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 indescribable 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 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 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.
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 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 began to tear at her nerves. She felt along the wall for the switch, and flooded the whole room with light.
Jimmy laid down the torch, and stood for a moment, undecided. He had concealed the necklace behind 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, having 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.
"Jimmy! You were—oh, you can't have been!"
"Looks jolly like it!" said his lordship, judicially.
"I wasn't," said Jimmy. "I was putting them back."
"Putting them back?"
"Pitt, old man," said his lordship solemnly, "that sounds a bit thin."
"Dreever, old man," said Jimmy. "I know it does. But it's the truth."
His lordship's manner became kindly.
"Now, look here, Pitt, old son," he said, "there's nothing to worry about. We're all pals here. You can pitch it straight to us. We won't give you away. We—"
"Be quiet!" cried Molly. "Jimmy!"
Her voice was strained. She spoke with an effort. She was suffering torments. The words her 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 water?"
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 trod on it.
"What ho!" 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 that 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 everything. 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 going 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! Molly 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 show, 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, this 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 friend 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 out with Mullins, and did break into a house. I wasn't in the mood to think what 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 was this one.
"Pitt, old man," said his lordship, shaking his head, more in sorrow than in anger, "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 him suddenly, cutting short his views on the ethics of gentlemanly theft in a blaze of indignation.
"What do you mean?" she cried. "Do you think I don't believe every word Jimmy has said?"
His lordship jumped.
"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 looked 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 were 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 her 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 Jimmy. Jimmy was still apparently unconscious of his presence.
His lordship coughed.
"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 asking 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 believed Jimmy to be of the class of the hero of "Love, the Cracksman." There 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 remark 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 playing picquet like a professor when you were in short frocks. He's a wonder at it."
His lordship started.
"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 Mifflin 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 genius at crisp description," said Jimmy. "You've got him summed up to rights first shot."
"I sha'n't pay him a bally penny!"
"Of course not. If he makes any objection, refer him to me."
His lordship's relief was extreme. The more overpowering effects of the elixir had passed away, and he saw now, what he had not seen in his more exuberant frame of mind, the cloud of suspicion that must have hung over him when the loss of the banknotes was discovered.
He wiped his forehead.
"By Jove!" 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 the curtain, like a rabbit. The drapery had only just ceased to shake when the door opened, and Sir Thomas Blunt walked in.
For a man whose intentions toward the jewels and their owner were so innocent, and even benevolent, Jimmy was in a singularly compromising position. It would have been difficult even under more favorable conditions to have explained to Sir Thomas's satisfaction his presence in the 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 carpet, 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 struggling to find words to cope with so special a situation, and felt rather sorry for him. 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-evening," he said, pleasantly.
Sir Thomas stammered. He was gradually nearing speech.
"What—what—what—" he said.
"Out with it," said Jimmy.
"—what—"
"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, with 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. Evidently, 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 appearances, 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," 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. Arthur 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 prepared 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 over 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 mind, personally," interrupted Jimmy, "but I hope, if ever you mix with cracksmen, you won't go calling them thieves. They are frightfully sensitive. 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 probably 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 etiquette. 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," said Jimmy, "is, as you see, in my pocket. I always shoot from the pocket, 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 ever been hit in the diamond solitaire, and survived. My finger is on the trigger. 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."
Sir Thomas's hand wavered.
"Do if you like, 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 this joyful occasion. I shall just smash your knees. Painful, but not fatal."
He waggled the pipe 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 theatricals 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 backed 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 addressed 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 let 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 hardly 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 head.
"I fear not," he said. "If I had chosen an alias, it would have been Tressilyan, or Trevelyan, or something. I call Pitt a poor thing in names. I once knew a man called Ronald Cheylesmore. Lucky devil!"
Sir Thomas returned 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?" said 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?"
Sir Thomas raised his eyebrows in silence.
"No?" said Jimmy. "I was afraid not. You were saying—?"
"I find you in the act of stealing my wife's necklace," proceeded Sir Thomas, "and, because for the moment you succeed in postponing arrest by threatening me with 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 blame. 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—you—"
"Count ten!"
"You—what you propose to gain by this buffoonery, I am at a loss—"
"How can you say such savage things!" protested Jimmy. "Not buffoonery! Wit! Esprit! 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 besides the revol—well, pipe—why you should not ring that bell. One of them is that 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 could be further—"
"You fancy you 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 play an important part in a great drama on the stage?"
"I'll keep you here, I tell you. You'll leave this room," said Sir Thomas, grandly, "over my body."
"Steeple-chasing 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 like 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 out 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!"