that the knight would be
satisfied to secure his silence on the subject of the paste necklace at any=
price.
He had looked forward to baffled rage, furious denunciation, and a dozen ot=
her
expressions of emotion, but certainly not to collapse of this kind.
The other had beg=
un
to make strange, gurgling noises.
"Mind you,&q=
uot;
said Jimmy, "it's a very good imitation. I'll say that for it. I didn't
suspect it till I had the thing in my hands. Looking at it--even quite clos=
e--I
was taken in for a moment."
Sir Thomas swallo=
wed
nervously.
"How did you
know?" he muttered.
Again, Jimmy was
surprised. He had expected indignant denials and demands for proof, excited
reiteration of the statement that the stones had cost twenty thousand pound=
s.
"How did I
know?" he repeated. "If you mean what first made me suspect, I
couldn't tell you. It might have been one of a score of things. A jeweler c=
an't
say exactly how he gets on the track of fake stones. He can feel them. He c=
an
almost smell them. I worked with a jeweler once. That's how I got my knowle=
dge
of jewels. But, if you mean, can I prove what I say about this necklace, th=
at's
easy. There's no deception. It's simple. See here. These stones are suppose=
d to
be diamonds. Well, the diamond is the hardest stone in existence. Nothing w=
ill
scratch it. Now, I've got a little ruby, out of a college pin, which I know=
is
genuine. By rights, then, that ruby ought not to have scratched these stone=
s.
You follow that? But it did. It scratched two of them, the only two I tried=
. If
you like, I can continue the experiment. But there's no need. I can tell yo=
u right
now what these stones are, I said they were paste, but that wasn't quite
accurate. They're a stuff called white jargoon. It's a stuff that's very ea=
sily
faked. You work it with the flame of a blow-pipe. You don't want a full
description, I suppose? Anyway, what happens is that the blow-pipe sets it =
up
like a tonic. Gives it increased specific gravity and a healthy complexion =
and
all sorts of great things of that kind. Two minutes in the flame of a blow-=
pipe
is like a week at the seashore to a bit of white jargoon. Are you satisfied=
? If
it comes to that, I guess you can hardly be expected to be. Convinced is a
better word. Are you convinced, or do you hanker after tests like polarized
light and refracting liquids?"
Sir Thomas had
staggered to a chair.
"So, that was
how you knew!" he said.
"That
was--" began Jimmy, when a sudden suspicion flashed across his mind. He
scrutinized Sir Thomas' pallid face keenly.
"Did you
know?" he asked.
He wondered that =
the
possibility had not occurred to him earlier. This would account for much th=
at
had puzzled him in the other's reception of the news. He had supposed, vagu=
ely,
without troubling to go far into the probabilities of such a thing, that the
necklace which Spike had brought to him had been substituted for the genuin=
e diamonds
by a thief. Such things happened frequently, he knew. But, remembering what
Molly had told him of the care which Sir Thomas took of this particular
necklace, and the frequency with which Lady Julia wore it, he did not see h=
ow
such a substitution could have been effected. There had been no chance of
anybody's obtaining access to these stones for the necessary length of time=
.
"By George, I
believe you did!" he cried. "You must have! So, that's how it
happened, is it? I don't wonder it was a shock when I said I knew about the
necklace."
"Mr. Pitt!&q=
uot;
"Well?"=
"I have
something to say to you."
"I'm
listening."
Sir Thomas tried =
to rally.
There was a touch of the old pomposity in his manner when he spoke.
"Mr. Pitt, I
find you in an unpleasant position--"
Jimmy interrupted=
.
"Don't you w=
orry
about my unpleasant position," he said. "Fix your attention
exclusively upon your own. Let us be frank with one another. You're in the
cart. What do you propose to do about it?"
Sir Thomas rallied
again, with the desperation of one fighting a lost cause.
"I do not
understand you--" he began.
"No?" s=
aid
Jimmy. "I'll try and make my meaning clear. Correct me from time to ti=
me,
if I am wrong. The way I size the thing up is as follows: When you married =
Lady
Julia, I gather that it was, so to speak, up to you to some extent. People =
knew
you were a millionaire, and they expected something special in the way of g=
ifts
from the bridegroom to the bride. Now, you, being of a prudent and economic=
al nature,
began to wonder if there wasn't some way of getting a reputation for lavish=
ness
without actually unbelting to any great extent. Am I right?"
Sir Thomas did not
answer.
"I am,"
said Jimmy. "Well, it occurred to you, naturally enough, that a
properly-selected gift of jewelry might work the trick. It only needed a li=
ttle
nerve. When you give a present of diamonds to a lady, she is not likely to =
call
for polarized light and refracting liquids and the rest of the circus. In
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, she will take the things on trust. Very
well. You trotted off to a jeweler, and put the thing to him confidentially=
. I
guess you suggested paste. But, being a wily person, he pointed out that pa=
ste
has a habit of not wearing well. It is pretty enough when it's new, but qui=
te a
small amount of ordinary wear and tear destroys the polish of the surface a=
nd
the sharpness of the cutting. It gets scratched easily. Having heard this, =
and
reflecting that Lady Julia was not likely to keep the necklace under a glass
case, you rejected paste as too risky. The genial jeweler then suggested wh=
ite
jargoon, mentioning, as I have done, that, after an application or so of th=
e blow-pipe,
it's own mother wouldn't know it. If he was a bit of an antiquary, he proba=
bly
added that, in the eighteenth century, jargoon stones were supposed to be
actually an inferior sort of diamond. What could be more suitable? 'Make it
jargoon, dear heart,' you cried joyfully, and all was well. Am I right? I
notice that you have not corrected me so far."
Whether or not Sir
Thomas would have replied in the affirmative is uncertain. He was opening h=
is
mouth to speak, when the curtain at the end of the room heaved, and Lord
Dreever burst out like a cannon-ball in tweeds.
The apparition
effectually checked any speech that Sir Thomas might have been intending to
make. Lying back in his chair, he goggled silently at the new arrival. Even
Jimmy, though knowing that his lordship had been in hiding, was taken aback.
His attention had become so concentrated on his duel with the knight that he
had almost forgotten they had an audience.
His lordship broke
the silence.
"Great
Scott!" he cried.
Neither Jimmy nor=
Sir
Thomas seemed to consider the observation unsound or inadequate. They permi=
tted
it to pass without comment.
"You old
scoundrel!" added his lordship, addressing Sir Thomas. "And you're
the man who called me a welsher!" There were signs of a flicker of spi=
rit
in the knight's prominent eyes, but they died away. He made no reply.
"Great
Scott!" moaned his lordship, in a fervor of self-pity. "Here have=
I
been all these years letting you give me Hades in every shape and form, when
all the while--My goodness, if I'd only known earlier!"
He turned to Jimm=
y.
"Pitt, old
man," he said warmly, "I--dash it! I don't know what to say. If it
hadn't been for you--I always did like Americans. I always thought it bally=
rot
that that fuss happened in--in--whenever it was. If it hadn't been for fell=
ows
like you," he continued, addressing Sir Thomas once more, "there
wouldn't have been any of that frightful Declaration of Independence busine=
ss.
Would there, Pitt, old man?"
These were deep
problems, too spacious for casual examination. Jimmy shrugged his shoulders=
.
"Well, I gue=
ss
Sir Thomas might not have got along with George Washington, anyway," he
said.
"Of course n=
ot.
Well"--Spennie moved toward the door--"I'm off downstairs to see =
what
Aunt Julia has to say about it all."
A shudder, as if =
from
some electric shock, shook Sir Thomas. He leaped to his feet.
"Spencer,&qu=
ot;
he cried, "I forbid you to say a word to your aunt."
"Oh!" s=
aid
his lordship. "You do, do you?"
Sir Thomas shiver=
ed.
"She would n=
ever
let me hear the last of it."
"I bet she
wouldn't. I'll go and see."
"Stop!"=
"Well?"=
Sir Thomas dabbed=
at
his forehead with his handkerchief. He dared not face the vision of Lady Ju=
lia
in possession of the truth. At one time, the fear lest she might discover t=
he
harmless little deception he had practised had kept him awake at night, but
gradually, as the days went by and the excellence of the imitation stones h=
ad continued
to impose upon her and upon everyone else who saw them, the fear had
diminished. But it had always been at the back of his mind. Even in her cal=
mer
moments, his wife was a source of mild terror to him. His imagination reele=
d at
the thought of what depths of aristocratic scorn and indignation she would
plumb in a ease like this.
"Spencer,&qu= ot; he said, "I insist that you shall not inform your aunt of this!"<= o:p>
"What? You w=
ant
me to keep my mouth shut? You want me to become an accomplice in this beast=
ly,
low-down deception? I like that!"
"The
point," said Jimmy, "is well taken. Noblesse oblige, and all that
sort of thing. The blood of the Dreevers boils furiously at the idea. Liste=
n!
You can hear it sizzling."
Lord Dreever move=
d a
step nearer the door.
"Stop!"
cried Sir Thomas again. "Spencer!"
"Well?"=
"Spencer, my
boy, it occurs to me that perhaps I have not always treated you very
well--"
"'Perhaps!' =
'Not
always!' Great Scott, I'll have a fiver each way on both those. Considering
you've treated me like a frightful kid practically ever since you've known =
me,
I call that pretty rich! Why, what about this very night, when I asked you =
for
a few pounds?"
"It was only=
the
thought that you had been gambling--"
"Gambling! H=
ow
about palming off faked diamonds on Aunt Julia for a gamble?"
"A game of
skill, surely?" murmured Jimmy.
"I have been
thinking the matter over," said Sir Thomas, "and, if you really n=
eed
the--was it not fifty pounds?"
"It was
twenty," said his lordship. "And I don't need it. Keep it. You'll
want all you can save for a new necklace."
His fingers close=
d on
the door-handle.
"Spencer, st=
op!"
"Well?"=
"We must talk
this over. We must not be hasty."
Sir Thomas passed=
the
handkerchief over his forehead.
"In the past,
perhaps," he resumed, "our relations have not been quite--the fau=
lt
was mine. I have always endeavored to do my duty. It is a difficult task to
look after a young man of your age--"
His lordship's se=
nse
of his grievance made him eloquent.
"Dash it
all!" he cried. "That's just what I jolly well complain of. Who t=
he
dickens wanted you to look after me? Hang it, you've kept your eye on me all
these years like a frightful policeman! You cut off my allowance right in t=
he
middle of my time at college, just when I needed it most, and I had to come=
and
beg for money whenever I wanted to buy a cigarette. I looked a fearful ass,=
I
can tell you! Men who knew me used to be dashed funny about it. I'm sick of=
the
whole bally business. You've given me a jolly thin time all this while, and=
now
I'm going to get a bit of my own back. Wouldn't you, Pitt, old man?"
Jimmy, thus sudde=
nly
appealed to, admitted that, in his lordship's place, he might have experien=
ced
a momentary temptation to do something of the kind.
"Of
course," said his lordship; "any fellow would."
"But, Spence=
r,
let met--"
"You've sour=
ed
my life," said his lordship, frowning a tense, Byronic frown. "Th=
at's
what you've done--soured my whole bally life. I've had a rotten time. I've =
had
to go about touching my friends for money to keep me going. Why, I owe you a
fiver, don't I, Pitt, old man?"
It was a tenner, =
to
be finnickingly accurate about details, but Jimmy did not say so. He conclu=
ded,
rightly, that the memory of the original five pounds which he had lent Lord
Dreever at the Savoy Hotel had faded from the other's mind.
"Don't menti=
on
it," he said.
"But I do
mention it," protested his lordship, shrilly. "It just proves wha=
t I
say. If I had had a decent allowance, it wouldn't have happened. And you
wouldn't give me enough to set me going in the diplomatic service. That's
another thing. Why wouldn't you do that?"
Sir Thomas pulled
himself together.
"I hardly
thought you qualified, my dear boy--"
His lordship did =
not
actually foam at the mouth, but he looked as if he might do so at any momen=
t.
Excitement and the memory of his wrongs, lubricated, as it were, by the
champagne he had consumed both at and after dinner, had produced in him a f=
rame
of mind far removed from the normal. His manners no longer had that repose
which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. He waved his hands:
"I know, I
know!" he shouted. "I know you didn't. You thought me a fearful f=
ool.
I tell you, I'm sick of it. And always trying to make me marry money! Dashed
humiliating! If she hadn't been a jolly sensible girl, you'd have spoiled M=
iss
McEachern's life as well as mine. You came very near it. I tell you, I've h=
ad
enough of it. I'm in love. I'm in love with the rippingest girl in England.
You've seen her, Pitt, old top. Isn't she a ripper?"
Jimmy stamped the
absent lady with the seal of his approval.
"I tell you,=
if
she'll have me, I'm going to marry her."
The dismay writte=
n on
every inch of Sir Thomas's countenance became intensified at these terrific
words. Great as had been his contempt for the actual holder of the title,
considered simply as a young man, he had always been filled with a supreme
respect for the Dreever name.
"But,
Spencer," he almost howled, "consider your position! You cannot--=
"
"Can't I, by
Jove! If she'll have me! And damn my position! What's my position got to do
with it? Katie's the daughter of a general, if it comes to that. Her brother
was at college with me. If I'd had a penny to call my own, I'd have asked h=
er
to marry me ages ago. Don't you worry about my position!"
Sir Thomas croaked
feebly.
"Now, look
here," said his lordship, with determination. "Here's the whole t=
hing
in a jolly old nutshell. If you want me to forget about this little flutter=
in
fake diamonds of yours, you've got to pull up your socks, and start in to do
things. You've got to get me attached to some embassy for a beginning. It w=
on't
be difficult. There's dozens of old boys in London, who knew the governor w=
hen
he was alive, who will jump at the chance of doing me a good turn. I know I=
'm a
bit of an ass in some ways, but that's expected of you in the diplomatic
service. They only want you to wear evening clothes as if you were used to
them, and be a bit of a flyer at dancing, and I can fill the bill all right=
as
far as that goes. And you've got to give your jolly old blessing to Katie a=
nd
me--if she'll have me. That's about all I can think of for the moment. How =
do
we go? Are you on?"
"It's
preposterous," began Sir Thomas.
Lord Dreever gave=
the
door-handle a rattle.
"It's a hold=
-up
all right," said Jimmy, soothingly. "I don't want to butt in on a
family conclave, but my advice, if asked, would be to unbelt before the
shooting begins. You've got something worse than a pipe pointing at you, no=
w.
As regards my position in the business, don't worry. My silence is presented
gratis. Give me a loving smile, and my lips are sealed."
Sir Thomas turned=
on
the speaker.
"As for
you--" he cried.
"Never mind
about Pitt," said his lordship. "He's a dashed good fellow, Pitt.=
I
wish there were more like him. And
he wasn't pinching the stuff, either. If you had only listened when he trie=
d to
tell you, you mightn't be in such a frightful hole. He was putting the thin=
gs
back, as he said. I know all about it. Well, what's the answer?"
For a moment, Sir
Thomas seemed on the point of refusal. But, just as he was about to speak, =
his
lordship opened the door, and at the movement he collapsed again.
"I will,&quo=
t;
he cried. "I will!"
"Good,"
said his lordship with satisfaction. "That's a bargain. Coming downsta=
irs,
Pitt, old man? We shall be wanted on the stage in about half a minute."=
;
"As an antid=
ote
to stage fright," said Jimmy, as they went along the corridor,
"little discussions of that kind may be highly recommended. I shouldn't
mind betting that you feel fit for anything?"
"I feel like=
a
two-year-old," assented his lordship, enthusiastically. "I've
forgotten all my part, but I don't care. I'll just go on and talk to
them."
"That,"
said Jimmy, "is the right spirit. Charteris will get heart-disease, but
it's the right spirit. A little more of that sort of thing, and amateur
theatricals would be worth listening to. Step lively, Roscius; the stage
waits."
CHAPTER XXVIII - SPENNIE'S
HOUR OF CLEAR VISION
Mr. McEachern sat in the billiard-r=
oom,
smoking. He was alone. From where he sat, he could hear distant strains of
music. The more rigorous portion of the evening's entertainment, the
theatricals, was over, and the nobility and gentry, having done their duty =
by sitting
through the performance, were now enjoying themselves in the ballroom.
Everybody was happy. The play had been quite as successful as the usual ama=
teur
performance. The prompter had made himself a great favorite from the start,=
his
series of duets with Spennie having been especially admired; and Jimmy, as
became an old professional, had played his part with great finish and certa=
inty
of touch, though, like the bloodhounds in "Uncle Tom's Cabin" on =
the road,
he had had poor support. But the audience bore no malice. No collection of
individuals is less vindictive than an audience at amateur theatricals. It =
was
all over now. Charteris had literally gibbered in the presence of eye-witne=
sses
at one point in the second act, when Spennie, by giving a wrong cue, had je=
rked
the play abruptly into act three, where his colleagues, dimly suspecting so=
mething
wrong, but not knowing what it was, had kept it for two minutes, to the
mystification of the audience. But, now Charteris had begun to forget. As he
two-stepped down the room, the lines of agony on his face were softened. He
even smiled.
As for Spennie, t=
he
brilliance of his happy grin dazzled all beholders.
He was still wear=
ing
it when he invaded the solitude of Mr. McEachern. In every dance, however
greatly he may be enjoying it, there comes a time when a man needs a medita=
tive
cigarette apart from the throng. It came to Spennie after the seventh item =
on
the program. The billiard-room struck him as admirably suitable in every wa=
y.
It was not likely to be used as a sitting-out place, and it was near enough=
to
the ball-room to enable him to hear when the music of item number nine shou=
ld
begin.
Mr. McEachern
welcomed his visitor. In the turmoil following the theatricals, he had been
unable to get a word with any of the persons with whom he most wished to sp=
eak.
He had been surprised that no announcement of the engagement had been made =
at
the end of the performance. Spennie would be able to supply him with inform=
ation
as to when the announcement might be expected.
Spennie hesitated=
for
an instant when he saw who was in the room. He was not over-anxious for a
tete-a-tete with Molly's father just then. But, re-fleeting that, after all=
, he
was not to blame for any disappointment that might be troubling the other, =
he
switched on his grin again, and walked in.
"Came in for=
a
smoke," he explained, by way of opening the conversation. "Not
dancing the next."
"Come in, my
boy, come in," said Mr. McEachern. "I was waiting to see you.&quo=
t;
Spennie regretted=
his
entrance. He had supposed that the other had heard the news of the breaking=
-off
of the engagement. Evidently, however, McEachern had not. This was a nuisan=
ce.
The idea of flight came to Spennie, but he dismissed it. As nominal host th=
at
night, he had to dance many duty-dances. This would be his only chance of a=
smoke
for hours, and the billiard-room was the best place for it.
He sat down, and
lighted a cigarette, casting about the while for an innocuous topic of
conversation.
"Like the
show?" he inquired.
"Fine,"
said Mr. McEachern. "By the way--"
Spennie groaned
inwardly. He had forgotten that a determined man can change the conversatio=
n to
any subject he pleases by means of those three words.
"By the
way," said Mr. McEachern, "I thought Sir Thomas--wasn't your uncle
intending to announce--?"
"Well, yes, =
he
was," said Spennie.
"Going to do=
it
during the dancing, maybe?"
"Well--er--n=
o.
The fact is, he's not going to do it at all, don't you know." Spennie
inspected the red end of his cigarette closely. "As a matter of fact, =
it's
kind of broken off."
The other's
exclamation jarred on him. Rotten, having to talk about this sort of thing!=
"Broken
off?"
Spennie nodded.
"Miss McEach=
ern
thought it over, don't you know," he said, "and came to the
conclusion that it wasn't good enough."
Now that it was s=
aid,
he felt easier. It had merely been the awkwardness of having to touch on the
thing that had troubled him. That his news might be a blow to McEachern did=
not
cross his mind. He was a singularly modest youth, and, though he realized
vaguely that his title had a certain value in some persons' eyes, he could =
not
understand anyone mourning over the loss of him as a son-in-law. Katie's fa=
ther,
the old general, thought him a fool, and once, during an attack of gout, had
said so. Spennie was wont to accept this as the view which a prospective
father-in-law might be expected to entertain regarding himself.
Oblivious, theref=
ore,
to the storm raging a yard away from him, he smoked on with great contentme=
nt,
till suddenly it struck him that, for a presumably devout lover, jilted that
very night, he was displaying too little emotion. He debated swiftly within
himself whether or not he should have a dash at manly grief, but came to th=
e conclusion
that it could not be done. Melancholy on this maddest, merriest day of all =
the
glad New Year, the day on which he had utterly routed the powers of evil, as
represented by Sir Thomas, was impossible. He decided, rather, on a
let-us-be-reasonable attitude.
"It wouldn't
have done, don't you know," he said. "We weren't suited. What I m=
ean
to say is, I'm a bit of a dashed sort of silly ass in some ways, if you know
what I mean. A girl like Miss McEachern couldn't have been happy with me. S=
he
wants one of these capable, energetic fellers."
This struck him a=
s a
good beginning--modest, but not groveling. He continued, tapping quite a
respectably deep vein of philosophy as he spoke.
"You see, de=
ar
old top--I mean, sir, you see, it's like this. As far as women are concerne=
d,
fellers are divided into two classes. There's the masterful, capable Johnni=
es,
and the--er--the other sort. Now, I'm the other sort. My idea of the happy
married life is to be--well, not exactly downtrodden, but--you know what I =
mean--kind
of second fiddle. I want a wife--" his voice grew soft and dreamy--&qu=
ot;who'll
pet me a good deal, don't you know, stroke my hair a lot, and all that. I
haven't it in me to do the master-in-my-own-house business. For me, the
silent-devotion touch. Sleeping on the mat outside her door, don't you know,
when she wasn't feeling well, and being found there in the morning and being
rather cosseted for my thoughtfulness. That's the sort of idea. Hard to put=
it
quite O. K., but you know the sort of thing I mean. A feller's got to reali=
ze his
jolly old limitations if he wants to be happy though married, what? Now,
suppose Miss McEachern was to marry me! Great Scott, she'd be bored to deat=
h in
a week. Honest! She couldn't help herself. She wants a chap with the same
amount of go in him that she's got."
He lighted another
cigarette. He was feeling pleased with himself. Never before had ideas
marshaled themselves in his mind in such long and well-ordered ranks. He fe=
lt
that he could go on talking like this all night. He was getting brainier ev=
ery
minute. He remembered reading in some book somewhere of a girl (or chappie)=
who
had had her (or his) "hour of clear vision." This was precisely w=
hat
had happened now. Whether it was owing to the excitement of what had taken
place that night, or because he had been keying up his thinking powers with
excellent dry champagne, he did not know. All he knew was that he felt on t=
op
of his subject. He wished he had had a larger audience.
"A girl like
Miss McEachern doesn't want any of that hair-stroking business. She'd simply
laugh at a feller if he asked for it. She needs a chappie of the
get-on-or-get-out type, somebody in the six cylinder class. And, as a matte=
r of
fact, between ourselves, I rather think she's found him."
"What!"=
Mr. McEachern half
rose from his chair. All his old fears had come surging back.
"What do you
mean?"
"Fact,"
said his lordship, nodding. "Mind you, I don't know for certain. As the
girl says in the song, I don't know, but I guess. What I mean to say is, th=
ey
seemed jolly friendly, and all that; calling each other by their first name=
s,
and so on."
"Who--?"=
;
"Pitt,"
said his lordship. He was leaning back, blowing a smoke-ring at the moment,=
so
he did not see the look on the other's face and the sudden grip of the fing=
ers
on the arms of the chair. He went on with some enthusiasm.
"Jimmy
Pitt!" he said. "Now, there's a feller! Full of oats to the brim,=
and
fairly bursting with go and energy. A girl wouldn't have a dull moment with=
a
chap like that. You know," he proceeded confidently, "there's a l=
ot
in this idea of affinities. Take my word for it, dear old--sir. There's a g=
irl
up in London, for instance. Now, she and I hit it off most amazingly. There=
's
hardly a thing we don't think alike about. For instance, 'The Merry Widow'
didn't make a bit of a hit with her. Nor did it with me. Yet, look at the m=
illions
of people who raved about it. And neither of us likes oysters. We're
affinities--that's why. You see the same sort of thing all over the place. =
It's
a jolly queer business. Sometimes, makes me believe in re-in-what's-it's-na=
me.
You know what I mean. All that in the poem, you know. How does it go? 'When=
you
were a tiddley-om-pom, and I was a thingummajig.' Dashed brainy bit of work=
. I
was reading it only the other day. Well, what I mean to say is, it's my bel=
ief
that Jimmy Pitt and Miss McEachern are by way of being something in that li=
ne.
Doesn't it strike you that they are just the sort to get on together? You c=
an
see it with half an eye. You can't help liking a feller like Jimmy Pitt. He=
's a
sport! I wish I could tell you some of the things he's done, but I can't, f=
or reasons.
But you can take it from me, he's a sport. You ought to cultivate him. You'd
like him ... Oh, dash it, there's the music. I must be off. Got to dance th=
is
one."
He rose from his
chair, and dropped his cigarette into the ash-tray.
"So long,&qu=
ot;
he said, with a friendly nod. "Wish I could stop, but it's no go. That=
's
the last let-up I shall have to-night."
He went out, leav=
ing
Mr. McEachern a prey to many and varied emotions.
CHAPTER XXIX - THE LAST R=
OUND
He had only been gone a few minutes=
when
Mr. McEachern's meditations were again interrupted. This time, the visitor =
was
a stranger to him, a dark-faced, clean-shaven man. He did not wear evening =
clothes,
so could not be one of the guests; and Mr. McEachern could not place him
immediately. Then, he remembered. He had seen him in Sir Thomas Blunt's
dressing-room. This was Sir Thomas's valet.
"Might I hav=
e a
word with you, sir?"
"What is
it?" asked McEachern, staring heavily. His mind had not recovered from=
the
effect of Lord Dreever's philosophical remarks. There was something of a cl=
oud
on his brain. To judge from his lordship's words, things had been happening
behind his back; and the idea of Molly's deceiving him was too strange to be
assimilated in an instant. He looked at the valet dully.
"What is
it?" he asked again.
"I must
apologize for intruding, but I thought it best to approach you before makin=
g my
report to Sir Thomas."
"Your
report?"
"I am employ=
ed
by a private inquiry agency."
"What!"=
"Yes, sir.
Wragge's. You may have heard of us. In Holborn Bars. Very old established.
Divorce a specialty. You will have seen the advertisements. Sir Thomas wrote
asking for a man, and the governor sent me down. I have been with the house
some years. My job, I gathered, was to keep my eyes open generally. Sir Tho=
mas,
it seemed, had no suspicions of any definite person. I was to be on the spo=
t just
in case, in a manner of speaking. And it's precious lucky I was, or her
ladyship's jewels would have been gone. I've done a fair cop this very
night."
He paused, and ey=
ed
the ex-policeman keenly. McEachern was obviously excited. Could Jimmy have =
made
an attempt on the jewels during the dance? or Spike?
"Say," =
he
said, "was it a red-headed--?"
The detective was
watching him with a curious smile.
"No, he wasn=
't
red-headed. You seem interested, sir. I thought you would be. I will tell y=
ou
all about it. I had had my suspicions of this party ever since he arrived. =
And
I may say that it struck me at the time that there was something mighty fis=
hy
about the way he got into the castle."
McEachern started.
So, he had not been the only one to suspect Jimmy's motives in attaching
himself to Lord Dreever.
"Go on,"=
; he
said.
"I suspected
that there was some game on, and it struck me that this would be the day for
the attempt, the house being upside down, in a manner of speaking, on accou=
nt
of the theatricals. And I was right. I kept near those jewels on and off all
day, and, presently, just as I had thought, along comes this fellow. He'd
hardly got to the door when I was on him."
"Good boy!
You're no rube."
"We fought f=
or a
while, but, being a bit to the good in strength, and knowing something about
the game, I had the irons on him pretty quick, and took him off, and locked=
him
in the cellar. That's how it was, sir."
Mr. McEachern's
relief was overwhelming. If Lord Dreever's statement was correct and Jimmy =
had
really succeeded in winning Molly's affection, this would indeed be a rescu=
e at
the eleventh hour. It was with a Nunc-Dimittis air that he felt for his
cigar-case, and extended it toward the detective. A cigar from his own priv=
ate
case was with him a mark of supreme favor and good-will, a sort of accolade
which he bestowed only upon the really meritorious few.
Usually, it was
received with becoming deference; but on this occasion there was a somewhat
startling deviation from routine; for, just as he was opening the case,
something cold and hard pressed against each of his wrists, there was a snap
and a click, and, looking up, dazed, he saw that the detective had sprung b=
ack,
and was contemplating him with a grim smile over the barrel of an ugly-look=
ing
little revolver.
Guilty or innocen=
t,
the first thing a man does when, he finds handcuffs on his wrists is to try=
to
get them off. The action is automatic. Mr. McEachern strained at the steel
chain till the veins stood out on his forehead. His great body shook with r=
age.
The detective eyed
these efforts with some satisfaction. The picture presented by the other as=
he
heaved and tugged was that of a guilty man trapped.
"It's no goo=
d,
my friend," he said.
The voice brought
McEachern back to his senses. In the first shock of the thing, the primitive
man in him had led him beyond the confines of self-restraint. He had simply
struggled unthinkingly. Now, he came to himself again.
He shook his mana=
cled
hands furiously.
"What does t=
his
mean?" he shouted. "What the--?"
"Less
noise," said the detective, sharply. "Get back!" he snapped,=
as
the other took a step forward.
"Do you know=
who
I am?" thundered McEachern.
"No," s=
aid
the detective. "And that's just why you're wearing those bracelets. Co=
me,
now, don't be a fool. The game's up. Can't you see that?"
McEachern leaned
helplessly against the billiard-table. He felt weak. Everything was unreal.=
Had
he gone mad? he wondered.
"That's
right," said the detective. "Stay there. You can't do any harm th=
ere.
It was a pretty little game, I'll admit. You worked it well. Meeting your o=
ld
friend from New York and all, and having him invited to the castle. Very
pretty. New York, indeed! Seen about as much of New York as I have of
Timbuctoo. I saw through him."
Some inkling of t=
he truth
began to penetrate McEachern's consciousness. He had become obsessed with t=
he
idea that, as the captive was not Spike, it must be Jimmy. The possibility =
of Mr.
Galer's being the subject of discussion only dawned upon him now.
"What do you
mean?" he cried. "Who is it that you have arrested?"
"Blest if I
know. You can tell me that, I should think, seeing he's an old Timbuctoo fr=
iend
of yours. Galer's the name he goes by here."
"Galer!"=
;
"That's the =
man.
And do you know what he had the impudence, the gall, to tell me? That he wa=
s in
my own line of business. A detective! He said you had sent for him to come
here!"
The detective lau=
ghed
amusedly at the recollection.
"And so he i=
s,
you fool. So I did."
"Oh, you did,
did you? And what business had you bringing detectives into other people's
houses?"
Mr. McEachern sta=
rted
to answer, but checked himself. Never before had he appreciated to the full=
the
depth and truth of the proverb relating to the frying-pan and the fire. To
clear himself, he must mention his suspicions of Jimmy, and also his reasons
for those suspicions. And to do that would mean revealing his past. It was =
Scylla
and Charybdis.
A drop of
perspiration trickled down his temple.
"What's the
good?" said the detective. "Mighty ingenious idea, that, only you
hadn't allowed for there being a real detective in the house. It was that c=
hap
pitching me that yarn that made me suspicious of you. I put two and two
together. 'Partners,' I said to myself. I'd heard all about you, scraping
acquaintance with Sir Thomas and all. Mighty ingenious. You become the old
family friend, and then you let in your pal. He gets the stuff, and hands it
over to you. Nobody dreams of suspecting you, and there you are. Honestly, =
now,
wasn't that the game?"
"It's all a =
mistake--"
McEachern was beginning, when the door-handle turned.
The detective loo=
ked
over his shoulder. McEachern glared dumbly. This was the crowning blow, that
there should be spectators of his predicament.
Jimmy strolled in=
to
the room.
"Dreever tol=
d me
you were in here," he said to McEachern. "Can you spare me
a--Hullo!"
The detective had
pocketed his revolver at the first sound of the handle. To be discreet was =
one
of the chief articles in the creed of the young men from Wragge's Detective
Agency. But handcuffs are not easily concealed. Jimmy stood staring in
amazement at McEachern's wrists.
"Some sort o=
f a
round game?" he enquired with interest.
The detective bec=
ame
confidential.
"It's this w=
ay,
Mr. Pitt. There's been some pretty deep work going on here. There's a regul=
ar
gang of burglars in the place. This chap here's one of them."
"What, Mr.
McEachern!"
"That's what=
he
calls himself."
It was all Jimmy
could do to keep himself from asking Mr. McEachern whether he attributed his
downfall to drink. He contented himself with a sorrowful shake of the head =
at
the fermenting captive. Then, he took up the part of the prisoner's attorne=
y.
"I don't bel=
ieve
it," he said. "What makes you think so?"
"Why, this
afternoon, I caught this man's pal, the fellow that calls himself Galer--&q=
uot;
"I know the
man," said Jimmy. "He's a detective, really. Mr. McEachern brought
him down here."
The sleuth's jaw
dropped limply, as if he had received a blow.
"What?"=
he
said, in a feeble voice.
"Didn't I te=
ll
you--?" began Mr. McEachern; but the sleuth was occupied with Jimmy. T=
hat
sickening premonition of disaster was beginning to steal over him. Dimly, he
began to perceive that he had blundered.
"Yes," =
said
Jimmy. "Why, I can't say; but Mr. McEachern was afraid someone might t=
ry
to steal Lady Julia Blunt's rope of diamonds. So, he wrote to London for th=
is
man, Galer. It was officious, perhaps, but not criminal. I doubt if, legall=
y,
you could handcuff a man for a thing like that. What have you done with good
Mr. Galer?"
"I've locked=
him
in the coal-cellar," said the detective, dismally. The thought of the
interview in prospect with the human bloodhound he had so mishandled was not
exhilarating.
"Locked him =
in
the cellar, did you?" said Jimmy. "Well, well, I daresay he's very
happy there. He's probably busy detecting black-beetles. Still, perhaps you=
had
better go and let him out. Possibly, if you were to apologize to him--? Eh?
Just as you think. I only suggest. If you want somebody to vouch for Mr.
McEachern's non-burglariousness, I can do it. He is a gentleman of private
means, and we knew each other out in New York--we are old acquaintances.&qu=
ot;
"I never
thought--"
"That," said Jimmy, with sympathetic friendliness, "if you will allow me to say so, is the cardinal mistake you detectives make. You never do think."<= o:p>
"It never
occurred to me--"
The detective loo=
ked
uneasily at Mr. McEachern. There were indications in the policeman's demean=
or
that the moment following release would be devoted exclusively to a carniva=
l of
violence, with a certain sleuth-hound playing a prominent role.
He took the key of
the handcuffs from his pocket, and toyed with it. Mr. McEachern emitted a l=
ow
growl. It was enough.
"If you woul=
dn't
mind, Mr. Pitt," said the sleuth, obsequiously. He thrust the key into
Jimmy's hands, and fled.
Jimmy unlocked the
handcuffs. Mr. McEachern rubbed his wrists.
"Ingenious
little things," said Jimmy.
"I'm much
obliged to you," growled Mr. McEachern, without looking up.
"Not at all.=
A
pleasure. This circumstantial evidence thing is the devil, isn't it? I knew=
a
man who broke into a house in New York to win a bet, and to this day the ow=
ner
of that house thinks him a professional burglar."
"What's
that?" said Mr. McEachern, sharply.
"Why do I sa=
y 'a
man '? Why am I so elusive and mysterious? You're quite right. It sounds mo=
re
dramatic, but after all what you want is facts. Very well. I broke into your
house that night to win a bet. That's the limpid truth."
McEachern was sta=
ring
at him. Jimmy proceeded.
"You are just
about to ask--what was Spike Mullins doing with me? Well, Spike had broken =
into
my flat an hour before, and I took him along with me as a sort of guide,
philosopher, and friend."
"Spike Mulli=
ns
said you were a burglar from England."
"I'm afraid =
I rather
led him to think so. I had been to see the opening performance of a
burglar-play called, 'Love, the Cracksman,' that night, and I worked off on
Spike some severely technical information I had received from a pal of mine=
who
played lead in the show. I told you when I came in that I had been talking =
to
Lord Dreever. Well, what he was saying to me was that he had met this very
actor man, a fellow called Mifflin--Arthur Mifflin--in London just before he
met me. He's in London now, rehearsing for a show that's come over from
America. You see the importance of this item? It means that, if you doubt my
story, all you need do is to find Mifflin--I forgot what theater his play is
coming on at, but you could find out in a second--and ask him to corroborat=
e.
Are you satisfied?"
McEachern did not
answer. An hour before, he would have fought to the last ditch for his beli=
ef
in Jimmy's crookedness; but the events of the last ten minutes had shaken h=
im.
He could not forget that it was Jimmy who had extricated him from a very
uncomfortable position. He saw now that that position was not so bad as it =
had
seemed at the time, for the establishing of the innocence of Mr. Galer could
have been effected on the morrow by an exchange of telegrams between the ca=
stle
and Dodson's Private Inquiry Agency; yet it had certainly been bad enough. =
But
for Jimmy, there would have been several hours of acute embarrassment, if
nothing worse. He felt something of a reaction in Jimmy's favor.
Still, it is hard=
to
overcome a deep-rooted prejudice in an instant. He stared doubtfully.
"See here, M=
r.
McEachern," said Jimmy, "I wish you would listen quietly to me fo=
r a
minute or two. There's really no reason on earth why we should be at one
another's throats in this way. We might just as well be friends. Let's shak=
e,
and call the fight off. I guess you know why I came in here to see you?&quo=
t;
McEachern did not
speak.
"You know th=
at
your daughter has broken off her engagement to Lord Dreever?"
"Then, he was
right!" said McEachern, half to himself. "It is you?"
Jimmy nodded. McEachern drummed his fingers on the table, and gazed thoughtfully at him.<= o:p>
"Is
Molly--?" he said at length. "Does Molly--?"
"Yes," =
said
Jimmy.
McEachern continu=
ed
his drumming. "Don't think there's been anything underhand about
this," said Jimmy. "She absolutely refused to do anything unless =
you
gave your consent. She said you had been partners all her life, and she was
going to do the square thing by you."
"She did?&qu=
ot;
said McEachern, eagerly.
"I think you
ought to do the square thing by her. I'm not much, but she wants me. Do the
square thing by her."
He stretched out =
his
hand, but he saw that the other did not notice the movement. McEachern was
staring straight in front of him. There was a look in his eyes that Jimmy h=
ad
never seen there before, a frightened, hunted look. The rugged aggressivene=
ss
of his mouth and chin showed up in strange contrast. The knuckles of his
clenched fists were white.
"It's too
late," he burst out. "I'll be square with her now, but it's too l=
ate.
I won't stand in her way when I can make her happy. But I'll lose her! Oh, =
my
God, I'll lose her!"
He gripped the ed=
ge
of the table.
"Did you thi=
nk I
had never said to myself," he went on, "the things you said to me
that day when we met here? Did you think I didn't know what I was? Who shou=
ld
know it better than myself? But she didn't. I'd kept it from her. I'd sweat=
for
fear she would find out some day. When I came over here, I thought I was sa=
fe.
And, then, you came, and I saw you together. I thought you were a crook. Yo=
u were
with Mullins in New York. I told her you were a crook."
"You told her
that!"
"I said I kn=
ew
it. I couldn't tell her the truth--why I thought so. I said I had made
inquiries in New York, and found out about you."
Jimmy saw now. The
mystery was solved. So, that was why Molly had allowed them to force her in=
to
the engagement with Dreever. For a moment, a rush of anger filled him; but =
he
looked at McEachern, and it died away. He could not be vindictive now. It w=
ould
be like hitting a beaten man. He saw things suddenly from the other's view-=
point,
and he pitied him.
"I see,"=
; he
said, slowly.
McEachern gripped=
the
table in silence.
"I see,"
said Jimmy again. "You mean, she'll want an explanation."
He thought for a
moment.
"You must te=
ll
her," he said, quickly. "For your own sake, you must tell her. Go=
and
do it now. Wake up, man!" He shook him by the shoulder. "Go and d=
o it
now. She'll forgive you. Don't be afraid of that. Go and look for her, and =
tell
her now."
McEachern roused =
himself.
"I will,&quo=
t;
he said.
"It's the on=
ly
way," said Jimmy.
McEachern opened =
the
door, then fell back a pace. Jimmy could hear voices in the passage outside=
. He
recognized Lord Dreever's.
McEachern continu=
ed
to back away from the door.
Lord Dreever ente=
red,
with Molly on his arm.
"Hullo,"
said his lordship, looking round. "Hullo, Pitt! Here we all are,
what?"
"Lord Dreever
wanted to smoke," said Molly.
She smiled, but t=
here
was anxiety in her eyes. She looked quickly at her father and at Jimmy.
"Molly, my
dear," said McEachern huskily, "I to speak to you for a moment.&q=
uot;
Jimmy took his
lordship by the arm.
"Come along,
Dreever," he said. "You can come and sit out with me. We'll go and
smoke on the terrace."
They left the room
together.
"What does t=
he
old boy want?" inquired his lordship. "Are you and Miss
McEachern--?"
"We are,&quo=
t;
said Jimmy.
"By Jove, I =
say,
old chap! Million congratulations, and all that sort of rot, you know!"=
;
"Thanks,&quo=
t;
said Jimmy. "Have a cigarette?"
His lordship had =
to
resume his duties in the ballroom after awhile; but Jimmy sat on, smoking a=
nd
thinking. The night was very still. Now and then, a sparrow would rustle in=
the
ivy on the castle wall, and somewhere in the distance a dog was barking. The
music had begun again in the ball-room. It sounded faint and thin where he =
sat.
In the general
stillness, the opening of the door at the top of the steps came sharply to =
his
ears. He looked up. Two figures were silhouetted for a moment against the
light, and then the door closed again. They began to move slowly down the
steps.
Jimmy had recogni=
zed
them. He got up. He was in the shadow. They could not see him. They began to
walk down the terrace. They were quite close now. Neither was speaking; but,
presently when they were but a few feet away, they stopped. There was the
splutter of a match, and McEachern lighted a cigar. In the yellow light, his
face was clearly visible. Jimmy looked, and was content.
He edged softly
toward the shrubbery at the end of the terrace, and, entering it without a
sound, began to make his way back to the house.
CHAPTER XXX - CONCLUSION<=
/span>
The American liner, St. Louis, lay =
in the
Empress Dock at Southampton, taking aboard her passengers. All sorts and
conditions of men flowed in an unceasing stream up the gangway.
Leaning over the
second-class railing, Jimmy Pitt and Spike Mullins watched them thoughtfull=
y.
Jimmy looked up at
the Blue Peter that fluttered from the fore-mast, and then at Spike. The Bo=
wery
boy's face was stolid and expressionless. He was smoking a short wooden pipe
with an air of detachment.
"Well,
Spike," said Jimmy. "Your schooner's on the tide now, isn't it? Y=
our
vessel's at the quay. You've got some queer-looking fellow-travelers. Don't
miss the two Cingalese sports, and the man in the turban and the baggy
breeches. I wonder if they're air-tight. Useful if he fell overboard."=
"Sure,"
said Spike, directing a contemplative eye toward the garment in question.
"He knows his business."
"I wonder wh=
at
those men on the deck are writing. They've been scribbling away ever since =
we
came here. Probably, society journalists. We shall see in next week's paper=
s:
'Among the second-class passengers, we noticed Mr. "Spike" Mullin=
s,
looking as cheery as ever.' It's a pity you're so set on going, Spike. Why =
not
change your mind, and stop?"
For a moment, Spi=
ke
looked wistful. Then, his countenance resumed its woodenness. "Dere ai=
n't
no use for me dis side, boss," he said. "New York's de spot. Youse
don't want none of me, now you're married. How's Miss Molly, boss?"
"Splendid,
Spike, thanks. We're going over to France by to-night's boat."
"It's been a
queer business," Jimmy continued, after a pause, "a deuced-queer
business! Still, I've come very well out of it, at any rate. It seems to me
that you're the only one of us who doesn't end happily, Spike. I'm married.
McEachern's butted into society so deep that it would take an excavating pa=
rty
with dynamite to get him out of it. Molly--well, Molly's made a bad bargain,
but I hope she won't regret it. We're all going some, except you. You're go=
ing
out on the old trail again--which begins in Third Avenue, and ends in Sing =
Sing.
Why tear yourself away, Spike?"
Spike concentrated
his gaze on a weedy young emigrant in a blue jersey, who was having his eye
examined by the overworked doctor and seemed to be resenting it.
"Dere's nutt=
in'
doin' dis side, boss," he said, at length. "I want to git busy.&q=
uot;
"Ulysses
Mullins!" said Jimmy, looking at him curiously. "I know the feeli=
ng.
There's only one cure. I sketched it out for you once, but I guess you'll n=
ever
take it. Yon don't think a lot of women, do you? You're the rugged
bachelor."
"Goils--!&qu=
ot;
began Spike comprehensively, and abandoned the topic without dilating on it
further.
Jimmy lighted his
pipe, and threw the match overboard.
The sun came out =
from
behind a cloud, and the water sparkled.
"Dose were g=
reat
jools, boss," said Spike, thoughtfully.
"I believe
you're still brooding over them, Spike."
"We could ha=
ve
got away wit' dem, if youse would have stood fer it. Dead easy."
"You are
brooding over them. Spike, I'll tell you something which will console you a
little, before you start out on your wanderings. It's in confidence, so kee=
p it
dark. That necklace was paste."
"What's
dat?"
"Nothing but
paste. I got next directly you handed them to me. They weren't worth a hund=
red
dollars."
A light of
understanding came into Spike's eyes. His face beamed with the smile of one=
to
whom dark matters are made clear.
"So, dat's w=
hy
you wouldn't stan' fer gittin' away wit' dem!" he exclaimed.