The Intrusion of Jimmy by P. G. Wodehouse (page 4)

“Don’t” he said; “for God’s sake, don’t! You mustn’t.”

“I must,” 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. You must break it off to-day.”

She shook her head. 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.

“What made you 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 understand now. You must know what you are to me. Do you think I shall let you–?”

A low growl of thunder rumbled through the stillness, like the muttering of a sleepy giant. The black 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 the 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 loved 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 read 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 wrenched herself away, struggling like some wild thing. The boat plunged.

“I can’t,” 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 cautiously forward, holding the rail, till he was at her side, and took her in his arms.

“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 don’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–” She stopped.

He waited.

“Yes?”

“Jimmy, my father wouldn’t–father–father–doesn’t–“

“Doesn’t like me?”

She nodded miserably.

A great wave of relief swept over Jimmy. He had imagined–he hardly knew what he had imagined: 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 learn to love me,” he said, lightly.

She looked at him hopelessly. He could not see; he could not understand. And how could she tell him? Her father’s words rang in her brain. He was “crooked.” He was “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,” he said. “It can’t be helped. He’ll come round. Once we’re married–“

“No, no. Oh, can’t you understand? I couldn’t, I couldn’t!”

Jimmy’s face whitened. 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,” she whispered.

A cold hand clutched 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 would 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 haunted. I should make you miserable. Every day, a hundred little things would remind 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, we’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 fragrance of past happiness.

“We have always 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 terribly 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 hurt 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 hell of unreasoning jealousy. He wanted her, body and soul, and every word she said 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 movement, and her intuition put her in touch with his thoughts.

“No, no,” she cried; “no, Jimmy, not that!”

Their eyes met, and 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 stop us now.”

The rain had ceased. 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 rose 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 could 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 the paddle.

“We must be getting back,” he said. “I wonder what the time is. I wish we could stay out forever. But it must be late. Molly!”

“Yes?”

“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 voice 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 PICQTUET

Lord Dreever, meanwhile, having left 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 with 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 girl 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 young man, but, examining his position as he walked along, he found himself wondering whether it was not a little unheroic. He came to the conclusion that perhaps 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 thousands 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 boggled 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 the 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, drawing 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 that now money must surely get a shade less tight. Extracting the precious ore from 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 leaden.

He looked round him 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-collar, and ran.

As he drew near, he heard a slow and dirge-like whistling proceeding from the interior. Plunging in out of breath, just as the deluge began, he found Hargate seated at the little 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 adopted the alternative of merely refusing invitations to play billiards.

“Hello, Hargate,” said his lordship. “Isn’t it coming down, by Jove!”

Hargate glanced up, 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 moment, 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 the table, and put it on top of the other one. Throughout the performance, he whistled painfully.

His lordship regarded his guest with annoyance.

“That looks frightfully exciting,” he said, disparagingly. “What are you playing at? Patience?”

Hargate nodded again, this time without looking up.

“Oh, don’t sit 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, and 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 before 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 between his jaws.

“I–I shouldn’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 exactly 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 playing. 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 fellow the impression that he knew all there was to be known about picquet. Of course, 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 later, 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 conscience 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 frightfully pleased. Only, remember I warned you.”

“I’ll bear it in mind. By the way, before we start, care to make it a sovereign a hundred?”

Lord Dreever could not afford to play picquet for a soverign 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, made 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 struck 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 stroll. I want to have a talk with you.”

“Oh!” said Lord Dreever.

His air did not belie his feelings. He looked pensive, and was pensive. It was deuced awkward, this twenty pounds business.

Hargate was watching him covertly. It was his business to know other people’s business, and he knew 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 stand 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 know. I don’t.”

“Oh?” said 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 billiards 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 one; 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 to stop indefinitely, I suppose? If you left, he’d have to, too. What you must do is 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 flush 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 composition, 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 add 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?” 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 Pitt. 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 think 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 understate it, my dear man.”

“–but I’m not a cad.”

“You’re getting 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 you to pay the twenty pounds, all right. You mentioned to-morrow? That will suit me. 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 back 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 exceedingly unpleasant for him if he failed. A debt of honor was not a thing to be trifled with.

But he felt quite safe. He knew he could get the money when he pleased. It showed, he reflected 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 the 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 met Saunders.

“I have been looking for your lordship,” said the butler.

“Eh? Well, here I am.”

“Just so, your lordship. Miss McEachern entrusted me with this note to deliver to you in the 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 any 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 sainted aunt!” he moaned, clutching at the banisters. “Now, I am in the soup!”

CHAPTER XXI

LOATHSOME GIFTS

There are doubtless men so constructed 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 perhaps predominant. Blended with this is relief, the relief of a general who has brought 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 added a newly born sense of magnificence. Our suspicion that we were something rather 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 engagement, 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 strain.

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 disturbed him. That the relations between Mr. McEachern and himself offered a permanent 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. They 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 that 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 dance. His face seemed to glow beneath his crimson hair.

“Well,” said Jimmy, “and how goes the world with young Lord Fitz- Mullins? Spike, 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 goes off and mayries the first bridesmaid, and lives happily ever.”

Spike shook his head.

“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 heresy. 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 any 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 mean 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 little 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 pleeceman!’ 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 having 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. She married a cop.”

“She wasn’t worthy of you, Spike,” said Jimmy, sympathetically. “A girl capable 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 doings 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, into 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 have. What I mean is, have you talked at all with that valet man, the one you think 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 getting 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 Spike 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, lie coco’s still buzzin’. Sure t’ing! Why, say, when I was to Sir Tummas’ 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 Thomas’s dressing-room! What the–“

Spike looked somewhat embarrassed. He grinned apologetically, and shuffled his feet.

“I’ve got dem, boss!” he said, with a smirk.

“Got them? Got what?”

“Dese.”

Spike plunged a hand in a pocket, and drew forth in a glittering mass Lady Julia Blunt’s rope of diamonds.

CHAPTER XXII

TWO OF A TRADE DISAGREE

“One hundred t’ousand plunks,” murmured Spike, gazing lovingly at them. “I says to myself, de boss ain’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 tickled to deat’, all right, all right, if we can git away wit’ dem. So, I–“

Jimmy gave tongue with an energy that amazed his faithful follower. The nightmare horror of the 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 listened. Not even in the Bowery, full as it was of candid friends, had he listened to 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!” 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 tell you there was nothing doing when you wanted to take those things the other day?”

Spike’s face cleared. As he had suspected, Jimmy had missed the point.

“Why, say, boss, yes. Sure! But dose was little, dinky t’ings. Of course, youse wouldn’t stand 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?”

“Will you listen 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, perhaps, 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 you 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 the 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 could imagine the Bowery boy being a charming companion. How pleasantly, for instance, such remarks as that last would while away the monotony of a padded cell!

“But, laddie,” he said with steely affection, “listen once more. Reflect! 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-hound 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, boss, 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 an’ arrest each other.”

Jimmy moodily revised 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,” said Jimmy, soothingly. ” I quite understand.”

“It’s dis way, 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’ sleut’s, an’ now one of dem’s bin an’ taken de odder off, an'”–there were tears of innocent joy in Spike’s eyes– “an’ locked him into de coal-cellar.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

Spike giggled helplessly.

“Listen, boss. It’s dis way. Gee! It beat de band! When it’s all dark ‘cos of de storm comin’ 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 coitain at de side of de room. Dere’s dude suits an’ t’ings hangin’ behind it. I chases 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 down an’ out, chase meself fer de soivants’ hall.”

“Yes?” said Jimmy.

“Well, dis guy, 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 gazebos 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’inkin’ 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–“

Jimmy burst into a roar of laughter.

“Don’t, Spike! This is more than man was meant to stand. Do you mean to tell me it is my bright, 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 has a right to be such a consumate ass as Galer. It isn’t decent.”

There had been moments when McEachern’s faithful employee had filled Jimmy with an odd sort 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 life 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 sort 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 detective.

“Go on,” he said.

Spike proceeded.

“Well, de odder 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, after 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’ing 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 vally 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 Denmark,’ 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 mug says, ‘Nix on dat! I ain’t goin’ to chase around de house wit’ youse, lookin’ fer Mr. McEachern. It’s youse fer de coal-cellar, me man, an’ we’ll see what 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 eyes.

“Have you ever heard of poetic justice, Spike?” he asked. “This is it. But, in this hour of mirth and good-will, we must not forget–“

Spike interrupted. Pleased by the enthusiastic reception of his narrative, he proceeded to point out the morals that were to be deduced there-from.

“So, youse see, boss,” he said, “it’s all to de merry. When dey rubbers for de jools, an’ finds dem gone, dey’ll t’ink dis Galer guy swiped dem. Dey won’t t’ink of us.”

Jimmy looked at the 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 sprang at him. Naturally, they’ll think that he took the jewels. Especially, as they won’t find them on him. A man who can open a locked safe through a closed door 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 more 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 looked disturbed.

“I didn’t t’ink of dat, boss,” he admitted.

“Of course not. 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 back, boss!”

“What else would 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 workmanship was merely the equivalent of so many “plunks”; but he knew that there 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 Thomas 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 cleared the air of sleuth-hounds a little.”

CHAPTER XXIII

FAMILY JARS

Hildebrand Spencer Poynt de Burgh John 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 him. 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 one 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 apt 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 him 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 during which Perseus, concentrating his gaze upon the monster, did not see Andromeda; 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 upon 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 meantime 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 those 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 liabilities 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 latter 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 with 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 luxury of a handsome allowance. This was the golden age, when Sir Thomas Blunt, being, so to speak, new to the job, and feeling that, having reached the best circles, he must live up to them, had scattered largesse lavishly. For two years after his marriage with Lady Julia, he had maintained this admirable standard, crushing his natural parsimony. He had regarded the money so spent as capital 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 allowance 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 features may exceed the limits of the handsomest allowance. His lordship’s face during a game of poker was like the surface of some quiet pond, ruffled by every breeze. 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 good 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 more 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 allowance 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.

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 preposterous for one to whom she had declined to remain engaged. It is these subtle shades of meaning that make the English language so full of pitfalls for the foreigner.

So engrossed was his lordship in his meditations that a voice spoke at his elbow ere he became aware of Sir Thomas himself, standing by his side.

“Well, Spennie, 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 entertain 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 human kindness gurgling and splashing within him. The irony of fate! Tonight, such was his mood, a dutiful nephew could have come and felt in his pockets and helped himself–if circumstances had been different. Oh, woman, woman, how you bar us from paradise!

His lordship gurgled 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 caught by the envelope that Spennie had dropped. A momentary lapse from the jovial and benevolent was the result. His fussy little soul abhorred small untidinesses.

“Dear me,” 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–” began 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 delightful! Girls must have their little romance! I suppose you two young people are exchanging love-letters all day. Delightful, quite delightful! Don’t look as 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 cannot 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 was:

“Uncle, can you let me have twenty pounds?”

Those were his amazing words. They slipped out. He could not stop them.

Sir Thomas was taken aback for an instant, but not seriously. He started, as might a man who, stroking a cat, receives a sudden, but trifling scratch.

“Twenty pounds, eh?” he said, reflectively.

Then, the milk of human kindness swept over displeasure like a tidal wave. This was a night for rich gifts to the deserving.

“Why, certainly, my boy, certainly. Do you want it at once?”

His lordship replied 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 wall was completely hidden by the curtain behind which Spike had taken refuge that 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 muttered his thanks. Sir Thomas accepted the guttural acknowledgment with a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“I like a little touch like that,” he said.

His lordship looked startled.

“I wouldn’t have touched you,” he began, “if it hadn’t been–“

“A little touch 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 impromptu 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 directly after dinner.

He left the room. The flutter of a skirt caught his eye as he reached the landing. A girl was coming 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, there was an awkward pause.

“Er–I got your note,” said his lordship.

She looked at him, and then burst out laughing.

“You know, you 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 that I don’t–I mean, look here, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be the best of pals.”

“Why, of course, there isn’t.”

“No, really, I say? That’s ripping. Shake hands on it.”

They clasped hands; and it was in this affecting attitude that Sir Thomas Blunt, bustling downstairs, discovered them.

“Aha!” he cried, archly. “Well, well, well! But don’t mind me, don’t mind me!”

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 meeting 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 timid 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, however, no use in prolonging the agony. Sir Thomas must be told, sooner or later. She was glad of the chance to tell him herself. She would be able to explain that it was all her doing.

“I’m afraid there’s a mistake,” she said.

“Eh?” said Sir Thomas.

“I’ve been thinking it over, and I came to the conclusion that we weren’t–well, I broke off the engagement!”

Sir Thomas’ always prominent eyes protruded still further. The color of his florid face deepened. Suddenly, he chuckled.

Molly looked at him, amazed. Sir Thomas was indeed behaving unexpectedly to-night.

“I see it,” 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,” cried Molly. “You’re wrong. You’re quite wrong. When you saw us, we were 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.

“S-s-so–” he stammered.

He gulped, and tried again.

“So this,” he said, “so this–! So that was what was in that letter, eh?”

Lord Dreever, a limp bundle against the banisters, smiled weakly.

“Eh?” yelled Sir Thomas.

His lordship started convulsively.

“Er, yes,” he said, “yes, yes! That was it, don’t you know!”

Sir Thomas eyed his 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. Doubts 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. There was something behind this. It was not merely the breaking-off of the engagement that had roused Sir Thomas. He was not a just man, but he was just enough to be able to see that the blame was not Lord Dreever’s. There had been something more. She was puzzled.

In the hall, Saunders was standing, weapon in hand, about to beat the gong.

“Not yet,” snapped Sir Thomas. “Wait!”

Dinner had been ordered especially early that night because of the theatricals. The necessity 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!” he said.

His lordship wilted 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 again, of Blunt’s Stores, dealing with an erring employee.

“You know what 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 inform 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 money I gave you?”

“Oh, er–I wanted it for something.”

“Very possibly. 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 been gambling,” boomed Sit Thomas “Am I right?”

“No, no. I say, no, no. It wasn’t gambling. It was a game of skill. We were playing picquet.”

“Kindly refrain from quibbling. You lost this money at cards, then, as I supposed. Just so.”

He widened the space between his feet. He intensified his glare. He might have been posing to an illustrator of “Pilgrim’s Progress” for a picture of “Apollyon 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 that 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 common 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 face 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 silenced 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!” said Sir Thomas.

Saunders obeyed him, with the air of an unleashed hound.

“And now,” 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 more polished periods for use in public. In conversation with his immortal soul, he was wont to unbend somewhat.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE TREASURE SEEKER

Gloom wrapped his lordship about, during dinner, as with a garment. He owed twenty pounds. His assets amounted to seven shillings and four-pence. He thought, and thought again. Quite an intellectual 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 his elbow with the magic bottle; and to Spennie, emptying and re-emptying his glass almost mechanically, wine, the healer, brought an idea. To obtain twenty pounds from any one person of his acquaintance was impossible. To divide the twenty 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 influenza. 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 time, had extracted small loans from most of his male acquaintances, rarely repaying the same. He had a tendency to forget that he had borrowed half-a-crown here 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 without 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 which, as Lord Herbert, he was to wear in the first act.

There is a good deal 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 mind 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 him that it was the only course possible, unless he were to grovel before Hargate 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 means. 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 simple. 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, receiving 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 had 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, dash it all!

He shot his cuffs fiercely. The British Lion was roused.

A man’s first crime 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 houses with the finish of experts. But these are isolated cases. The average tyro lacks generalship altogether. Spennie Dreever may be cited as a typical novice. It did not strike him that inquiries might be instituted by Sir Thomas, when he found the money gone, and that suspicion might conceivably fall upon himself. Courage may be born of champagne, but rarely prudence.

The theatricals began 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 addition 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, and 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 until 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 appeared 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 had disappeared.

“Spennie,” 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, however, 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 went to the dressing-table. The drawer was locked, but in his present mood Spennie, like Love, laughed at locksmiths. He grasped the handle, and threw his weight 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 the notes, frowning fiercely the while, when he heard a cry of surprise from behind him.

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 reached 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 curvetting 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 been hoping for a chance of seeing Spennie alone. She had not failed to notice his 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 his 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 had 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 knew 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 pursuing, she followed on his trail, and arrived in the doorway just as the pistol-report of the burst lock rang out.

She stood looking at him blankly. He was holding a drawer in one hand. Why, she could not imagine.

“Lord Dreever!” she exclaimed.

The somber determination of his lordship’s face melted into a twisted, but kindly smile.

“Good!” he said, perhaps a trifle thickly. “Good! Glad you’ve come. We’re pals. You said so–on stairs–b’fore dinner. Very glad you’ve come. Won’t you sit down?”

He waved the drawer 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 feet.

She stooped and picked it up. When she saw what it was, her bewilderment increased.

“But–but–” she said.

His lordship beamed–upon her with a pebble-beached smile of indiscribable good-will.

“Sit down,” he urged. “We’re pals.–No quol with you. You’re good friend. Quol–Uncle 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–?”

“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 didn’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 raised his eyebrows.

“Wanted touch him twenty of the best,” he explained, simply.

For the life of her, Molly could not help laughing.

“Don’t laugh,” protested his lordship, wounded. “No joke. Serious. Honor at stake.”

He removed the three notes, and replaced the drawer.

“Honor of the Dreevers!” he added, pocketing the money.

Molly was horrified.

“But, Lord Dreever!” she cried. “You can’t! You musn’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 wagged 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 soothingly.

“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 appointment.

“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 gently 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 there is, Spennie, dear. I’m so glad you see! There they all are, safe again in the 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 sound 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 behind 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!”

She sprang to the curtain, and slipped noiselessly behind it.

“But, I say–!” began his lordship.

“Hush!” She gripped his arm. He subsided.

The footsteps had halted outside the door. Then, the handle turned softly. The door opened, and closed again with hardly a sound.

The footsteps passed on into the room.

CHAPTER XXV

EXPLANATIONS

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 had not been won without a struggle. The baronet on his return to England had published 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 views. 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 having to dress. He cursed the authority on “Modern America and Its People” 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 along the swells. It would be the work of a few moments only to restore the necklace 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 owner till the conclusion of the theatricals. The part that Lady Julia had been persuaded by Charteris to play mercifully contained no scope for the display 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. Jimmy 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 him minute directions as to the position of the jewel-box. He found it without difficulty. To his untrained eye, it seemed tolerably massive and impregnable, but Spike had evidently known how to open it without much difficulty. The lid 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 coming on!” he said.

He was dangling the 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 Molly came out.

“Jimmy!” she cried.

Jimmy’s nerves were 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 depths 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 head in a coat or something,” he explained at large. “Hullo, Pitt!”

Pressed rigidly against the wall, Molly had listened with growing astonishment to the movements 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 be, 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 hand, over some dark object in the corner of the room.

It was a full minute after Jimmy’s first exclamation of surprise before either of them spoke again. 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 moved. 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 hurting my eyes,” she said, at last.

“I’m sorry,” said Jimmy. “I didn’t think. Is that better?” He turned the light from her face. Something in his voice and the apologetic haste with which he moved the torch seemed to relax the strain of