[Transcriber's note: _The Gem Collector_ was revised and republishedin 1910 as _The Intrusion of Jimmy_, also known as _A Gentleman ofLeisure_. This version, as published in _Ainslee's_, had two chaptersheaded "Chapter XVIII" and ended with "Chapter XIX"; the last twochapters are now labelled "Chapter XIX" and "Chapter XX. " The word"pubrescent" in Chapter VI has been changed to "putrescent. "]

THE GEM COLLECTOR

By P. G. WODEHOUSE

Published in _Ainslee's Magazine_, December 1909. 

CHAPTER I. 

The supper room of the Savoy Hotel was all brightness and glitter andgayety. But Sir James Willoughby Pitt, baronet, of the United Kingdom, looked round about him through the smoke of his cigarette, and feltmoodily that this was a flat world, despite the geographers, and thathe was very much alone in it. 

He felt old. 

If it is ever allowable for a young man of twenty-six to give himselfup to melancholy reflections, Jimmy Pitt might have been excused fordoing so, at that moment. Nine years ago he had dropped out, or, toput it more exactly, had been kicked out, and had ceased to belong toLondon. And now he had returned to find himself in a strange city. 

Jimmy Pitt's complete history would take long to write, for he hadcontrived to crowd much into those nine years. Abridged, it may betold as follows: There were two brothers, a good brother and a badbrother. Sir Eustace Pitt, the latter, married money. John, hisyounger brother, remained a bachelor. It may be mentioned, to checkneedless sympathy, that there was no rivalry between the two. JohnPitt had not the slightest desire to marry the lady of his brother'schoice, or any other lady. He was a self-sufficing man who from anearly age showed signs of becoming some day a financial magnate. 

Matters went on much the same after the marriage. John continued to goto the city, Eustace to the dogs. Neither brother had any money of hisown, the fortune of the Pitts having been squandered to the ultimatefarthing by the sportive gentleman who had held the title in the daysof the regency, when White's and the Cocoa Tree were in their prime, and fortunes had a habit of disappearing in a single evening. Fouryears after the marriage, Lady Pitt died, and the widower, havingspent three years and a half at Monte Carlo, working out an infalliblesystem for breaking the bank, to the great contentment of Mons. Blancand the management in general, proceeded to the gardens, where he shothimself in the orthodox manner, leaving many liabilities, few assets, and one son. 

The good brother, by this time a man of substance in Lombard Street, adopted the youthful successor to the title, and sent him to a seriesof schools, beginning with a kindergarten and ending with Eton. 

Unfortunately Eton demanded from Jimmy a higher standard of conductthan he was prepared to supply, and a week after his seventeenthbirthday, his career as an Etonian closed prematurely. John Pittthereupon delivered an ultimatum. Jimmy could choose between thesmallest of small posts in his uncle's business, and one hundredpounds in banknotes, coupled with the usual handwashing and disowning. Jimmy would not have been his father's son if he had not dropped atthe money. The world seemed full to him of possibilities for a youngman of parts with a hundred pounds in his pocket. 

He left for Liverpool that day, and for New York on the morrow. 

For the next nine years he is off the stage, which is occupied by hisUncle John, proceeding from strength to strength, now head partner, next chairman of the company into which the business had beenconverted, and finally a member of Parliament, silent as a wax figure, but a great comfort to the party by virtue of liberal contributions toits funds. 

It may be thought curious that he should make Jimmy his heir afterwhat had happened; but it is possible that time had softened hisresentment. Or he may have had a dislike for public charities, theonly other claimant for his wealth. At any rate, it came about thatJimmy, reading in a Chicago paper that if Sir James Willoughby Pitt, baronet, would call upon Messrs. Snell, Hazlewood, and Delane, solicitors, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, London, he would hear ofsomething to his advantage, had called and heard something very muchto his advantage. 

Wherefore we find him, on this night of July, supping in lonelymagnificence at the Savoy, and feeling at the moment far lessconscious of the magnificence than of the loneliness. 

Watching the crowd with a jaundiced eye, Jimmy had found his attentionattracted chiefly by a party of three a few tables away. The partyconsisted of a pretty girl, a lady of middle age and stately demeanor, plainly her mother, and a light-haired, weedy young man of abouttwenty. It had been the almost incessant prattle of this youth and thepeculiarly high-pitched, gurgling laugh which shot from him at shortintervals which had drawn Jimmy's notice upon them. And it was thecurious cessation of both prattle and laugh which now made him lookagain in their direction. 

The young man faced Jimmy; and Jimmy, looking at him, could see thatall was not well with him. He was pale. He talked at random. A slightperspiration was noticeable on his forehead. 

Jimmy caught his eye. There was a hunted look in it. 

Given the time and the place, there were only two things which couldhave caused that look. Either the light-haired young man had seen aghost, or he had suddenly realized that he had not enough money to paythe check. 

Jimmy's heart went out to the sufferer. He took a card from his case, scribbled the words, "Can I help?" on it, and gave it to a waiter totake to the young man, who was now in a state bordering on collapse. 

The next moment the light-haired one was at his table, talking in afeverish whisper. 

"I say, " he said, "it's frightfully good of you, old chap. It'sfrightfully awkward. I've come out with too little money. I hardlylike to--What I mean to say is, you've never seen me before, and----"

"That's all right, " said Jimmy. "Only too glad to help. It might havehappened to any one. Will this be enough?"

He placed a five-pound note on the table. The young man grabbed at itwith a rush of thanks. 

"I say, thanks fearfully, " he said. "I don't know what I'd have done. I'll let you have it back to-morrow. Here's my card. Blunt's my name. Spennie Blunt. Is your address on your card? I can't remember. Oh, byJove, I've got it in my hand all the time. " The gurgling laugh cameinto action again, freshened and strengthened by its rest. "SavoyMansions, eh? I'll come round to-morrow. Thanks, frightfully, againold chap. I don't know what I should have done. "

He flitted back to his table, bearing the spoil, and Jimmy, havingfinished his cigarette, paid his check, and got up to go. 

It was a perfect summer night. He looked at his watch. There was timefor a stroll on the Embankment before bed. 

He was leaning on the balustrade, looking across the river at thevague, mysterious mass of buildings on the Surrey side, when a voicebroke in on his thoughts. 

"Say, boss. Excuse me. "

Jimmy spun round. A ragged man with a crop of fiery red hair wasstanding at his side. The light was dim, but Jimmy recognized thathair. 

"Spike!" he cried. 

The other gaped, then grinned a vast grin of recognition. 

"Mr. Chames! Gee, dis cops de limit!"

Three years had passed since Jimmy had parted from Spike Mullins, RedSpike to the New York police, but time had not touched him. To Jimmyhe looked precisely the same as in the old New York days. 

A policeman sauntered past, and glanced curiously at them. He made asif to stop, then walked on. A few yards away he halted. Jimmy couldsee him watching covertly. He realized that this was not the place fora prolonged conversation. 

"Spike, " he said, "do you know Savoy Mansions?"

"Sure. Foist to de left across de way. "

"Come on there. I'll meet you at the door. We can't talk here. Thatcop's got his eye on us. "

He walked away. As he went, he smiled. The policeman's inspection hadmade him suddenly alert and on his guard. Yet why? What did it matterto Sir James Pitt, baronet, if the whole police force of Londonstopped and looked at him?

"Queer thing, habit, " he said, as he made his way across the road. 

CHAPTER II. 

A black figure detached itself from the blacker shadows, and shuffledstealthily to where Jimmy stood on the doorstep. 

"That you, Spike?" asked Jimmy, in a low voice. 

"Dat's right, Mr. Chames. "

"Come on in. "

He led the way up to his rooms, switched on the electric light, andshut the door. Spike stood blinking at the sudden glare. He twirledhis battered hat in his hands. His red hair shone fiercely. 

Jimmy inspected him out of the corner of his eye, and came to theconclusion that the Mullins finances must be at a low ebb. Spike'scostume differed in several important details from that of theordinary well-groomed man about town. There was nothing of the_flaneur_ about the Bowery boy. His hat was of the soft blackfelt, fashionable on the East Side of New York. It was in poorcondition, and looked as if it had been up too late the night before. A black tail coat, burst at the elbows, stained with mud, was tightlybuttoned across his chest. This evidently with the idea of concealingthe fact that he wore no shirt--an attempt which was not whollysuccessful. A pair of gray flannel trousers and boots out of which twotoes peeped coyly, completed the picture. 

Even Spike himself seemed to be aware that there were points in hisappearance which would have distressed the editor of a men's fashionpaper. 

"'Scuse dese duds, " he said. "Me man's bin an' mislaid de trunk wit'me best suit in. Dis is me number two. "

"Don't mention it, Spike, " said Jimmy. "You look like a matinee idol. Have a drink?"

Spike's eye gleamed as he reached for the decanter. He took a seat. 

"Cigar, Spike?"

"Sure. T'anks, Mr. Chames. "

Jimmy lit his pipe. Spike, after a few genteel sips, threw off hisrestraint and finished the rest of his glass at a gulp. 

"Try another, " suggested Jimmy. 

Spike's grin showed that the idea had been well received. 

Jimmy sat and smoked in silence for a while. He was thinking the thingover. He had met Spike Mullins for the first time in rather curiouscircumstances in New York, and for four years the other had followedhim with a fidelity which no dangers or hardships could affect. Whatever "Mr. Chames" did, said, or thought was to Spike the bestpossible act, speech, or reflection of which man was capable. For fouryears their partnership had continued, and then, conducting a littleadventure on his own account in Jimmy's absence, Spike had met withone of those accidents which may happen to any one. The police hadgathered him in, and he had passed out of Jimmy's life. 

What was puzzling Jimmy was the problem of what to do with him nowthat he had reëntered it. Mr. Chames was one man. Sir James WilloughbyPitt, baronet, another. On the other hand, Spike was plainly in lowwater, and must be lent a helping hand. 

Spike was looking at him over his glass with respectful admiration. Jimmy caught his eye, and spoke. 

"Well, Spike, " he said. "Curious, us meeting like this. "

"De limit, " agreed Spike. 

"I can't imagine you three thousand miles away from New York. How doyou know the cars still run both ways on Broadway?"

A wistful look came into Spike's eye. 

"I t'ought it was time I give old Lunnon a call. De cops seemed likeas if they didn't have no use for me in New York. Dey don't give deglad smile to a boy out of prison. "

"Poor old Spike, " said Jimmy, "you've had bad luck, haven't you?"

"Fierce, " agreed the other. 

"But whatever induced you to try for that safe without me? They werebound to get you. You should have waited. "

"Dat's right, boss, if I never says anudder word. I was a farmer forfair at de game wit'out youse. But I t'ought I'd try to do somet'ingso dat I'd have somet'ing to show youse when you come back. So I sayshere's dis safe and here's me, and I'll get busy wit' it, and den Mr. Chames will be pleased for fair when he gets back. So I has a try, anddey gets me while I'm at it. We'll cut out dat part. "

"Well, it's over now, at any rate. What have you been doing since youcame to England?"

"Gettin' moved on by de cops, mostly. An' sleepin' in de park. "

"Well, you needn't sleep in the park any more, Spike. You can pitchyour moving tent with me. And you'll want some clothes. We'll getthose to-morrow. You're the sort of figure they can fit off the peg. You're not too tall, which is a good thing. "

"Bad t'ing for me, Mr. Chames. If I'd bin taller I'd have stood forbeing a New York cop, and bin buying a brownstone house on FifthAvenue by this. It's de cops makes de big money in old Manhattan, dat's who it is. "

"You're right there, " said Jimmy. "At least, partly. I suppose halfthe New York force does get rich by graft. There are honest men amongthem, but we didn't happen to meet them. "

"That's right, we didn't. Dere was old man McEachern. "

"McEachern! Yes. If any of them got rich, he would be the man. He wasthe worst grafter of the entire bunch. I could tell you some storiesabout old Pat McEachern, Spike. If half those yarns were true he mustbe a wealthy man by now. We shall hear of him running for mayor one ofthese days. "

"Say, Mr. Chames, wasn't youse struck on de goil?"

"What girl?" said Jimmy quietly. 

"Old man McEachern's goil, Molly. Dey used to say dat youse was hersteady. "

"If you don't mind, Spike, friend of my youth, we'll cut out that, "said Jimmy. "When I want my affairs discussed I'll mention it. Tillthen--See?"

"Sure, " said Spike, who saw nothing beyond the fact, dimly realized, that he had said something which had been better left unsaid. 

Jimmy chewed the stem of his pipe savagely. Spike's words seemed tohave touched a spring and let loose feelings which he had kept downfor three years. Molly McEachern! So "they" used to say that he wasengaged to Molly. He cursed Spike Mullins in his heart, well-meaning, blundering Spike, who was now sitting on the edge of his chair drawingsorrowfully at his cigar and wondering what he had done to giveoffense. The years fell away from Jimmy, and he was back in New York, standing at the corner of Forty-second Street with half an hour towait because the fear of missing her had sent him there too early;sitting in Central Park with her while the squirrels came down andbegged for nuts; walking--Damn Spike! They had been friends. Nothingmore. He had never said a word. Her father had warned her against him. Old Pat McEachern knew how he got his living, and could have put hishand on the author of half a dozen burglaries by which the police hadbeen officially "baffled". That had been his strong point. He hadnever left tracks. There was never any evidence. But McEachern knew, and he had intervened stormily when he came upon them together. AndMolly had stood up for him, till her father had apologized confusedly, raging inwardly the while at his helplessness. It was after that----

"Mr. Chames, " said Spike. 

Jimmy's wits returned. 

"Hullo?" he said. 

"Mr. Chames, what's doing here? Put me next to de game. Is it de oldlay? You'll want me wit' youse, I guess?"

Jimmy laughed, and shut the door on his dreams. 

"I'd quite forgotten I hadn't told you about myself, Spike. Do youknow what a baronet is?"

"Search me. What's de answer?"

"A baronet's the noblest work of man, Spike. I am one. Let wealth andcommerce, laws and learning--or is it art and learning?--die, butleave us still our old nobility. I'm a big man now, Spike, I can tellyou. "

"Gee!"

"My position has also the advantage of carrying a good deal of moneywith it. "

"Plunks!"

"You have grasped it. Plunks. Dollars. Doubloons. I line up with thethickwads now, Spike. I don't have to work to turn a dishonest pennyany longer. "

The horrid truth sank slowly into the other's mind. 

"Say! What, Mr. Chames? Youse don't need to go on de old lay no more?You're cutting it out for fair?"

"That's the idea. "

Spike gasped. His world was falling about his ears. Now that he hadmet Mr. Chames again he had looked forward to a long and prosperouspartnership in crime, with always the master mind behind him to directhis movements and check him if he went wrong. He had looked out uponthe richness of London, and he had said with Blücher: "What a city toloot!"

And here was his leader shattering his visions with a word. 

"Have another drink, Spike, " said the lost leader sympathetically. "It's a shock to you, I guess. "

"I t'ought, Mr. Chames----"

"I know you did, and I'm very sorry for you. But it can't be helped. _Noblesse oblige_, Spike. We of the old aristocracy mustn't do thesethings. We should get ourselves talked about. "

Spike sat silent, with a long face. Jimmy slapped him on the shoulder. 

"After all, " he said, "living honestly may be the limit, for all weknow. Numbers of people do it, I've heard, and enjoy themselvestremendously. We must give it a trial, Spike. We'll go out togetherand see life. Pull yourself together and be cheerful, Spike. "

After a moment's reflection the other grinned, howbeit faintly. 

"That's right, " said Jimmy Pitt. "You'll be the greatest success everin society. All you have to do is to brush your hair, look cheerful, and keep your hands off the spoons. For in society, Spike, theyinvariably count them after the departure of the last guest. "

"Sure, " said Spike, as one who thoroughly understood this sensibleprecaution. 

"And now, " said Jimmy, "we'll be turning in. Can you manage sleepingon the sofa for one night?"

"Gee, I've bin sleepin' on de Embankment all de last week. Dis is tode good, Mister Chames. "

CHAPTER III. 

In the days before the Welshman began to expend his surplus energy inplaying football, he was accustomed, whenever the monotony of hiseveryday life began to oppress him, to collect a few friends and makeraids across the border into England, to the huge discomfort of thedwellers on the other side. It was to cope with this habit that CorvenAbbey, in Shropshire, came into existence. It met a long-felt want. Ministering to the spiritual needs of the neighborhood in times ofpeace, it became a haven of refuge when trouble began. From all sidespeople poured into it, emerging cautiously when the marauders haddisappeared. 

In the whole history of the abbey there is but one instance recordedof a bandit attempting to take the place by storm, and the attack wasan emphatic failure. On receipt of one ladle full of molten lead, aimed to a nicety by John the Novice, who seems to have been anythingbut a novice at marksmanship, this warrior retired, done to a turn, tohis mountain fastnesses, and is never heard of again. He would seem, however, to have passed the word round among his friends, forsubsequent raiding parties studiously avoided the abbey, and a peasantwho had succeeded in crossing its threshold was for the futureconsidered to be "home" and out of the game. Corven Abbey, as aresult, grew in power and popularity. Abbot succeeded abbot, the lakeat the foot of the hill was restocked at intervals, the lichen grew onthe walls; and still the abbey endured. 

But time, assisted by his majesty, King Henry the Eighth, had done itswork. The monks had fled. The walls had crumbled, and in the twentiethcentury, the abbey was a modern country house, and the owner a richAmerican. 

Of this gentleman the world knew but little. That he had made money, and a good deal of it, was certain. His name, Patrick McEachern, suggested Irish parentage, and a slight brogue, noticeable, however, only in moments of excitement, supported this theory. He had arrivedin London some four years back, taken rooms at the Albany, and goneinto society. 

England still firmly believes that wealth accrues to every resident ofNew York by some mysterious process not understandable of the Briton. McEachern and his money were accepted by society without question. Hissolecisms, which at first were numerous, were passed over as so quaintand refreshing. People liked his rugged good humor. He speedily madefriends, among them Lady Jane Blunt, the still youthful widow of a manabout town, who, after trying for several years to live at the rate often thousand per annum with an income of two and a half, had finallygiven up the struggle and drank himself peacefully into the tomb, leaving her in sole charge of their one son, Spencer Archbald. 

Possibly because he was the exact antithesis of the late lamented, Lady Jane found herself drawn to Mr. McEachern. Whatever his faults, he had strength; and after her experience of married life with a weakman, Lady Jane had come to the conclusion that strength was the onlymale quality worth consideration. When a year later, McEachern'sdaughter, Molly, had come over, it was Lady Jane who took her underher wing and introduced her everywhere. 

In the fifth month of the second year of their acquaintance, Mr. McEachern proposed and was accepted. "The bridegroom, " said a societypaper, "is one of those typical captains of industry of whom ourcousins 'across the streak' can boast so many. Tall, muscular, square-shouldered, with the bulldog jaw and twinkling gray eye of theborn leader. You look at him and turn away satisfied. You have seen aman!"

Lady Jane, who had fallen in love with the abbey some years before, during a visit to the neighborhood, had prevailed upon hersquare-shouldered lord to turn his twinkling gray eye in thatdirection, and the captain of industry, with the remark that here, atlast, was a real bully old sure-fire English stately home, had sentdown builders and their like, not in single spies, but in battalions, with instructions to get busy. 

The results were excellent. A happy combination of deep purse on thepart of the employer and excellent taste on the part of the architecthad led to the erection of one of the handsomest buildings inShropshire. To stand on the hill at the back of the house was to see aview worth remembering. The lower portion of the hill, between thehouse and the lake, had been cut into broad terraces. The lake itself, with its island with the little boathouse in the centre, was a glimpseof fairyland. Mr. McEachern was not poetical, but he had secured ashis private sanctum a room which commanded this view. 

He was sitting in this room one evening, about a week after themeeting between Spennie and Jimmy Pitt at the Savoy. 

"See, here, Jane, " he was saying, "this is my point. I've been fixingup things in my mind, and this is the way I make it out. I reckonthere's no sense in taking risks when you needn't. You've a mightyhigh-toned bunch of guests here. I'm not saying you haven't. What Isay is, it would make us all feel more comfortable if we knew therewas a detective in the house keeping his eye skinned. I'm not alludingto any of them in particular, but how are we to know that all thesesocial headliners are on the level?"

"If you mean our guests, Pat, I can assure you that they are allperfectly honest. "

Lady Jane looked out of the window, as she spoke, at a group of thoseunder discussion. Certainly at the moment the sternest censor couldhave found nothing to cavil at in their movements. Some were playingtennis, some clock golf, and the rest were smoking. She had frequentlycomplained, in her gentle, languid way, of her husband's unhappilysuspicious nature. She could never understand it. For her part shesuspected no one. She liked and trusted everybody, which was thereason why she was so popular, and so often taken in. 

Mr. McEachern looked bovine, as was his habit when he was endeavoringto gain a point against opposition. 

"They may be on the level, " he said. "I'm not saying anything againstany one. But I've seen a lot of crooks in my time, and it's not theones with the low brows and the cauliflower ears that you want towatch for. It's the innocent Willies who look as if all they could dowas to lead the cotillon and wear bangles on their ankles. I've had alot to do with them, and it's up to a man that don't want to be stungnot to go by what a fellow looks like. "

"Really, Pat, dear, I sometimes think you ought to have been apoliceman. What _is_ the matter?"

"Matter?"

"You shouted. "

"Shouted? Not me. Spark from my cigar fell on my hand. "

"You know, you smoke too much, Pat, " said his wife, seizing theopening with the instinct which makes an Irishman at a fair hit everyhead he sees. 

"I'm all right, me dear. Faith, I c'u'd smoke wan hondred a day and noharm done. "

By way of proving the assertion he puffed out with increased vigor athis cigar. The pause gave him time to think of another argument, whichmight otherwise have escaped him. 

"When we were married, me dear Jane, " he said, "there was a detectivein the room to watch the presents. Two of them. I remimber seeing themat once. There go two of the boys, I said to mysilf. I mean, " he addedhastily, "two of the police force. "

"But detectives at wedding receptions are quite ordinary. Nobody mindsthem. You see, the presents are so valuable that it would be silly torisk losing them. "

"And are there not valuable things here, " asked McEacherntriumphantly, "which it would be silly to risk losing? And Sir Thomasis coming to-day with his wife. And you know what a deal of jewelryshe always takes about her. "

"Oh, Julia!" said Lady Jane, a little disdainfully. Her late husband'sbrother Thomas' wife was one of the few people to whom she objected. And, indeed, she was not alone in this prejudice. Few who had much todo with her did like Lady Blunt. 

"That rope of pearls of hers, " said Mr. McEachern, "cost fortythousand pounds, no less, so they say. "

"So she says. But if you were thinking of bringing down a detective towatch over Julia's necklace, Pat, you needn't trouble. I believe shetakes one about with her wherever she goes, disguised as Thomas'valet. "

"Still, me dear----"

"Pat, you're absurd, " laughed Lady Jane. "I won't have you litteringup the house with great, clumsy detectives. You must remember that youaren't in horrid New York now, where everybody you meet wants to robyou. Who is it that you suspect? Who is the--what is the word you'reso fond of? Crook. That's it. Who is the crook?"

"I don't want to mention names, " said McEachern cautiously, "and Icast no suspicions, but who is that pale, thin Willie who cameyesterday? The one that says the clever things that nobodyunderstands?"

"Lulu Wesson! Why, _Pat_rick! He's the most delightful boy. What_can_ you suspect him of?"

"I don't suspect him of anything. But you'll remimber what I wastelling about the sort of boy you want to watch. That's what that boyis. He may be the straightest ever, but if I was told there was acrook in the company, and wasn't put next who it was, he's the boythat would get my vote. "

"What dreadful nonsense you are talking, Pat. I believe you suspectevery one you meet. I suppose you will jump to the conclusion thatthis man whom Spennie is bringing down with him to-day is a criminalof some sort. "

"How's that? Spennie bringing a friend?"

There was not a great deal of enthusiasm in McEachern's voice. Hisstepson was not a young man whom he respected very highly. Spennieregarded his stepfather with nervous apprehension, as one who woulddeal with his shortcomings with a vigor and severity of which hismother was incapable. The change of treatment which had begun afterher marriage with the American had had an excellent effect upon him, but it had not been pleasant. As Nebuchadnezzar is reported to havesaid of his vegetarian diet, it may have been wholesome, but it wasnot good. McEachern, for his part, regarded Spennie as a boy who wouldget into mischief unless he had an eye fixed upon him. So he proceededto fix that eye. 

"Yes, I must be seeing Harding about getting the rooms ready. Spennie's friend is bringing his man with him. "

"Who is his friend?"

"He doesn't say. He just says he's a man he met in London. "

"H'm!"

"And what does that grunt mean, I should like to know? I believeyou've begun to suspect the poor man already, without seeing him. "

"I don't say I have. But a man can pick up strange people in London. "

"Pat, you're perfectly awful. I believe you suspect every one youmeet. What do you suspect me of, I wonder?"

"That's easy answered, " said McEachern. "Robbery from the person. "

"What have I stolen?"

"Me heart, me dear, " replied McEachern gallantly, with a vast grin. 

"After that, " said his wife, "I think I had better go. I had no ideayou could make such pretty speeches. Pat!"

"Well, me dear?"

"Don't send for that detective. It really wouldn't do. If it got aboutthat we couldn't trust our guests, we should never live it down. Youwon't, will you?"

"Very well, me dear. "

What followed may afford some slight clue to the secret of Mr. PatrickMcEachern's rise in the world. It certainly suggests singleness ofpurpose, which is one of the essentials of success. 

No sooner had the door closed behind Lady Jane than he went to hiswriting table, took pen and paper, and wrote the following letter:

 _To the Manager, Wragge's Detective Agency, _ _Holborn Bars, London, E. C. _

 Sir:

 With ref'ce to my last of the 28th ult. , I should be glad if you would send down immediately one of your best men. Am making arrangements to receive him. Shall be glad if you will instruct him as follows, viz. (a) that he shall stay at the village inn in character of American seeing sights of England and anxious to inspect the abbey; (b) that he shall call and ask to see me. I shall then recognize him as old New York friend, and move his baggage from above inn to the abbey. Yours faithfully, P. McEACHERN. 

 P. S. --Kindly not send a rube, but a real smart man. 

This brief but pregnant letter cost him some pains in its composition. He was not a ready writer. But he completed it at last to hissatisfaction. There was a crisp purity in the style which pleased him. He read it over, and put in a couple of commas. Then he placed it inan envelope, and lit another cigar. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Jimmy's acquaintance with Spennie Blunt had developed rapidly in thefew days following their first meeting. Spennie had called nextmorning to repay the loan, and two days later had invited Jimmy tocome down to Shropshire with him. Which invitation, Jimmy, bored withLondon, had readily accepted. Spike he had decided to take with him inthe rôle of valet. The Bowery boy was probably less fitted for thepost than any one has ever been since the world began; but it wouldnot do to leave him at Savoy Mansions. 

It had been arranged that they should meet Spennie at Paddingtonstation. Accompanied by Spike, who came within an ace of lookingalmost respectable in new blue serge, Jimmy arrived at Paddington witha quarter of an hour to spare. Nearly all London seemed to be at thestation, with the exception of Spennie. Of that light-haired andhearted youth there were no signs. But just as the train was about tostart, the missing one came skimming down the platform and hurledhimself in. For the first ten minutes he sat panting. At theconclusion of that period, he spoke. 

"Dash it!" he said. "I've suddenly remembered I never telegraphed hometo let 'em know what train we were coming by. Now what'll happen isthat there won't be anything at Corven to meet us and take us up tothe abbey. And you can't get a cab. They don't grow such things. "

"How far is it to walk?"

"Five solid miles. And uphill most of the way. And I've got a badfoot!"

"As a matter of fact, " said Jimmy, "it's just possible that we shallbe met, after all. While I was waiting for you at Paddington I heard aman asking if he had to change for Corven. He may be going to theabbey, too. "

"What sort of a looking man?"

"Tall. Thin. Rather a wreck. "

"Probably my Uncle Thomas. Frightful man. Always trying to roast achap, don't, you know. Still, there's one consolation. If it is UncleThomas, they'll have sent the automobile for him. I shouldn't thinkhe'd ever walked more than a hundred yards in his natural, not at astretch. He generally stays with us in the summer. I wonder if he'sbringing Aunt Julia with him. You didn't see her, I suppose, by anychance? Tall, and talks to beat the band. He married her for hermoney, " concluded Spennie charitably. 

"Isn't she attractive, either?"

"Aunt Julia, " said Spennie with feeling, "is the absolute limit. Waittill you see her. Sort of woman who makes you feel that your hands arethe color of a frightful tomato and the size of a billiard table, ifyou know what I mean. By gad, though, you should see her jewels. It'sperfectly beastly the way that woman crams them on. She's got one ropeof pearls which is supposed to have cost forty thousand pounds. Lookout for it to-night at dinner. It's worth seeing. "

Jimmy Pitt was distressed to feel distinct symptoms of a revival ofthe Old Adam as he listened to these alluring details. It was trying areformed man a little high, he could not help thinking with someindignation, to dangle forty thousand pounds' worth of pearls beforehis eyes over the freshly turned sods of the grave of his past. It wasthe sort of test which might have shaken the resolution of the oldestestablished brand from the burning. 

He could not keep his mind from dwelling on the subject. Even the factthat--commercially--there was no need for him to think of such thingscould not restrain him. He was rich now, and could afford to behonest. He tried to keep that fact steadily before him, but instinctwas too powerful. His operations in the old days had never beenconducted purely with an eye to financial profit. He had collectedgems almost as much for what they were as for what they could bring. Many a time had the faithful Spike bewailed the flaw in an otherwiseadmirable character, which had induced his leader to keep a portion ofthe spoil instead of converting it at once into good dollar bills. Ithad had to go sooner or later, but Jimmy had always clung to it aslong as possible. To Spike a diamond brooch of cunning workmanship wasmerely the equivalent of so many "plunks". That a man, otherwise morethan sane, should value a jewel for its own sake was to him aninexplicable thing. 

Jimmy was still deep in thought when the train, which had been takingitself less seriously for the last half hour, stopping at stations ofquite minor importance and generally showing a tendency to dawdle, halted again. A board with the legend "Corven" in large letters showedthat they had reached their destination. 

"Here we are, " said Spennie. "Hop out. Now what's the betting thatthere isn't room for all of us in the bubble?"

From farther down the train a lady and gentleman emerged. 

"That's the man. Is that your uncle?" said Jimmy. 

"Guilty, " said Spennie gloomily. "I suppose we'd better go and tacklethem. Come on. "

They walked up the platform to where Sir Thomas stood smoking ameditative cigar and watching in a dispassionate way the efforts ofhis wife to bully the solitary porter attached to the station into afrenzy. Sir Thomas was a very tall, very thin man, with cold eyes, andtight, thin lips. His clothes fitted him in the way clothes do fit oneman in a thousand. They were the best part of him. His generalappearance gave one the idea that his meals did him little good, andhis meditations rather less. His conversation--of which there was nota great deal--was designed for the most part to sting. Many years'patient and painstaking sowing of his wild oats had left him atfifty-six with few pleasures; but among those that remained he rankedhigh the discomfiting of his neighbors. 

"This is my friend Pitt, uncle, " said Spennie, presenting Jimmy with amotion of the hand. 

Sir Thomas extended three fingers. Jimmy extended two, and thehandshake was not a success. 

At this point in the interview, Spike came up, chuckling amiably, witha magazine in his hand. 

"P'Chee!" said Spike. "Say, Mr. Chames, de mug what wrote dis piecemust ha' bin livin' out in de woods for fair. His stunt ain't writin', sure. Say, dere's a gazebo what wants to get busy wit' de heroine'sjools what's locked in de drawer in de dressin' room. So dis mug, whatdo youse t'ink he does? Why----"

"Another friend of yours, Spennie?" inquired Sir Thomas politely, eying the red-haired speaker with interest. 

"It's----"

He looked appealingly at Jimmy. 

"It's only my man, " said Jimmy. "Spike, " he added in an undertone, "tothe woods. Chase yourself. It's not up to you to do stunts on thisbeat. Fade away. "

"Sure, " said the abashed Spike, restored to a sense of his position. "Dat's right. I've got wheels in me coco, that's what I've got, comin'buttin' in here. Sorry, Mr. Chames. Sorry, gents. Me for the tallgrass. "

He trotted away. 

"Your man seems to have a pretty taste in literature, " said Sir Thomasto Jimmy. "Well, my dear, finished your chat with the porter?"

Lady Blunt had come up, flushed and triumphant, having left thesolitary porter a demoralized wreck. 

"I'm through, " she announced crisply. "Well, Spencer? How are you?Who's this? Don't stand gaping, child. Who's your friend?"

Spennie explained with some incoherence that his name was Pitt. Hisuncle had shaken him; the arrival of his aunt seemed to unnerve himcompletely. 

"Pleased to meet you, " snapped Lady Blunt. "Spencer, where are yourtrunks? Left them behind, I suppose? No? Well, that's a surprise. Tellthat porter to look after them. If you have any trouble with him, mention it to me. _I'll_ make him jump around. Where's the automobile?Outside? Where? Take me to it. "

Lady Blunt, when conversing, resembled a Maxim gun more than anythingelse in the world. 

"I'm afraid, " said Spennie in an abject manner, as they left thestation, "that it will be rather a bit of a frightful squash--what Imean to say is, I hardly think we shall all find room in the auto. Isee they have only sent the small one. "

Lady Blunt stopped short, and fixed him with a glittering eye. 

"I know what it is, Spencer, " she said. "You never telegraphed to yourmother to tell her what time you were going to arrive. "

Spennie opened his mouth feebly, but apparently changing his mind, made no reply. 

"My dear, " said Sir Thomas smoothly, "we must not expect too much ofSpennie. "

"Pshaw!" This was a single shot from the Maxim. 

The baited youth looked vainly for assistance to Jimmy. 

"But--er--aunt, " said Spennie. "Really, I--er--I only just caught thetrain. Didn't I, Pitt?"

"What? Oh, yes. Got in just as it was moving. "

"That was it. I really hadn't time to telegraph. Had I, Pitt?"

"Not a minute. "

"And how was it you were so late?"

Spennie plunged into an explanation, feeling all the time that he wasmaking things worse for himself. Nobody is at his best in the matterof explanations if a lady whom he knows to be possessed of a firmbelief in the incurable weakness of his intellect is looking fixedlyat him during the recital. A prolonged conversation with Lady Bluntalways made him feel exactly as if he were being tied into knots. 

"All this, " said Sir Thomas, as his nephew paused for breath, "isvery, very characteristic of our dear Spennie. "

Our dear Spennie broke into a perspiration. 

"However, " continued Sir Thomas, "there's room for either you or----"

"Pitt, " said Jimmy. "P--i double t. "

Sir Thomas bowed. 

"In front with the chauffeur, if you care to take the seat. "

"I'll walk, " said Jimmy. "I'd rather. "

"Frightfully good of you, old chap, " whispered Spennie. "Sure youdon't mind? I do hate walking, and my foot's hurting fearfully. "

"Which is my way?"

"Straight as you can go. You go to the----"

"Spennie, " said Sir Thomas suavely, "your aunt expresses a wish toarrive at the abbey in time for dinner. If you could manage to come tosome arrangement about that seat----"

Spennie climbed hurriedly into the automobile. The last Jimmy saw ofhim was a hasty vision of him being prodded in the ribs by LadyBlunt's parasol, while its owner said something to him which, judgingby his attitude, was not pleasant. 

He watched them out of sight, and started to follow at a leisurelypace. It certainly was an ideal afternoon for a country walk. The sunwas just hesitating whether to treat the time as afternoon or evening. Eventually it decided that it was evening, and moderated its beams. After London, the country was deliciously fresh and cool. Jimmy felt, as the scent of the hedges came to him, that the only thing worthdoing in the world was to settle down somewhere with three acres anda cow, and become pastoral. 

There was a marked lack of traffic on the road. Once he met a cart, and once a flock of sheep with a friendly dog. Sometimes a rabbitwould dash out into the road, stop to listen, and dart into theopposite hedge, all hind legs and white scut. But except for these hewas alone in the world. 

And gradually there began to be borne in upon him the conviction thathe had lost his way. 

It is difficult to judge distance when one is walking, but itcertainly seemed to Jimmy that he must have covered five miles by thistime. He must have mistaken the way. He had certainly come straight. He could not have come straighter. On the other hand, it would bequite in keeping with the cheap substitute which served Spennie Bluntin place of a mind that he should have forgotten to mention someimportant turning. Jimmy sat down by the roadside. 

As he sat, there came to him from down the road the sound of a horse'sfeet, trotting. He got up. Here was somebody at last who would directhim. 

The sound came nearer. The horse turned the corner; and Jimmy saw withsurprise that it bore no rider. 

"Hullo!" he said. "Accident? And, by Jove, a side saddle!"

The curious part of it was that the horse appeared in no way a wildhorse. It did not seem to be running away. It gave the impression ofbeing out for a little trot on its own account, a sort of equineconstitutional. 

Jimmy stopped the horse, and led it back the way it had come. As heturned the bend in the road, he saw a girl in a riding habit runningtoward him. She stopped running when she caught sight of him, andslowed down to a walk. 

"Thank you _so much_, " she said, taking the reins from him. "Oh, Dandy, you naughty old thing. "

Jimmy looked at her flushed, smiling face, and uttered an exclamationof astonishment. The girl was staring at him, open-eyed. 

"Molly!" he cried. 

"Jimmy!"

And then a curious feeling of constraint fell simultaneously upon themboth. 

CHAPTER V. 

"How are you, Molly?"

"Quite well, thank you, Jimmy. "

A pause. 

"You're looking very well. "

"I'm feeling very well. How are you?"

"Quite well, thanks. Very well, indeed"

Another pause. 

And then their eyes met, and at the same moment they burst outlaughing. 

"Your manners are _beautiful_, Jimmy. And I'm so glad you're so well!What an extraordinary thing us meeting like this. I thought you werein New York. "

"I thought you were. You haven't altered a bit, Molly. "

"Nor have you. How queer this is! I can't understand it. "

"Nor can I. I don't want to. I'm satisfied without. Do you know beforeI met you I was just thinking I hadn't a single friend in thiscountry. I'm on my way to stay with a man I've only known a few days, and his people, whom I don't know at all, and a bunch of other guests, whom I've never heard of, and his uncle, who's a sort of human icicle, and his aunt, who makes you feel like thirty cents directly she startsto talk to you, and the family watchdog, who will probably bite me. But now! You must live near here or you wouldn't be chasing horsesabout this road. "

"I live at a place called Corven Abbey. "

"What Corven Abbey? Why, that's where I'm going. "

"Jimmy! Oh, I see. You're Spennie's friend. But where is Spennie?"

"At the abbey by now. He went in the auto with his uncle and aunt. "

"How did you meet Spennie?"

"Oh, I did a very trifling Good Samaritan act, for which he was undulygrateful, and he adopted me from that moment. "

"How long have you been living in England, then? I never dreamed ofyou being here. "

"I've been on this side about a week. If you want my history in anutshell, it's this. Rich uncle. Poor nephew. Deceased uncle. Richnephew. I'm a man with money now. Lots of money. "

"How nice for you, Jimmy. Father came into money, too. That's how Icome to be over here. I wish you and father had got on bettertogether. "

"Your father, my dear Molly, has a manner with people he is not fondof which purists might call slightly abrupt. Perhaps things will bedifferent, now. "

The horse gave a sudden whinny. 

"I wish you wouldn't do that sort of thing without warning, " saidJimmy to it plaintively. 

"He knows he's near home, and he knows it's his dinner time. There, now you can see the abbey. How do you like it?"

They had reached a point in the road where the fields to the rightsloped sharply downward. A few hundred yards away, backed by woods, stood the beautiful home which ex-Policeman McEachern had caused to bebuilded for him. The setting sun lit up the waters of the lake. Nofigures were to be seen moving in the grounds. The place resembled apalace of sleep. 

"Well?" said Molly. 

"By Jove!"

"Isn't it?" said Molly. "I'm so glad you like it. I always feel as ifI had invented everything round here. It hurts me if people don'tappreciate it. Once I took Sir Thomas Blunt up here. It was as much asI could do to induce him to come at all. He simply won't walk. When wegot to where we are standing now, I pointed and said: 'There!'"

"And what did he do? Moan with joy?"

"He grunted, and said it struck him as rather rustic. "

"Beast! I met Sir Thomas when we got off the train. Spennie Bluntintroduced me to him. He seemed to bear it pluckily, but with somedifficulty. I think we had better be going, or they will be sendingout search parties. "

"By the way, Jimmy, " said Molly, as they went down the hill. "Can youact?"

"Can I what?"

"Act. In theatricals, you know. "

"I've never tried. But I've played poker, which I should think is muchthe same. "

"We are going to do a play, and we want another man. The man who wasgoing to play one of the parts has had to go back to London. "

"Poor devil! Fancy having to leave a place like this and go back tothat dingy, overrated town. "

 * * * * *

The big drawing-room of the abbey was full when they arrived. Tea wasgoing on in a desultory manner. In a chair at the far end of the room, Sir Thomas Blunt surveyed the scene gloomily through the smoke of acigarette. The sound of Lady Blunt's voice had struck their ears asthey opened the door. The Maxim gun was in action with no apparentprospect of jamming. The target of the moment was a fair, tired-looking lady, with a remarkable resemblance to Spennie. Jimmytook her to be his hostess. There was a resigned expression on herface, which he thoroughly understood. He sympathized with her. 

The other occupants of the room stared for a moment at Jimmy in theaustere manner peculiar to the Briton who sees a stranger, and thenresumed their respective conversations. One of their number, a slight, pale, young man, as scientifically clothed as Sir Thomas, left hisgroup, and addressed himself to Molly. 

"Ah, here you are, Miss McEachern, " he said. "At last. We were allgetting so anxious. "

"Really?" said Molly. "That's very kind of you, Mr. Wesson. "

"I assure you, yes. Positively. A gray gloom had settled upon us. Wepictured you in all sorts of horrid situations. I was just going tocall for volunteers to scour the country, or whatever it is that onedoes in such circumstances. I used to read about it in books, but Ihave forgotten the technical term. I am relieved to find that you arenot even dusty, though it would have been more romantic if you couldhave managed a little dust here and there. But don't consider myfeelings, Miss McEachern, please. "

Molly introduced Jimmy to the newcomer. They shook hands, Jimmy withsomething of the wariness of a boxer in the ring. He felt aninstinctive distrust of this man. Why, he could not have said. Perhapsit was a certain subtle familiarity in his manner of speaking to Mollythat annoyed him. Jimmy objected strongly to any one addressing her asif there existed between them some secret understanding. Already themood of the old New York days was strong upon him. His instinct thenhad been to hate all her male acquaintances with an unreasoninghatred. He found himself in much the same frame of mind, now. 

"So you're Spennie's friend, " said Mr. Wesson, "the man who's going toshow us all how to act, what?"

"I believe there is some idea of my being a 'confused noise without', or something. "

"Haven't they asked you to play _Lord Algernon_?" inquiredWesson, with more animation than he usually allowed himself toexhibit. 

"Who is _Lord Algernon_?"

"Only a character in the piece we are acting. "

"What does he do?"

"He talks to me most of the time, " said Molly. 

"Then, " said Jimmy decidedly, "I seem to see myself making a big hit. "

"It's a long part if you aren't used to that sort of thing, " saidWesson. 

He had hoped that the part with its wealth of opportunity would havefallen to himself. 

"I am used to it, " said Jimmy. "Thanks. "

"If that little beast's after Molly, " thought Jimmy, "there will betrouble. "

"Come along, " said Molly, "and be introduced, and get some tea. "

"Well, Molly, dear, " said Lady Jane, with a grateful smile at theinterruption, "we didn't know what had become of you. Did Dandy giveyou trouble?"

"Dandy's a darling, and wouldn't do anything of the sort if you askedhim to. He's a kind little 'oss, as Thomas says. He only walked awaywhen I got off to pick some roses, and I couldn't catch him. And thenI met Jimmy. "

Jimmy bowed. 

"I hope you aren't tired out, " said Lady Jane to him. "We thought youwould never arrive. It's such a long walk. It was really too carelessof Spennie not to let us know when he expected you. "

"I was telling Spencer in the automobile, " put in Lady Blunt, withferocity, "that _my_ father would have horsewhipped him if he hadbeen a son of his. He would. "

"Really, Julia!" protested Lady Jane rather faintly. 

"That's so. And I don't care who knows it. A boy doesn't want toforget things if he's going to make his way in the world. I toldSpencer so in the automobile. "

Jimmy had noticed that Spennie was not in the room. He now understoodhis absence. After the ride he had probably felt that an hour or twopassed out of his aunt's society would not do him any harm. He was nowundergoing a rest cure, Jimmy imagined, in the billiard room. 

"I can assure you, " said he, by way of lending a helping hand to theabsent one, "I really preferred to walk. I have only just landed inEngland from New York, and it's quite a treat to walk on an Englishcountry road again. "

"Are you from New York? I wonder if----"

"Jimmy's an old friend, " said Molly. "We knew him very well indeed. Itwas such a surprise meeting him. "

"How interesting, " said Lady Jane languidly, as if the intellectualstrain of the conversation had been too much for her. "You will havesuch lots to talk about, won't you?"

"I say, " said Jimmy, as they moved away, "who is that fellow Wesson?"

"Oh, a man, " said Molly vaguely. 

"There's no need to be fulsome, " said Jimmy. "He can't hear. "

"Mother likes him. I don't. "

"Mother?"

"Hullo, " said Molly, "there's father. "

The door had opened while they were talking, and Mr. Patrick McEachernhad walked solidly into the room. The ornaments on the Chippendaletables jingled as he came. Secretly he was somewhat embarrassed atfinding himself in the midst of so many people. He had not yetmastered the art of feeling at home in his own house. At meals he didnot fear his wife's guests so much. Their attention was in a mannerdistributed at such times, instead of being, as now, focused uponhimself. He stood there square and massive, outwardly the picture ofall that was rugged and independent, looking about him for a friendlyface. To offer a general remark, or to go boldly and sit down besideone of those dazzling young ladies, like some heavyweight spiderbeside a Miss Muffet, was beyond him. In his time he had stoppedrunaway horses, clubbed mad dogs, and helped to break up East Sidegang fights, when the combatants on both sides were using their gunslavishly and impartially; but his courage failed him here. 

"Why, " said Jimmy, "is your father here, too? I didn't know that. "

To himself he reviled his luck. How much would he see of Molly now?Her father's views on himself were no sealed book to him. 

Molly looked at him in surprise. 

"Didn't know?" she said. "Didn't I tell you the place belonged tofather?"

"What!" said Jimmy. "This house?"

"Yes. Of course. "

"And--by gad, I've got it. He has married Spennie Blunt's mother. "

"Yes. "

"Well, I'm--surprised. "

Suddenly he began to chuckle. 

"What _is_ it, Jimmy?"

"Why--why, I've just grasped the fact that your father--your father, mind you--is my host. I'm the honored guest. At his house!"

The chuckle swelled into a laugh. The noise attracted McEachern'sattention, and, looking in the direction whence it proceeded, hecaught sight of Molly. 

With a grin of joy, he made for the sofa. 

"Well, father, dear?" said Molly nervously. 

Mr. McEachern was staring horribly at Jimmy, who had risen to hisfeet. 

"How do you do, Mr. McEachern?"

The ex-policeman continued to stare. 

"Father, " said Molly in distress. "Father, let me present--I mean, don't you remember Jimmy? You must remember Jimmy, father! Jimmy Pitt, whom you used to know in New York. "

CHAPTER VI. 

On his native asphalt there are few situations capable of throwing theNew York policeman off his balance. In that favored clime, _savoirfaire_ is represented by a shrewd left hook at the jaw, and a masterfulstroke of the truncheon amounts to a satisfactory repartee. Thus shallyou never take the policeman of Manhattan without his answer. In othersurroundings, Mr. Patrick McEachern would have known how to deal withhis young acquaintance, Mr. Jimmy Pitt. But another plan of action wasneeded here. First of all, the hints on etiquette with which Lady Janehad favored him, from time to time, and foremost came the mandate:"Never make a scene. " Scenes, Lady Jane had explained--on the occasionof his knocking down an objectionable cabman during their honeymoontrip--were of all things what polite society most resolutely abhorred. The natural man in him must be bound in chains. The sturdy blow mustgive way to the honeyed word. A cold "Really!" was the most vigorousretort that the best circles would countenance. 

It had cost Mr. McEachern some pains to learn this lesson, but he haddone it; and he proceeded on the present occasion to conduct himselfhigh and disposedly, according to instructions from headquarters. 

The surprise of finding an old acquaintance in this company renderedhim dumb for a brief space, during which Jimmy looked after theconversation. 

"How do you do, Mr. McEachern?" inquired Jimmy genially. "Quite asurprise meeting you in England. A pleasant surprise. By the way, onegenerally shakes hands in the smartest circles. Yours seem to be downthere somewhere. Might I trouble you? Right. Got it? Thanks!"

He bent forward, possessed himself of Mr. McEachern's right hand, which was hanging limply at its proprietor's side, shook it warmly, and replaced it. 

"'Wahye?" asked Mr. McEachern gruffly, giving a pleasing air ofnovelty to the hackneyed salutation by pronouncing it as one word. Hetook some little time getting into his stride when carrying on politeconversation. 

"Very well, thank you. You're looking as strong as ever, Mr. McEachern. "

The ex-policeman grunted. In a conversational sense, he was sparringfor wind. 

Molly had regained her composure by this time. Her father was takingthe thing better than she had expected. 

"It's Jimmy, father, dear, " she said. "Jimmy Pitt. "

"Dear old James, " murmured the visitor. 

"I know, me dear, I know. Wahye?"

"Still well, " replied Jimmy cheerfully. "Sitting up, you will notice, "he added, waving a hand in the direction of his teacup, "and takingnourishment. No further bulletins will be issued. "

"Jimmy is staying here, father. He is the friend Spennie wasbringing. "

"This is the friend that Spennie brought, " said Jimmy in a rapidundertone. "This is the maiden all forlorn who crossed the seas, andlived in the house that sheltered the friend that Spennie brought. "

"I see, me dear, " said Mr. McEachern slowly. "'Wah----"

"No, I've guessed that one already, " said Jimmy. "Ask me another. "

Molly looked reproachfully at him. His deplorable habit of chaffingher father had caused her trouble in the old days. It may be admittedthat this recreation of Jimmy's was not in the best taste; but it mustalso be remembered that the relations between the two had always beenout of the ordinary. Great as was his affection for Molly, Jimmy couldnot recollect a time when war had not been raging in a greater orlesser degree between the ex-policeman and himself. 

"It is very kind of you to invite me down here, " said he. "We shall beable to have some cozy chats over old times when I was a wanderer onthe face of the earth, and you----"

"Yis, yis, " interrupted Mr. McEachern hastily, "somewhere ilse, aftherward. "

"You shall choose time and place, of course. I was only going to askyou how you liked leaving the----"

"United States?" put in Mr. McEachern, with an eagerness whichbroadened his questioner's friendly smile, as the Honorable LouisWesson came toward them. 

"Well, I'm not after saying it was not a wrinch at firrst, but Iconsidered it best to lave Wall Street--Wall Street, ye understand, before----"

"I see. Before you fell a victim to the feverish desire for recklessspeculation which is so marked a characteristic of the Americanbusiness man, what?"

"That's it, " said the other, relieved. 

"I, too, have been speculating, " said Mr. Wesson, "as to whether youwould care to show me the rose garden, Miss McEachern, as you promisedyesterday. Of all flowers, I love roses best. You remember Bryant'slines, Miss McEachern? 'The rose that lives its little hour is prizedbeyond the sculptured flower. '"

Jimmy interposed firmly. "I'm very sorry, " he said, "but the fact isMiss McEachern has just promised to take me with her to feed thefowls. 

"I gamble on fowls, " he thought. "There must be some in a high-classestablishment of this kind. "

"I'd quite forgotten, " said Molly. 

"I thought you had. We'd better start at once. Nothing upsets a fowlmore than having to wait for dinner. "

"Nonsense, me dear Molly, " said Mr. McEachern bluffly. "Run along andshow Mr. Wesson the roses. Nobody wants to waste time over a bunch ofhens. "

"Perhaps not, " said Jimmy thoughtfully, "perhaps not. I might bebetter employed here, amusing the people by telling them all about ourold New York days and----"

Mr. McEachern might have been observed, and was so observed by Jimmy, to swallow somewhat convulsively. 

"But as Molly promised ye----" said he. 

"Just so, " said Jimmy. "My own sentiments, neatly expressed. Shall westart, Miss McEachern?"

"That fellah, " said Mr. Wesson solemnly to his immortal soul, "is adamn bounder. _And_ cad, " he added after a moment's reflection. 

The fowls lived in a little world of noise and smells at the back ofthe stables. The first half of the journey thither was performed insilence. Molly's cheerful little face was set in what she probablyimagined to be a forbidding scowl. The tilt of her chin spoke ofdispleasure. 

"If a penny would be any use to you, " said Jimmy, breaking thetension. 

"I'm not at all pleased with you, " said Molly severely. 

"How _can_ you say such savage things! And me an orphan, too!What's the trouble? What have I done?"

"You know perfectly well. Making fun of father like that. "

"My dear girl, he loved it. Brainy badinage of that sort is exchangedevery day in the best society. You should hear dukes and earls! Thewit! the _esprit_! The flow of soul! Mine is nothing to it. What's thisin the iron pot? Is this what you feed them? Queer birds, hens--Iwouldn't touch the stuff for a fortune. It looks perfectly poisonous. Flock around, you pullets. Come in your thousands. All bad nutsreturned, and a souvenir goes with every corpse. A little more of thisputrescent mixture for you, sir. Certainly, pick up your dead, pick upyour dead. "

An unwilling dimple appeared on Molly's chin, like a sunbeam throughclouds. 

"All the same, " she said, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Jimmy. "

"I haven't time when I find myself stopping in the same house with agirl I've been looking for for three years. "

Molly looked away. There was silence for a moment. 

"Used you ever to think of me?" she said quietly. 

That curious constraint which had fallen upon Jimmy in the road cameto him again, now, as sobering as a blow. Something which he could notdefine had changed the atmosphere. Suddenly in an instant, like ashallow stream that runs babbling over the stones into some broad, still pool, the note of their talk had deepened. 

"Yes, " he said simply. He could find no words for what he wished tosay. 

"I've thought of you--often, " said Molly. 

He took a step toward her. But the moment had passed. Her mood hadchanged in a flash, or seemed to have changed. The stream babbled onover the stones again. 

"Be careful, Jimmy! You nearly touched me with the spoon. I don't wantto be covered with that horrible stuff. Look at that poor, littlechicken out there in the cold. It hasn't had a morsel. "

Jimmy responded to her lead. There was nothing else for him to do. 

"It's in luck, " he said. 

"Give it a spoonful. "

"It can have one if it likes. But it's taking big risks. Here you are, Hercules. Pitch in. "

He scraped the last spoonful out of the iron pot, and they began towalk back to the house. 

"You're very quiet, Jimmy, " said Molly. 

"I was thinking. "

"What about?"

"Lots of things. "

"New York?"

"That among others. "

"Dear old New York, " said Molly, with a little sigh. "I'm not sure itwasn't--I mean, I sometimes wish--oh, you know. I mean it's lovelyhere, but it _was_ nice in the old days, wasn't it, Jimmy? It's a pitythat things change, isn't it?"

"It depends. "

"What do you mean?"

"I don't mind things changing, if people don't. "

"Do you think I've changed? You said I hadn't when we met in theroad. "

"You haven't, as far as looks go. "

"Have I changed in other ways?"

Jimmy looked at her. 

"I don't know, " he said slowly. 

They were in the hall, now. Keggs had just left after beating thedressing gong. The echoes of it still lingered. Molly paused on thebottom step. 

"I haven't, Jimmy, " she said; and ran on up the stairs. 

CHAPTER VII. 

Jimmy dressed for dinner in a very exalted frame of mind that night. It seemed to him that he had awakened from a sort of a stupor. Lifewas so much fuller of possibilities than he had imagined a few daysback. The sudden acquisition of his uncle's money had, in a manner, brought him to a halt. Till then the exhilarating feeling of havinghis hand against the world had lent a zest to life. There had been nomonotony. There had always been obstacles. One may hardly perhapsdilate on the joys of toil in connection with him, considering theprecise methods by which he had supported himself; but neverthelesshis emotions when breaking the law of the United States had been akinto those of the honest worker in so far that his operations hadsatisfied the desire for action which possesses every man of brainsand energy. They had given him something to do. He had felt alive. Hisuncle's legacy had left him with a sensation of abrupt stoppage. Lifehad suddenly become aimless. 

But now everything was altered. Once more the future was a thing ofimportance, to-morrow a day to be looked forward to with keenexpectation. 

He tried to throw his mind back to the last occasion when he had seenMolly. He could not remember that he had felt any excessive emotion. Between _camaraderie_ and love there is a broad gulf. It had certainlynever been bridged in the old New York days. Then the frankfriendliness of which the American girl appears to have the monopolyhad been Molly's chief charm in his eyes. It had made possible acomradeship such as might have existed between men. But now there wasa difference. England seemed to have brought about a subtle change inher. Instinctively he felt that the old friendship, adequate before, was not enough now. He wanted more. The unexpected meeting, followingso closely upon Spike's careless words in London, had shown him histrue feelings. Misgivings crept upon him. Had he a right? Was it fair?He looked back at the last eight years of his life with the eye of animpartial judge. He saw them stripped of the glamour which triumphantcunning had lent them; saw them as they would appear to Molly. 

He scowled at his reflection in the glass. "You've been a bad lot, myson, " he said. "There's only one thing in your favor; and that is thefact that you've cut it all out for keeps. We must be content withthat. "

There was a furtive rap at the door. "Hullo?" said Jimmy. "Yes?"

The door opened slowly. A grin, surmounted by a mop of red hair, appeared round the edge of it. 

"Well, Spike. Come in. What's the matter?"

The rest of Mr. Mullins entered the room. 

"Gee, Mr. Chames, I wasn't sure dat dis was your room. Say, who doyouse t'ink I nearly bumped me coco ag'in out in de corridor? Why, oldman McEachern, de cop. Dat's right!"

"Yes?"

"Sure. Say, what's he doin' on dis beat? Youse c'u'd have knocked medown wit' a bit of poiper when I see him. I pretty near went down andout. Dat's right. Me heart ain't got back home yet. "

"Did he recognize you?"

"Sure! He starts like an actor on top de stoige when he sees he's upagainst de plot to ruin him, an' he gives me de fierce eye. "

"Well?"

"I was wondering was I on Third Avenue, or was I standing on me coco, or what was I doin', anyhow. Den I slips off and chases meself uphere. Say, Mr. Chames, can _youse_ put me wise? What's de game?What's old man McEachern doin' stunts dis side for?"

"It's all right, Spike. Keep calm. I can explain. Mr. McEachern ownsthe house. "

"On your way, Mr. Chames! What's dat?"

"This is his house we're in, now. He left the force three years ago, came over here, and bought this place. And here we are again, allgathered together under the same roof, like a jolly little familyparty. "

Spike's open mouth bore witness to his amazement. 

"Den all dis----"

"Belongs to him? That's it. We are his guests, Spike. "

"But what's he goin' to do?"

"I couldn't say. I'm expecting to hear shortly. But we needn't worryourselves. The next move's with him. If he wants to say anything aboutit, he must come to me. "

"Sure. It's up to him, " agreed Spike. 

"I'm quite comfortable. Speaking for myself, I'm having a good time. How are you getting on downstairs?"

"De limit, Mr. Chames. Honest, I'm on pink velvet. Dey's an oldgazebo, de butler, Keggs his name is, dat's de best ever at handingout long woids. I sit and listen. Dey calls me Mr. Mullins down dere, "said Spike, with pride. 

"Good. I'm glad you're all right. There's no reason why we shouldn'thave an excellent time here. I don't think that Mr. McEachern willturn us out, after he's heard one or two little things I have to sayto him. Just a few reminiscences of the past which may interest him. Ihave the greatest affection for Mr. McEachern, though he did club meonce with his night stick; but nothing shall make me stir from herefor the next week at any rate. "

"Not on your life, " agreed Spike. "Say, Mr. Chames, he must have got alot of plunks to buy dis place. And I know how he got dem, too. Dat'sright. I comes from old New York meself. "

"Hush, Spike, this is scandal!"

"Sure, " said the Bowery boy doggedly, securely mounted now on hisfavorite hobby horse. "I knows, and youse knows, Mr. Chames. Gee, Iwish I'd bin a cop. But I wasn't tall enough. Dey's de fellers wit' delong green in der banks. Look at dis old McEachern. Money to boin awet dog wit', he's got, and never a bit of woik for it from de startto de finish. An' look at me, Mr. Chames. "

"I do, Spike, I do. "

"Look at me. Getting busy all de year round, woiking to beat de bandall----"

"In prisons oft, " said Jimmy. 

"Dat's right. And chased all roun' de town. And den what? Why, to debad at de end of it all. Say, it's enough to make a feller----"

"Turn honest. " said Jimmy. "You've hit it, Spike. You'll be glad someday that you reformed. "

But on this point Spike seemed to be doubtful. He was silent for amoment; then, as if following upon a train of thoughts, he said: "Mr. Chames, dis is a fine big house. "

"Splendid!"

"Say, couldn't we----"

"Spike!" said Jimmy warningly. 

"Well, couldn't we?" said Spike doggedly. "It ain't often youse buttsinto a dead-easy proposition like dis one. We shouldn't have to do at'ing excep' git busy. De stuff's just lying about, Mr. Chames. "

"I have noticed it. "

"Aw, it's a waste to leave it. "

"Spike, " said Jimmy, "I warned you of this. I begged you to be on yourguard, to fight against your professional instincts; and you must doit. I know it's hard, but it's got to be done. Try and occupy yourmind. Collect butterflies. "

Spike shuffled in gloomy silence. 

"'Member dose jools we got in de hotel de year before I was copped?"he asked at length irrelevantly. 

Jimmy finished tying his tie, looked at the result for a moment in theglass, then replied: "Yes, I remember. "

"We got anudder key dat fitted de door. 'Member dat?"

Jimmy nodded. 

"And some of dose knock-out drops. What's dat? Chloryform? Dat'sright. An' we didn't do a t'ing else. An' we lived for de rest of deyear on dose jools. "

Spike paused. 

"Dat was to de good, " he said wistfully. 

Jimmy made no reply. 

"Dere's a loidy here, " continued Spike, addressing the chest ofdrawers, "dat's got a necklace of jools what's wort' two hundredthousand plunks. "

"I know. "

Silence again. 

"Two hundred thousand plunks, " breathed Spike. 

"What a necklace!" thought Jimmy. 

"Keggs told me dat. De old gazebo what hands out de long woids. Icould find out where dey're kept dead easy. '

"What a king of necklaces!" thought Jimmy. 

"Shall I, Mr. Chames?"

"Shall you what?" asked Jimmy, coming out of his thoughts with astart. 

"Why, find out where de loidy keeps de jools. "

"Confound you, Spike! How often am I to tell you that I have done withall that sort of thing forever? I never want to see or touch anotherstone that doesn't belong to me. I don't want to hear about them. Theydon't interest me. "

"Sorry, Mr. Chames. But dey must cop de limit for fair, dose jools. Two hundred t'ousand plunks! What's dat dis side?"

"Forty thousand pounds, " said Jimmy shortly. "Now, drop it. "

"Yes, Mr. Chames. Can I help youse wit' de duds?"

"No, thanks. Spike; I'm through, now. You might just give me a brushdown, though, if you don't mind. Not that. That's a hair brush. Trythe big black one. "

"Dis is a dude suit for fair, " observed Spike, pausing in his labors. 

"Glad you like it, Spike. "

"It's de limit. Excuse me. How much of de long green did youse punglefor it, Mr. Chames?"

"I really can't remember, " said Jimmy, with a laugh. "I could look upthe bill and let you know. Seventy guineas, I fancy. "

"What's dat--guineas? Is dat more dan a pound?"

"A shilling more. Why?"

Spike resumed his brushing. 

"What a lot of dude suits youse could get, " he observed meditatively, "if youse had dose jools. "

"Oh, _curse_ the jewels for the hundredth time!" snapped Jimmy. 

"Yes, Mr. Chames. But, say, dat must be a boid of a necklace, dat one. You'll be seeing it at de dinner, Mr. Chames. "

Whatever comment Jimmy might have made on this insidious statement waschecked by a sudden bang on the door. Almost simultaneously the handleturned. 

"P'Chee!" cried Spike. "It's de cop!"

Jimmy smiled pleasantly. 

"Come in, Mr. McEachern, " he said, "come in. Journeys end in loversmeeting. You know my friend, Mr. Mullins, I think? Shut the door, andsit down and let's talk of many things. "

CHAPTER VIII. 

"It's a conspiracy!" thundered Mr. McEachern. 

He stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. It has been shown that theex-policeman was somewhat prone to harbor suspicions of those roundabout him, and at the present moment his mind was aflame. Indeed, amore trusting man might have been excused for feeling a littledoubtful as to the intentions of Jimmy and Spike. When McEachern hadheard that his stepson had brought home a casual London acquaintance, he had suspected the existence of hidden motives on the part of theunknown. Spennie, he had told himself, was precisely the sort of youthto whom the professional bunko-steerer would attach himself withshouts of joy. Never, he had assured himself, had there been a softerproposition than his stepson since bunko-steering became a profession. 

When he found that the strange visitor was Jimmy Pitt, his suspicionshad increased a thousandfold. 

And when, going to his dressing room to get ready for dinner, he hadnearly run into Spike Mullins, Red Spike of shameful memory, his frameof mind had been that of a man to whom a sudden ray of light revealsthe fact that he is on the very brink of a black precipice. Jimmy andSpike had been a firm in New York. And here they were, together again, in his house in Shropshire. To say that the thing struck McEachern assinister is to put the matter baldly. There was once a gentleman whoremarked that he smelt a rat and saw it floating in the air. Ex-constable McEachern smelt a regiment of rats, and the air seemed tohim positively congested with them. 

His first impulse had been to rush to Jimmy's room there and then; butLady Jane had trained him well. Though the heavens might fall, he mustnot be late for dinner. So he went and dressed, and an obstinate tieput the finishing touches to his wrath. 

Jimmy regarded him coolly, without moving from the chair in which hehad seated himself. Spike, on the other hand, seemed embarrassed. Hestood first on one leg and then on the other, as if he were testingthe respective merits of each, and would make a definite choice lateron. 

"Ye scoundrels!" growled McEachern. 

Spike, who had been standing for a few moments on his right leg, andseemed at last to have come to a decision, hastily changed to theleft, and grinned feebly. 

"Say, youse won't want me any more, Mr. Chames?" he whispered. 

"No; you can go, Spike. "

"Ye stay where y'are, ye red-headed limb. "

"Run along, Spike!" said Jimmy. 

The Bowery boy looked doubtfully at the huge form of the ex-policeman, which blocked access to the door. 

"Would you mind letting my man pass?" said Jimmy. 

"Ye stay----" began McEachern. 

Jimmy got up, and walked round him to the door, which he opened. Spikeshot out like a rabbit released from a trap. He was not lacking incourage, but he disliked embarrassing interviews, and it struck himthat Mr. Chames was the man to handle a situation of this kind. Hefelt that he himself would only be in the way. 

"Now we can talk comfortably, " said Jimmy, going back to his chair. 

McEachern's deep-set eyes gleamed, and his forehead grew red; but hemastered his feelings. 

"An' now, " said he, "perhaps ye'll explain!"

"What exactly?" asked Jimmy. 

"What ye're doin' here. "

"Nothing at the moment. "

"Ye know what I mane. Why are ye here, you and that red-headed devil?"

He jerked his head in the direction of the door. 

"I am here because I was very kindly invited to come by your stepson. "

"I know ye. "

"You have that privilege. "

"I know ye, I say, and I want to know what ye're here to do. "

"To do? Well, I shall potter about the garden, don't you know, andsmell the roses, and look at the horses, and feed the chickens, andperhaps go for an occasional row on the lake. Nothing more. Oh, yes, Ibelieve they want me to act in these theatricals. "

"An' I'll tell ye another thing ye'll be wanted to do, and that is togo away from here at wance!"

"My dear old sir!"

"Ye hear me? At wance. "

"Couldn't think of it, " said Jimmy decidedly. "Not for a moment. "

"I'll expose ye, " stormed McEachern. "I'll expose ye. Will ye denythat ye was a crook in New York?"

"What proofs have you?"

"Proofs! Will you deny it?"

"No. It's quite true. "

"I knew it. "

"But I'm a reformed character, now, Mr. McEachern. I have money of myown. It was left me. I hear you had money left you, too. "

"I did, " said McEachern shortly. 

"Congratulate you. I'm glad I know, because otherwise I might haveformed quite a wrong impression when I came here and found you withmoney to burn. Quite the old English squire now, Mr. McEachern, what?"

"Ye'll lave the house to-morrow. "

"All the more reason why we should make the most of this opportunityof talking over old times. Did you mind leaving the force?"

"And ye'll take that blackguard Mullins wid ye. "

"Judging from the stories one hears, it must be a jolly sort of life. What a pity so many of them go in for graft. I could tell you somestories about a policeman I used to know in New York. He was thechampion grafter. I remember hearing one yarn from a newspaper man outthere. This reporter chap happened to hear of the grumblings of sometenants of an apartment house uptown which led them to believe thatcertain noises they complained of were made by burglars who used theflat as a place to pack up the loot for shipment to other cities. Youknow that habit of ours, don't you? He was quite right, and when hetipped off his newspaper they reported the thing to the police. Now, Icould have gone right up and made those men show up their hands bymerely asking them to. 

"Not so the police. I wonder if you remember the case. You look as ifyou were beginning to. The police went blundering at wrong doors, andmost of the gang got away. And while they were in the house after theraid a woman was able to slip in and take away on an express wagon thethree trunks which were to have been held for evidence. And that's notall, either. There was one particular policeman who held the case forthe prosecution in his hands. If he had played up in court next day, the one man that had been captured would have got all that was comingto him. What happened? Why, his evidence broke down, and the man wasdischarged. It's a long story. I hope it hasn't bored you. "

McEachern did not look bored. He was mopping his forehead, andbreathing quickly. 

"It was a most interesting case, " said Jimmy. "I've got all thenames. "

"It's a lie!"

"Not at all. True as anything. Ever heard of that policeman--I've gothis name, too--who made a lot of money by getting appointments in theforce for men of his acquaintance? He used to be paid heavily for it, and you'd hardly believe what a lot of scoundrels he let in in thatway. "

"See here----" began McEachern huskily. 

"I wonder if you ever came across any men in the force who madeanything by that dodge of arresting a person and then getting a lawyerfor them. Ever heard of that? It's rather like a double ruff atbridge. You--I'm awfully sorry. I shouldn't have used that word. WhatI meant to say was the policeman makes his arrest, then suggests thatthe person had better have a bondsman. He gathers in a bondsman, whocharges the prisoner four dollars for bailing him out. Two dollars ofthis goes to the sergeant, who accepts the bail without question, andthe policeman takes one. Then the able and intelligent officer says tothe prisoner: 'What you want is a lawyer. ' 'Right, ' says the prisoner, 'if you think so. ' Off goes the policeman and gets the lawyer. Fivemore dollars, of which he gets his share. It's a beautiful system. Itmight interest the people at dinner to-night to hear about it. I thinkI'll tell them. "

"You'll----"

"And when you come to think that some policemen in New York taketribute from peddlers who obstruct the traffic, tradesmen who obstructthe sidewalk, restaurant keepers who keep open after one o'clock inthe morning, drivers who exceed speed limits, and keepers of poolrooms, you'll understand that there's a good bit to be made out ofgraft, if you go in for it seriously. It's uncommonly lucky, McEachern, that you were left that money. Otherwise you might havebeen tempted, mightn't you?"

There was a somewhat breathless silence in the room. Mr. McEachern waspanting slightly. 

"You couldn't reconsider your decision about sending me awayto-morrow, I suppose?" said Jimmy, flicking at his shoes with ahandkerchief. "It's a lovely part of the country, this. I would besorry to leave it. "

Mr. McEachern's brain was working with unwonted rapidity. This manmust be silenced at all costs. It would be fatal to his prospects inEnglish society if one tithe of these gruesome stories were madepublic. And he believed Jimmy capable of making them public, beingguilty thereby of an error of judgment. Jimmy, though he had norespect at all for Mr. McEachern, would have died sooner than spreadany story which, even in an indirect way, could reflect upon Molly. Mr. McEachern, however, had not the advantage of knowing hisantagonist's feelings, and the bluff was successful. 

"Ye can stay, " he said. 

"Thanks, " said Jimmy. 

"And I'll beg ye not to mention the force at dinner or at any othertime. "

"I won't dream of it. "

"They think I made me money on Wall Street. "

"It would have been a slower job there. You were wise in your choice. Shall we go down to the drawing-room, now?"

"Ye say y'are rich yerself, " said McEachern. 

"Very, " said Jimmy, "so don't you worry yourself, my Wall Streetspeculator. "

Mr. McEachern did not worry himself. He had just recollected that in avery short time he would have a trained detective on the premises. Anylooking after that James Willoughby Pitt might require might safely beleft in the hands of this expert. 

CHAPTER IX. 

It was at dinner that Jimmy had his first chance of seeing the rope ofpearls which had so stimulated the roving fancy of Spike Mullins. LadyBlunt sat almost opposite to him. Her dress was of unrelieved black, and formed a wonderfully effective foil to the gems. It was not a ropeof pearls. It was a collar. Her neck was covered with them. There wassomething Oriental and barbaric in the overwhelming display ofjewelry. And this suggestion of the East was emphasized by thewearer's regal carriage. Lady Blunt knew when she looked well. She didnot hold herself like one apologizing for venturing to exist. 

Jimmy stared hungrily across the table. The room was empty to him butfor that gleaming mass of gems. He breathed softly and quickly throughclinched teeth. 

"Jimmy!" whispered a voice. 

It seemed infinitely remote. 

A hand shook his elbow gently. He started. 

"_Don't_ stare like that, _please_. What is the matter?"

Molly, seated at his side, was looking at him wide-eyed. Jimmy smiledwith an effort. Every nerve in his body seemed to be writhing. 

"Sorry, " he said. "I'm only hungry. I always look like that at thebeginning of a meal. "

"Well, here comes Keggs with some soup for you. You'd better not wasteanother moment. You looked perfectly awful. "

"No!"

"Like a starved wolf. "

"You must look after me, " said Jimmy, "see that the wolf's properlyfed. "

 * * * * *

The conversation, becoming general with the fish, was not of a kind toremove from Jimmy's mind the impression made by the sight of thepearls. It turned on crime in general and burglary in particular. 

Spennie began it. 

"Oh, I say, " he said, "I forgot to tell you, mother. Number Six wasburgled the other night. "

Number Six-a, Easton Square, was the family's London house. 

"Burgled!"

"Well, broken into, " said Spennie, gratified to find that he had gotthe ear of his entire audience. Even Lady Blunt was silent andattentive. "Chap got in through the scullery window about one o'clock, in the morning. It was the night after you dined with me, Pitt. "

"And what did our Spennie do?" inquired Sir Thomas. 

"Oh, I--er--I was out at the time, " said Spennie. "But somethingfrightened the feller, " he went on hurriedly, "and he made a bolt forit without taking anything. "

Jimmy, looking down the table, became conscious that his host's eyewas fixed gloomily upon him. He knew intuitively what was passing inMcEachern's mind. The ex-policeman was feeling that his worstsuspicions had been confirmed. Jimmy had dined with Spennie--obviouslya mere excuse for spying out the land; and the very next night thehouse had been burgled. Once more Mr. McEachern congratulated himselfon his astuteness in engaging the detective from Wragge's Agency. WithJimmy above stairs and Spike Mullins below, that sleuthhound wouldhave his hands full. 

"Burglary, " said Wesson, leaning back and taking advantage of a pause, "is the hobby of the sportsman and the life work of the avaricious. "

Everybody seemed to have something to say on the subject. One younglady gave it as her opinion that she would not like to find a burglarunder her bed. Somebody else had known a man whose father had fired atthe butler, under the impression that he was a housebreaker, and hadbroken a valuable bust of Socrates. Spennie knew a man at Oxford whosebrother wrote lyrics for musical comedy, and had done one about aburglar's best friend being his mother. 

"Life, " said Wesson, who had had time for reflection, "is a housewhich we all burgle. We enter it uninvited, take all that we can layhands on, and go out again. "

"This man's brother I was telling you about, " said Spennie, "saysthere's only one rhyme in the English language to 'burglar', andthat's 'gurgler'. Unless you count 'pergola', he says----"

"Personally, " said Jimmy, with a glance at McEachern, "I have rather asympathy for burglars. After all, they are one of the hardest-workingclasses in existence. They toil while everybody else is asleep. Theyare generally thorough sportsmen. Besides, a burglar is only apractical socialist. Philosophers talk a lot about the redistributionof wealth. The burglar goes out and does it. I have found burglarssome of the decentest criminals I have ever met. Out of business hoursthey are charming. "

"I despise burglars!" ejaculated Lady Blunt, with a suddenness whichstopped Jimmy's eloquence as if a tap had been turned off. "If I foundone coming after my jewels and I had a gun handy, I'd shoot him. Iwould. "

"My dear Julia!" said Lady Jane. "Why suggest such dreadful things? Atany rate, this house has never been burgled, and I don't think it'slikely to be. "

"Beroofen!" said Jimmy, touching the back of his chair. As he did so, he met McEachern's eye, and smiled kindly at him. The ex-policeman waslooking at him with the gaze of a baffled but malignant basilisk. 

"I take very good care no one gets a chance at my jewels, " said LadyBlunt. "I've had a steel box made for me with a special lock whichwould drive the cunningest burglar on this earth mad before he'd beenat it ten minutes. It would. He'd go right away and reform. "

Jimmy's lips closed tightly, and a combative look came into his eye atthis unconscious challenge. This woman was too aggressively confident. A small lesson. He could return the jewels by post. It would give hera much-needed jolt. 

Then he pulled himself up. 

"James, my boy, " he said to himself, with severity, "this ishypocrisy. You know perfectly well that is not why you want thosepearls. Don't try and bluff yourself, because it won't do. "

The conversation turned to other topics. Jimmy was glad of it. Hewanted to think this thing over. 

From where he sat, he had an excellent view of the rope of pearlswhich was tugging him back to his old ways. And when he looked at themhe could not see Molly. The thing was symbolical. It must be one orthe other. He was at the crossroads. The affair was becoming a civilwar. He felt like a rudderless boat between two currents. Eight yearsof gem collecting do not leave a man without a deep-rooted passion forthe sport. As for that steel box, that was all nonsense. It wasprobably quite a good steel box, and the lock might very well besomething out of the ordinary; but it could not be a harder job thansome of those he had tackled. 

The pearls shone in the lamplight. They seemed to be winking at him. 

CHAPTER X. 

In a cozy corner of the electric flame department of the infernalregions there stands a little silver gridiron. It is the privateproperty of his Satanic majesty, and is reserved exclusively for theman who invented amateur theatricals. It is hard to see why theamateur actor has been allowed to work his will unchecked for so long. These performances of his are diametrically opposed to the true sportof civilization, which insists that the good of the many should beconsidered as being of more importance than that of the few. 

In the case of amateur theatricals, a large number of inoffensivepeople are annoyed simply in order that a mere handful ofacquaintances may amuse themselves. Usually the whole thing can belaid at the door of the man, the organizer. He is the serpent in theEden. Before his arrival, the house party were completely happy, andasked for nothing else but to be left alone. Then he arrives. Atbreakfast on his first morning, he strikes the first blow--casuallyhelping himself to scrambled eggs the while, with the air of a manuttering some agreeable commonplace. "I say, " he remarks, "why not getup some theatricals?" Eve, in the person of some young lady who wouldbe a drawing-room reciter if drawing-room reciters were allowednowadays, snatches at the apple. "Oh, yes, " she says. "It ought to befor a charity, " suggests somebody else. "Of course for a charity, "says the serpent. Ten minutes later he has revealed the fact that hehas brought down a little thing of his own which will just do, and iscasting the parts. And after that the man who loves peace and quietmay as well pack up and leave. He will have no more rest in thathouse. 

In the present case, the serpent was a volatile young gentleman of thename of Charteris. This indomitable person had the love of the stageineradicably implanted in him. He wrote plays, and lived in hopes ofseeing them staged at the leading theatres. Meanwhile, he was contentto bring them out through the medium of amateur performances. 

It says much for the basic excellence of this man's character that hewas popular among his fellows, who, liking the man, overlooked theamateur stage manager. 

The reign of unrest at the abbey was complete by the time Jimmyarrived there. The preliminary rehearsals had been gone through withby the company, who, being inexperienced, imagined the worst to beover. 

Having hustled Jimmy into the vacant part, Charteris gave his energyfree play. He conducted rehearsals with a vigor which occasionallyalmost welded the rabble which he was coaching into somethingapproaching coherency. He never rested. He painted scenery, and leftit about--wet--and people sat on it. He nailed up horseshoes for luck, and they fell on people. He distributed typed parts of the play amongthe company, and they lost them. But nothing daunted him. 

"Mr. Charteris, " said Lady Blunt after one somewhat energeticrehearsal, "is indefatigable. He whirled me about!"

This was perhaps his greatest triumph, that he had induced Lady Bluntto take part in the piece. Her first remark, on being asked, had beento the effect that she despised acting. Golden eloquence on the partof the author-manager had induced her to modify this opinion; andfinally she had consented, on the understanding that she was not to beexpected to attend every rehearsal, to play a small part. 

The only drawback to an otherwise attractive scheme was the fact thatshe would not be able to wear her jewels. Secretly, she would havegiven much to have done so; but the scene in which she was to appearwas a daylight scene, in which the most expensive necklace would beout of place. So she had given up the idea with a stoicism that showedher to be of the stuff of which heroines are made. 

These same jewels had ceased, after their first imperious call, totrouble Jimmy to the extent he had anticipated. It had been a bitterstruggle during the first few days of his stay, but gradually he hadfought the craving down, and now watched them across the dinner tableat night with a calm which filled him with self-righteousness. On theother hand, he was uncomfortably alive to the fact that this triumphof his might be merely temporary. There the gems were, winking andbeckoning to him across the table. At any moment----. When his thoughtsarrived at this point, he would turn them--an effort was sometimesnecessary--to Molly. Thinking of her, he forgot the pearls. 

But the process of thinking of Molly was not one of unmixed comfort. Agreat uneasiness had gripped him. More than ever, as the days went by, he knew that he loved her, that now the old easy friendship was amockery. But on her side he could see no signs that she desired achange in their relationship. She was still the old Molly of the NewYork days, frank, cheerful unembarrassed. But he found that in thisnew world of hers the opportunities of getting her to himself for anyspace of time were infinitesimal. It was her unfortunate conviction, bred of her American upbringing, that the duty of the hostess is tosee that her guests enjoy themselves. Lady Jane held the English viewthat visitors like to be left to themselves. And Molly, noticing herstepmother's lack of enterprise and putting it down as merely anotherproof of her languid nature, had exerted herself all the more keenlyto do the honors. 

The consequence was that Jimmy found himself one of a crowd, anddisliked the sensation. 

The thing was becoming intolerable. Here was he, a young man in love, kept from proposing simply by a series of ridiculous obstacles. Itcould not go on. He must get her away somewhere by himself, not for afew minutes, as he had been doing up to the present, but for a solidspace of time. 

It was after a long and particularly irritating rehearsal that theidea of the lake suggested itself to him. The rehearsals took place inone of the upper rooms, and through the window, as he leaned gloomilyagainst the wall, listening to a homily on the drama from Charteris, he could see the waters of the lake, lit up by the afternoon sun. Ithad been a terribly hot, oppressive day and there was thunder in theair. The rehearsal had bored everybody unspeakably. It would beheavenly on the lake, thought Jimmy. There was a Canadian canoe mooredto that willow. If he could only get Molly. 

"I'm awfully sorry, Jimmy, " said Molly, as they walked out into thegarden. "I should love to come. It would be too perfect. But I've halfpromised to play tennis. "

"Who wants to play?"

"Mr. Wesson. "

A correspondent of a London daily paper wrote to his editor not longago to complain that there was a wave of profanity passing over thecountry. Jimmy added a silent but heartfelt contribution to that wave. 

"Give him the slip, " he said earnestly. It was the chance of alifetime, a unique chance, perhaps his last chance, and it was to belost for the sake of an ass like Wesson. 

Molly looked doubtful. 

"Well, come down to the water, and have a look at it, " said Jimmy. "That'll be better than nothing. "

They walked to the water's edge together in silence, Jimmy in a feverof anxiety. He looked behind him. No signs of Wesson yet. All mightstill be well. 

"It does look nice, Jimmy, doesn't it?" said Molly, placing a foot onthe side of the boat and rocking it gently. 

"Come on, " said Jimmy hoarsely. "Give him the slip. Get in. "

Molly looked round hesitatingly. 

"Well--oh, bother, there he is. And he's seen me. "

Jimmy followed her gaze. The dapper figure of Mr. Wesson was movingdown the lawn. He had a tennis racquet in his hand. His face wore aninviting smile. 

Jimmy glared at him hopelessly. 

Mr. Wesson had vanished now behind the great clamp of laurels whichstood on the lowest terrace. In another moment he would reappear roundthem. 

"Bother!" said Molly again. "Jimmy!" For gently, but with extremefirmness and dispatch, Jimmy, who ought to have known better, hadseized her hand on the other side of the waist, swung her off herfeet, and placed her carefully on the cushions in the bow of thecanoe. 

Then he had jumped in himself with a force which made the boat rock, and was now paddling with the silent energy of a dangerous lunaticinto the middle of the lake; while Mr. Wesson, who had by this timerounded the laurels, stood transfixed, gazing glassily after theretreating vessel. 

To the casual spectator, he might have seemed stricken dumb. 

But at the end of the first ten seconds any fear that the casualspectator might have entertained as to the permanence of the seizurewould have been relieved. 

CHAPTER XI. 

"The man who lays a hand upon a woman, " said Jimmy, paddling strongly, "save in the way of kindness--I'm very sorry, Molly, but you didn'tseem able to make up your mind. You aren't angry, are you?"

There was a brief pause, while Molly apparently debated the matter inher mind. 

"You wouldn't take me back even if I were angry, " she said. 

"You have guessed it, " said Jimmy approvingly. "Do you read muchpoetry, Molly?"

"Why?"

"I was only thinking how neatly some of these poets put a thing. Thechap who said, 'distance lends enchantment to the view, ' for instance. Take the case of Wesson. He looks quite nice when you see him at adistance like this, with a good strip of water in between. "

Mr. Wesson was still standing in a statuesque attitude on the bank. Molly, gazing over the side of the boat into the lake, abstained fromfeasting her eyes on the picturesque spectacle. 

"Jolly the water looks, " said Jimmy. 

"I was just thinking it looked rather dirty. "

"Beastly, " agreed Jimmy. 

The water as a topic of conversation dried up. Mr. Wesson had startednow to leave the stricken field. There was a reproachful look abouthis back which harassed Molly's sensitive conscience. Jimmy, on theother hand--men being of coarser fibre than women, especially as tothe conscience--appeared in no way distressed at the sight. 

"You oughtn't to have done it, Jimmy, " said Molly. 

"I had to. There seemed to be no other way of ever getting you byyourself for five minutes at a stretch. You're always in the middle ofa crowd nowadays. "

"But I must look after my guests. "

"Not a bit of it. Let 'em rip. Why should they monopolize you?"

"It will be awfully unpleasant meeting Mr. Wesson after this. "

"It is always unpleasant meeting Wesson. "

"I shan't know what to say. "

"Don't say anything. "

"I shan't be able to look him in the face. "

"That's a bit of luck for you. "

"You aren't much help, Jimmy. "

"The subject of Wesson doesn't inspire me somehow--I don't know why. Besides, you've simply got to say you changed your mind. You're awoman. It's expected of you. "

"I feel awfully mean. "

"What you want to do is to take your thoughts off the business. Keepyour mind occupied with something else. Then you'll forget all aboutit. Keep talking to me about things. That's the plan. There are heapsof subjects. The weather, for instance, as a start. Hot, isn't it?"

"We're going to have a storm. There's a sort of feel in the air. We'dbetter go back, I think. "

"Tush! And possibly bah!" said Jimmy, digging the paddle into thewater. "We've only just started. I say, who was that man I saw youtalking to after lunch?"

"How soon after lunch?"

"Just before the rehearsal. He was with your father. Short chap with asquare face. Dressed in gray. I hadn't seen him before. "

"Oh, that was Mr. Galer. A New York friend of father's. "

"Did you know him out in New York?"

"I didn't. But he seems to know father very well. "

"What's his name, did you say?"

"Galer. Samuel Galer. Did you ever hear of him?"

"Never. But there were several people in New York I didn't know. Howdid your father meet him over here?"

"He was stopping at the inn in the village, and he'd heard about theabbey being so old, so he came over to look at it, and the firstperson he met was father. He's going to stay in the house now. Thecart was sent down for his things this afternoon. Did you feel a spotof rain then? I wish you'd paddle back. "

"Not a drop. That storm's not coming till to-night. Why, it's agorgeous evening. "

He turned the nose of the boat toward the island, which lay, cool andgreen and mysterious, in the middle of the lake. The heat was intense. The sun, as if conscious of having only a brief spell of work beforeit, blazed fiercely, with the apparent intention of showing what itcould do before the rain came. The air felt curiously parched. 

"There!" said Molly. "Surely you felt something, then. "

"I did. "

"Is there time to get back before it begins?"

"No. "

"We shall get soaked!"

"Not a bit of it. On the other side of the island there is a handylittle boat-house sort of place. We will put in there. "

The boathouse was simply a little creek covered over with boards andcapable of sheltering an ordinary rowing boat. Jimmy ran the canoe injust as the storm began, and turned her broadside on so that theycould watch the rain, which was sweeping over the lake in sheets. 

"Just in time, " he said, shipping the paddle. "Snug in here, isn'tit?"

"We _should_ have got wet in another minute! I hope it won't lastlong. "

"I hope it will, because I've got something very important to say toyou, and I don't want to have to hurry it. Are you quite comfortable?"

"Yes, thanks. "

"I don't know how to put it exactly. I mean, I don't want to offendyou or anything. What I mean to say is--do you mind if I smoke?Thanks. I don't know why it is, but I always talk easier if I've got acigarette going. "

He rolled one with great deliberation and care. Molly watched himadmiringly. 

"You're the only man I've ever seen roll a cigarette properly, Jimmy, "she said. "Everybody else leaves them all flabby at the ends. "

"I learned the trick from a little Italian who kept a clothing storein the Bowery. It was the only useful thing he could do. "

"Look at the rain!"

Jimmy leaned forward. 

"Molly----"

"I wonder if poor Mr. Wesson got indoors before it began. I do hope hedid. "

Jimmy sat back again. He scowled. Every man is liable on occasion tobehave like a sulky schoolboy. Jimmy did so. 

"You seem to spend most of your time thinking about Wesson, " he saidsavagely. 

Molly had begun to hum a tune to herself as she watched the rain. Shestopped. A profound and ghastly silence brooded over the canoe. 

"Molly, " said Jimmy at last, "I'm sorry. "

No reply. 

"Molly. "

"Well?"

"I'm sorry. "

Molly turned. 

"I wish you wouldn't say things like that, Jimmy. It hurts--from you. "

He could see that there were tears in her eyes. 

"Molly, don't!"

She turned her head away once more. 

"I can't help it, Jimmy. It hurts. Everything's so changed. I'mmiserable. You wouldn't have said a thing like that in the old days. "

"Molly, if you knew----"

"It's all right, Jimmy. It was silly of me. I'm all right now! Therain has stopped. Let's go back, shall we?"

"Not yet. For God's sake, not yet! This is my only chance. Directly weget back, it will be the same miserable business all over again; thesame that it's been every day since I came to this place. Heavens!When you first told me that you were living at the abbey, I wasabsolutely happy, like a fool. I might have known how it would be. Every day there's a crowd round you. I never get a chance of talkingto you. I consider myself lucky if you speak a couple of words to me. If I'd known the slow torture it was going to be, I'd have taken thenext train back to London. I can't stand it. Molly, you remember whatfriends we were in the old days. Was it ever anything more with you?Was it? Is it now?"

"I was very fond of you, Jimmy. " He could hardly hear the words. 

"Was it ever anything more than that? Is it now? That was three yearsago. You were a child. We were just good friends then. I don't wantfriendship now. It's not enough. I want you--_you_. You were right amoment ago. Everything _has_ changed. For me, at least. Has it foryou? Has it for you, Molly?"

On the island a thrush had begun to sing. Molly raised her head, as ifto listen. The water lapped against the sides of the canoe. 

"Has it, Molly?"

She bent over, and dabbled one finger in the water. 

"I--I think it has, Jimmy, " she whispered. 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Honorable Louis Wesson, meanwhile, having left the water side, lita cigarette, and proceeded to make a moody tour of the grounds. Hefelt aggrieved with the world. One is never at one's best and sunniestwhen a rival has performed a brilliant and successful piece ofcutting-out work beneath one's very eyes. Something of a jaundicedtinge stains one's outlook on life in such circumstances. Mr. Wessondid not pretend to himself that he was violently in love with Molly. But he certainly admired her, and intended, unless he changed his mindlater on, to marry her. 

He walked, drawing thoughtfully at his cigarette. The more he reviewedthe late episode, the less he liked it. He had not seen Jimmy putMolly in the canoe, and her departure seemed to him a deliberatedesertion. She had promised to play tennis with him, and at the lastmoment she had gone off with this fellow Pitt. Who _was_ Pitt? Hewas always in the way--shoving himself in. 

At this moment, a large, warm raindrop fell on his hand. From thebushes all round came an ever-increasing patter. The sky was leaden. 

He looked round him for shelter. He had reached the rose garden in thecourse of his perambulations. At the far end was a summerhouse. Heturned up his coat collar and ran. 

As he drew near, he heard a slow and dirgelike whistling proceedingfrom the interior. Plunging in out of breath, just as the delugebegan, he found Spennie seated at the little wooden table with anearnest expression on his face. The table was covered with cards. 

"How Jim took exercise, " said Spennie, glancing up. "Hello, Wesson. ByJove, isn't it coming down!"

With which greeting he turned his attention to his cards once more. Hetook one from the pack in his left hand, looked at it, hesitated for amoment, as if doubtful whereabouts on the table it would produce themost artistic effect; and finally put it down, face upward. 

Then he moved another card from the table, and put it on top of theother one. Throughout the performance he whistled painfully. 

Wesson regarded him with disfavor. "That looks damned exciting, " hesaid. He reserved his more polished periods for use in public. "Whatare you playing at?"

"Wha-a-a'?" said Spennie abstractedly, dealing another card. 

"Oh, don't sit there looking like a frog, " said Wesson irritably. "_Talk_, man. "

"What's the matter? What do you want? Hello, I've done it. No, Ihaven't. No luck at all. Haven't brought up a demon all day. "

He gathered up the cards, and began to shuffle. "Ah, lov', " he sangsentimentally, with a vacant eye on the roof of the summerhouse, "could I bot tell thee how moch----"

"Oh, stop it!" said Wesson. 

"You seem depressed, laddie. What's the matter? Ah, lov', could I bottell thee----"

"Spennie, who's this fellow Pitt?"

"Jimmy Pitt? Pal of mine. One of the absolute. Ay, nutty to the core, good my lord. Ah, lov', could I bot tell----"

"Where did you meet him?"

"London. Why?"

"He and your sister seem pretty good friends. "

"I shouldn't wonder. Knew each other out in America. Bridge, bridge, ber-ridge, a capital game for two. Shuffle and cut and deal away, andlet the lo-oser pay-ah. Ber-ridge----"

"Well, let's have a game, then. Anything for something to do. Cursethis rain! We shall be cooped up here till dinner at this rate. "

"Double dummy's a frightfully rotten game, " said Spennie. "Ever playedpicquet? I could teach it to you in five minutes. "

A look of almost awe came into Wesson's face, the look of one who seesa miracle performed before his eyes. For years he had been using allthe large stock of diplomacy at his command to induce callow youths toplay picquet with him and here was this admirable young man, thispearl among young men, positively offering to teach him. It was toomuch happiness. What had he done to deserve this? He felt as atoil-worn lion might have felt if an antelope, instead of making itscustomary bee line for the horizon, had expressed a friendly hope thatit would be found tender and inserted its head between his jaws. 

"I--it's very good of you. I shouldn't mind being shown the idea. "

He listened attentively while Spennie explained at some length theprinciples which govern the game of picquet. Every now and then heasked a question. It was evident that he was beginning to grasp theidea of the game. 

"_What_ exactly is repicquing?" he asked, as Spennie paused. 

"It's like this, " said Spennie, returning to his lecture. 

"Yes, I see now, " said the neophyte. 

They began playing. Spennie, as was only to be expected in a contestbetween teacher and student, won the first two hands. Wesson won thenext. 

"I've got the hang of it all right, now, " he said complacently. "It'sa simple sort of game. Make it more exciting, don't you think, if weplayed for something?"

"All right, " said Spennie slowly, "if you like. "

He would not have suggested it himself, but after all, hang it, if theman simply _asked_ for it--It was not his fault if the winning of ahand should have given the fellow the impression that he knew all thatthere was to be known about picquet. Of course, picquet was a gamewhere skill was practically bound to win. But--After all, Wesson hadplenty of money. He could afford it. 

"All right, " said Spennie again. "How much?"

"Something fairly moderate. Ten bob a hundred?"

There is no doubt that Spennie ought at this suggestion to havecorrected the novice's notion that ten shillings a hundred was fairlymoderate. He knew that it was possible for a poor player to lose fourhundred points in a twenty-minute game, and usual for him to lose twohundred. But he let the thing go. 

"Very well, " he said. 

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Wesson was looking somewhat ruefully at thescore sheet. "I owe you eighteen shillings, " he said. "Shall I payyou, now, or shall we settle up in a lump after we've finished?"

"What about stopping now?" said Spennie. "It's quite fine out. "

"No, let's go on. I've nothing to do till dinner, and I'm sure youhaven't. "

Spennie's conscience made one last effort. "You'd much better stop, you know, Wesson, really, " he said. "You can lose a frightful lot atthis game. "

"My dear Spennie, " said Wesson stiffly, "I can look after myself, thanks. Of course, if you think you are risking too much, by allmeans--"

"Oh, if _you_ don't mind, " said Spennie, outraged, "I'm only toofrightfully pleased. Only, remember I warned you. "

"I'll bear it in mind. By the way, before we start, care to make it asovereign a hundred?"

Spennie could not afford to play picquet for a sovereign a hundred, oranything like it; but after his adversary's innuendo it was impossiblefor a young gentleman of spirit to admit the humiliating fact. Henodded. 

 * * * * *

"It's about time, I fancy, " said Mr. Wesson, looking at his watch anhour later, "that we were going in to dress for dinner. "

Spennie made no reply. He was wrapped in thought. 

"Let's see, that's twenty pounds you owe me, isn't it?" continued Mr. Wesson. "No hurry, of course. Any time you like. Shocking bad luck youhad. "

They went out into the rose garden. 

"Jolly everything smells after the rain, " said Mr. Wesson. "Freshenedeverything up. "

Spennie did not appear to have noticed it. He seemed to be thinking ofsomething else. His air was pensive and abstracted. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

The emotions of a man who has just proposed and been accepted arecomplex and overwhelming. A certain stunned sensation is perhapspredominant. Blended with this is relief, the relief of a general whohas brought a difficult campaign to a successful end, or of a memberof a forlorn hope who finds that the danger is over, and he is stillalive. To this must be added a newly born sense of magnificence, offinding oneself to be, without having known it, the devil of a fellow. We have dimly suspected, perhaps, from time to time that we weresomething rather out of the ordinary run of men, but there has alwaysbeen a haunting fear that this view was to be attributed to a personalbias in our own favor. When, however, our suspicion is suddenlyconfirmed by the only judge for whose opinion we have the leastrespect, our bosom heaves with complacency, and the world has nothingmore to offer. 

With some accepted suitors there is an alloy of apprehension in themetal of their happiness; and the strain of an engagement sometimesbrings with it even a faint shadow of regret. "She makes me buy newclothes, " one swain, in the third quarter of his engagement, wasoverheard to moan to a friend. "Two new ties only yesterday. " Heseemed to be debating within himself whether human nature could standthe strain. 

But, whatever tragedies may cloud the end of the period, its beginningat least is bathed in sunshine. Jimmy, regarding his lathered face inthe glass as he dressed for dinner that night, called himself theluckiest man on earth, and wondered if he were worthy of suchhappiness. Thinking it over, he came to the conclusion that he wasnot, but that all the same he meant to have it. 

No doubt distressed him. It might have occurred to him that therelations between Mr. McEachern and himself offered a very serious barto his prospects; but in his present frame of mind he declined toconsider the existence of the ex-constable at all. In a world thatcontained Molly there was no room for other people. They were not inthe picture. They did not exist. 

There are men in the world who, through long custom, can findthemselves engaged without any particular whirl of emotion. KingSolomon probably belonged to this class; and even Henry the Eighthmust have become a trifle blasé in time. But to the average man, thenovice, the fact of being accepted seems to divide existence into twodefinite parts, before and after. A sensitive conscience goads someinto compiling a full and unexpurgated autobiography, the editionlimited to one copy, which is presented to the lady most interested. Some men find a melancholy pleasure in these confessions. They like todraw the girl of their affections aside and have a long, cozy chatabout what scoundrels they were before they met her. 

But, after all, the past is past and cannot be altered, and it is tobe supposed that, whatever we may have done in that checkered period, we intend to behave ourselves for the future. So, why harp on it?

Jimmy acted upon this plan. Many men in his place, no doubt, wouldhave steered the conversation skillfully to the subject of the eighthcommandment, and then said: "Talking about stealing, did I ever tellyou that I was a burglar myself for about six years?" Jimmy wasreticent. All that was over, he told himself. He had given it up. Hehad buried the past. Why exhume it? It did not occur to him to confesshis New York crimes to Molly any more than to tell her that, whenseven, he had been caned for stealing jam. 

These things had happened to a man of the name of Jimmy Pitt, it wastrue. But it was not the Jimmy Pitt who had proposed to Molly in thecanoe on the lake. 

The vapid and irreflective reader may jump to the conclusion thatJimmy was a casuist, and ought to have been ashamed of himself. 

He will be perfectly right. 

On the other hand, one excuse may urged in his favor. His casuistryimposed upon himself. 

To Jimmy, shaving, there entered, in the furtive manner habitual tothat unreclaimed buccaneer, Spike Mullins. 

"Say, Mr. Chames, " he said. 

"Well, " said Jimmy, "and how goes the world with young Lord FitzMullins? Spike, have you ever been best man?"

"On your way! What's that?"

"Best man at a wedding. Chap who stands by the bridegroom with a handon the scruff of his neck to see that he goes through with it. Fellowwho looks after everything, crowds the crisp banknotes onto theclergyman after the ceremony, and then goes off and marries the firstbridesmaid, and lives happily ever after. "

"I ain't got no use for gettin' married, Mr. Chames. "

"Spike, the misogynist! You wait, Spike. Some day love will awake inyour heart, and you'll start writing poetry. "

"I'se not dat kind of mug, Mr. Chames, " protested Spike. "Dere _was_a goil, dough. Only I was never her steady. And she married one of deodder boys. "

"Why didn't you knock him down and carry her off?"

"He was de lightweight champion of de woild. "

"That makes a difference, doesn't it? But away with melancholy, Spike!I'm feeling as if somebody had given me Broadway for a birthdaypresent. "

"Youse to de good, " agreed Spike. 

"Well, any news? Keggs all right? How are you getting on?"

"Mr. Chames. " Spike sank his voice to a whisper. "Dat's what I chasedmeself here about. Dere's a mug down in de soivant's hall what's adetective. Yes, dat's right, if I ever saw one. "

"What makes you think so?"

"On your way, Mr. Chames! Can't I tell? I could pick out a fly cop outof a bunch of a thousand. Sure. Dis mug's vally to Sir Thomas, dat'shim. But he ain't no vally. He's come to see dat no one don't get busywit de jools. Say, what do you t'ink of dem jools, Mr. Chames?"

"Finest I ever saw. "

"Yes, dat's right. De limit, ain't dey? Ain't youse really----"

"No, Spike, I am not, thank you _very_ much for inquiring. I'm nevergoing to touch a jewel again unless I've paid for it and got thereceipt in my pocket. "

Spike shuffled despondently. 

"All the same, " said Jimmy, "I shouldn't give yourself away to thisdetective. If he tries pumping you at all, give him the frozen face. "

"Sure. But he ain't de only one. "

"What, _more_ detectives? They'll have to put up 'house full' boardsat this rate. Who's the other?"

"De mug what came dis afternoon. Ole man McEachern brought him. I seedMiss Molly talking to him. "

"The chap from the inn? Why, that's an old New York friend ofMcEachern's. "

"Anyhow, Mr. Chames, he's a sleut'. I can tell 'em by deir eyes anddeir feet, and de whole of dem. "

An idea came into Jimmy's mind. 

"I see, " he said. "Our friend McEachern has got him in to spy on us. Imight have known he'd be up to something like that. "

"Dat's right, Mr. Chames. "

"Of course you may be mistaken. "

"Not me, Mr. Chames. "

"Anyhow, I shall be seeing him at dinner. I can get talking to himafterward. I shall soon find out what his game is. "

For the moment, Molly was forgotten. The old reckless spirit wascarrying him away. This thing was a deliberate challenge. He had beenon parole. He had imagined that his word was all that McEachern had torely on. But if the policeman had been working secretly against himall this time, his parole was withdrawn automatically. The thoughtthat, if he did nothing, McEachern would put it down complacently tothe vigilance of his detective and his own astuteness in engaging himstung Jimmy. His six years of burglary had given him an odd sort ofprofessional pride. "I've half a mind, " he said softly. The familiarexpression on his face was not lost on Spike. 

"To try for de jools, Mr. Chames?" he asked eagerly. 

His words broke the spell. Molly resumed her place. The hard look diedout of Jimmy's eyes. 

"No, " he said. "Not that. It can't be done. "

"Yes, it could, Mr. Chames. Dead easy. I've been up to de room, andI've seen de box what de jools is put in at night. We could get atthem easy as pullin' de plug out of a bottle. Say, dis is de softestproposition, dis house. Look what I got dis afternoon, Mr. Chames. "

He plunged his hand into his pocket, and drew it out again. As heunclosed his fingers, Jimmy caught the gleam of precious stones. 

He started as one who sees snakes in the grass. 

"What the----" he gasped. 

Spike was looking at his treasure-trove with an air of affectionateproprietorship. 

"Where on earth did you get those?" asked Jimmy. 

"Out of one of de rooms. Dey belonged to one of de loidies. It was deeasiest old t'ing ever, Mr. Chames. I went in when dere was nobodyabout, and dere dey were on de toible. I never butted into anyt'ing sosoft, Mr. Chames. "

"Spike. "

"Yes, Mr. Chames?"

"Do you remember the room you took them from?"

"Sure. It was de foist on de----"

"Then just listen to me for a moment. When we're at dinner, you've gotto go to that room and put those things back--all of them, mindyou--just where you found them. Do you understand?"

Spike's jaw had fallen. 

"Put dem back, Mr. Chames!" he faltered. 

"Every single one of them. "

"Mr. Chames!" said Spike plaintively. 

"You'll bear it in mind? Directly dinner has begun, every one of thosethings goes back where it belongs. See?"

"Very well, Mr. Chames. "

The dejection in his voice would have moved the sternest to pity. Gloom had enveloped Spike's spirit. The sunlight had gone out of hislife. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Spennie Blunt, meanwhile, was not feeling happy. Out of his life, too, had the sunshine gone. His assets amounted to one pound seven andfourpence and he owed twenty pounds. He had succeeded, after dinner, in borrowing five pounds from Jimmy, who was in the mood when he wouldhave lent five pounds to anybody who asked for it, but beyond that hehad had no successes in the course of a borrowing tour among theinmates of the abbey. 

In the seclusion of his bedroom, he sat down to smoke a last cigaretteand think the thing over in all its aspects. He could see no way outof his difficulties. The thought had something of the dull persistencyof a toothache. It refused to leave him. If only this had happened atOxford, he knew of twenty kindly men who would have rallied round him, and placed portions of their fathers' money at his disposal. But thiswas July. He would not see Oxford again for months. And, in themeantime, Wesson would be pressing for his money. 

"Oh, damn!" he said. 

He had come to this conclusion for the fiftieth time, when the dooropened, and his creditor appeared in person. To Spennie, he lookedlike the embodiment of Fate, a sort of male Nemesis. 

"I want to have a talk with you, Spennie, " said Wesson, closing thedoor. 

"Well?"

Wesson lit a cigarette, and threw the match out of the window beforereplying. 

"Look here, Spennie, " he said, "I want to marry Miss McEachern. "

Spennie was in no mood to listen to the love affairs of other men. 

"Oh!" he said. 

"Yes. And I want you to help me. "

"Help you?"

"You must have a certain amount of influence with her. She's yoursister. "

"Stepsister. "

"Same thing. "

"Well, anyhow, it's no good coming to me. Nobody's likely to makeMolly do a thing unless she wants to. I couldn't, if I tried for ayear. We're good pals, and all that, but she'd shut me up like a knifeif I went to her and said I wanted her to marry some one. "

"Not being a perfect fool, " said Wesson impatiently, "I don't suggestthat you should do that. "

"What's the idea, then?"

"You can easily talk about me to her. Praise me, and so on. "

Spennie's eyes opened wide. 

"Praise you? How?"

"Thanks, " said Wesson, with a laugh. "If you can't think of anyadmirable qualities in me, you'd better invent some. "

"I should feel such a silly ass. "

"That would be a new experience for you, wouldn't it? And then you canarrange it so that I shall get chances of talking to her. You canbring us together. "

Spennie's eyes became rounder. 

"You seem to have mapped out quite a programme for me. "

"She'll listen to you. You can help me a lot. "

"Can I?"

Wesson threw away his cigarette. 

"And there's another thing, " he said. "You can queer that fellowPitt's game. She's always with him now. You must get her away fromhim. Run him down to her. And get him out of this place as soon aspossible. You invited him here. He doesn't expect to stop hereindefinitely, I suppose? If you left, he'd have to, too. What you mustdo is to go back to London directly after the theatricals are over. He'll have to go with you. Then you can drop him in London and comeback. "

It is improbable that Wesson was blind to certain blemishes whichcould have been urged against this ingenious scheme by a critic with anice sense of the honorable; but, in his general conduct of life, asin his play at cards, he was accustomed to ignore the rules when hefelt disposed to do so. He proceeded to mention in detail a few of thethings which he proposed to call upon his ally to do. A delicate pinkflush might have been seen to spread over Spennie's face. He began tolook like an angry rabbit. He had not a great deal of pride in hiscomposition, but the thought of the ignominious rôle which Wesson wassketching out for him stirred what he had to its shallow depths. 

Talking on, Wesson managed with his final words to add the last straw. 

"Of course, " he said, "that money you lost to me at picquet--What wasit? Ten? Twenty? Twenty pounds, wasn't it? Well, we could look on thatas canceled, of course. That will be all right. "

Spennie exploded. 

"Will it?" he cried, pink to the ears. "Will it, by George? I'll payyou every frightful penny of it before the end of the week. What doyou take me for, I should like to know?"

"A fool, if you refuse my offer. "

"I've a fearfully good mind to give you a most frightful kicking. "

"I shouldn't try, Spennie, if I were you. It's not the form of indoorgame at which you'd shine. Better stick to picquet. "

"If you think I can't pay you 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 Spennie. "

"But I'm not a cad. "

"You're getting quite rosy, Spennie. Wrath is good for thecomplexion. "

"And if you think you can bribe me to do your dirty work, you nevermade a bigger mistake in your life. "

"Yes, I did, " said Wesson, "when I thought you had some glimmerings ofintelligence. But if it gives you any pleasure to behave like thejuvenile lead in a melodrama, by all means do. Personally, I shouldn'thave thought the game would be worth the candle. Your keen sense ofhonor, I understand you to say, will force you to pay your debt. It'san expensive luxury nowadays, Spennie. You mentioned the end of theweek, I believe? That will suit me admirably. But if you change yourmind, my offer is still open. Good night, Galahad. "

CHAPTER XV. 

For pure discomfort there are few things in the world that can competewith the final rehearsals of an amateur theatrical performance at acountry house. Every day the atmosphere becomes more and more heavilycharged with restlessness and irritability. The producer of the piece, especially if he is also the author of it, develops a sort ofintermittent insanity. He plucks at his mustache, if he has one; athis hair, if he has not. He mutters to himself. He gives vent tooccasional despairing cries. The soothing suavity which marked hisdemeanor in the earlier rehearsals disappears. He no longer says witha winning smile: "Splendid, old man; splendid. Couldn't be better. ButI think we'll take that over just once more, if you don't mind. Youmissed out a few rather good lines, and you forgot to give MissRobinson her cue for upsetting the flowerpot. " Instead, he rolls hiseyes and snaps out: "Once more, please. This'll never do. At this ratewe might just as well cut out the show altogether. For Heaven's sake, Brown, do try and remember your lines. It's no good having the bestpart in the piece if you go and forget everything you've got to say. What's that? All right on the night? No, it _won't_ be all right onthe night. And another thing. You _must_ remember to say, 'How calmand peaceful the morning is', or how on earth do you think Miss Robinsonis going to know when to upset that flowerpot? Now, then, once more; anddo pull yourself together this time. " After which the scene is sulkilyresumed by the now thoroughly irritated actors; and conversation, whenthe parties concerned meet subsequently, is cold and strained. 

Matters had reached this stage at the abbey. Everybody was thoroughlytired of the piece, and, but for the thought of the disappointmentwhich--presumably--would rack the neighboring nobility and gentryif it were not to be produced, would have resigned without a twingeof regret. People who had schemed to get the best and longest partswere wishing now that they had been content with _First Footman_ or_Giles, a villager_. 

"I'll never run an amateur show again as long as I live, " confidedCharteris to Jimmy, almost tearfully the night before the production. "It's not good enough. Most of them aren't word-perfect yet. And we'vejust had the dress rehearsal!"

"It'll be all right on----"

"Oh, don't say it'll be all right on the night. "

"I wasn't going to, " said Jimmy. "I was going to say it'll be allright after the night. People will soon forget how badly the thingwent. "

"You're a nice, comforting sort of man, aren't you?" said Charteris. 

"Why worry?" said Jimmy. "If you go on like this, it'll be WestminsterAbbey for you in your prime. You'll be getting brain fever. "

Jimmy himself was feeling particularly cheerful. He was deriving akeen amusement at present from the manoeuvres of Mr. Samuel Galer, ofNew York. This lynx-eyed man, having been instructed by Mr. McEachernto watch Jimmy, was doing so with a pertinacity which would have madea man with the snowiest of consciences suspicious. If Jimmy went tothe billiard room after dinner, Mr. Galer was there to keep himcompany. If, during the course of the day, he had occasion to fetch ahandkerchief or a cigarette case from his bedroom, he was sure, onemerging, to stumble upon Mr. Galer in the corridor. The employees ofWragge's Detective Agency, Ltd. , believed in earning their salaries. Occasionally, after these encounters, Jimmy would come upon Sir ThomasBlunt's valet, the other man in whom Spike's trained eye had discernedthe distinguishing trait of the detective. He was usually somewhereround the corner at these moments, and, when collided with, apologizedwith great politeness. It tickled Jimmy to think that both these giantbrains should be so greatly exercised on his account. 

Spennie, meanwhile, had been doing quite an unprecedented amount ofthinking. Quite an intellectual pallor had begun to appear on hisnormally pink cheeks. He had discovered the profound truth that it isone thing to talk about paying one's debts, another actually to do it, and that this is more particularly the case when we owe twenty poundsand possess but six pounds seven shillings and fourpence. Spennie wasacutely conscious of the fact that, if he could not follow up hiswords to Wesson with actual coin, the result would be something of ananticlimax. Somehow or other he would have to get the money--and atonce. The difficulty was that no one seemed at all inclined to lend itto him. 

There is a good deal to be said against stealing as a habit; but itcannot he denied that, in certain circumstances, it offers anadmirable solution of a difficulty, and if the penalties were not soexceedingly unpleasant, it is probable that it would become far morefashionable than it is. 

Spennie's mind did not turn immediately to this outlet from hisembarrassment. He had never stolen before, and it did not occur to himdirectly 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 coursepossible, unless he applied to his stepfather--a task for which hiscourage was not sufficient--he found himself contemplating thepossibility of having to secure the money by unlawful means. By lunchtime, on the morning of the day fixed for the theatricals, he haddecided definitely to do so. By dinner time he had fixed upon theobject of his attentions. 

With a vague idea of keeping the thing in the family, he had resolvedto make his raid upon Sir Thomas Blunt. Somehow it did not seem so badrobbing one's relatives. 

A man's first crime is, as a rule, a shockingly amateurish affair. Nowand then, it is true, we find beginners forging with the accuracy ofold hands or breaking into houses with the finish of experts. Butthese are isolated cases. The average tyro lacks generalshipaltogether. Spennie may be cited as a typical novice. It did notstrike him that inquiries might be instituted by Sir Thomas, when hefound his money gone, and that Wesson, finding a man whom he knew tobe impecunious suddenly in possession of twenty pounds, might havesuspicions. His mind was entirely filled with the thought of gettingthe money. There was no room in it for any other reflection. 

His plan was simple. Sir Thomas, he knew, always carried a good dealof money with him. It was unlikely that he kept this on his person inthe evening. A man to whom the set of his clothes is as important asit was to Sir Thomas, does not carry a pocket-book full of banknoteswhen he is dressed for dinner. He would leave it somewhere, reasonedSpennie. Where, he asked himself. The answer was easy. In his dressingroom. Spennie's plan of campaign was complete. 

The theatricals began at half-past eight. The audience had beenhustled into their seats, happier than is usual in such circumstancesfrom the rumor that the proceedings were to terminate with an informaldance. The abbey was singularly well constructed for such a purpose. There was plenty of room, and a sufficiency of retreat for those whosat out, in addition to a conservatory large enough to have marriedoff half the couples in the county. The audience was in an excellenthumor, and the monologue, the first item of the programme, wasreceived with a warmth which gave Charteris, whom rehearsals hadturned into a pessimist, a faint hope that the main item on theprogramme might not be the complete failure it had promised to be. 

Spennie's idea had been to get through his burglarious specialtyduring the monologue, when his absence would not be noticed. It mightbe that if he disappeared later in the evening people would wonderwhat had become of him. 

He lurked apart till the last of the audience had taken their seats. As he was passing through the hall, a hand fell on his shoulder. Conscience makes cowards of us all. Spennie bit his tongue and leapedthree inches into the air. 

"Hello, Charteris!" he said gaspingly. 

"Spennie, my boyhood's only friend, " said Charteris, "where are youoff to?"

"What--what do you mean? I was just going upstairs. "

"Then don't. You're wanted. Our prompter can't be found. I want you totake his place till he blows in. Come along. "

The official prompter arrived at the end of the monologue with theremark that he had been having a bit of a smoke in the garden and hiswatch had gone wrong. Leaving him to discuss the point with Charteris, Spennie slipped quietly away, and flitted up the stairs toward SirThomas' dressing room. At the door, he stopped and listened. There wasno sound. The house might have been deserted. He opened the door, andswitched on the electric light. 

Fortune was with him. On the dressing table, together with a bunch ofkeys and some small change, lay a brown leather pocketbook. EvidentlySir Thomas did not share Lady Blunt's impression that the world waswaiting for a chance to rob him as soon as his back was turned. 

Spennie opened the pocketbook, and counted the contents. There weretwo ten-pound notes, and four of five pounds. 

He took a specimen of each variety, replaced the pocketbook, and creptout of the door. 

Then he walked rapidly down the corridor to his own room. 

Just as he reached it, he received a shock only less severe than theformer one from the fact that this time no hand was placed on hisshoulder. 

"Spennie!" cried a voice. 

He turned, to see Molly. She wore the costume of the stage milkmaid. Coming out of her room after dressing for her part, she had been intime to see Spennie emerge through Sir Thomas' door with a look on hisface furtive enough to have made any jury bring in a verdict of guiltyon any count without further evidence. She did not know what he hadbeen doing; but she was very certain that it was something which heought to have left undone. 

"Er--hullo, Molly!" said Spennie bonelessly. 

"What were you doing in Uncle Thomas' room, Spennie?"

"Nothing. I was just looking round. "

"Just looking round?"

"That's all. "

Molly was puzzled. 

"Why did you look like that when you came out?"

"Like what?"

"So guilty. "

"Guilty! What _are_ you talking about?"

Molly suddenly saw light. 

"Spennie, " she said, "what were you putting in your pocket as you cameout?"

"Putting in my pocket!" said Spennie, rallying with the desperation ofone fighting a lost cause. "What do you mean?"

"You were putting something. "

Another denial was hovering on Spennie's lips, when, in a flash, hesaw what he had not seen before, the cloud of suspicion which musthang over him when the loss of the notes was discovered. Sir Thomaswould remember that he had tried to borrow money from him. Wessonwould wonder how he had become possessed of twenty pounds. And Mollyhad actually seen him coming out of the room, putting something in hispocket. 

He threw himself at the mercy of the court. 

"It's like this, Molly, " he said. And, having prefaced his narrativewith the sound remark that he had been a fool, he gave her a summaryof recent events. 

"I see, " said Molly. "And you must pay him at once?"

"By the end of the week. We had--we had a bit of a row. "

"What about?"

"Oh, nothing, " said Spennie. "Anyhow, I told him I'd pay him bySaturday, and I don't want to have to climb down. "

"Of course not. Jimmy shall lend you the money. "

"Who? Jimmy Pitt?"

"Yes. "

"But, I say, look here, Molly. I mean, I've been to him, already. Helent me a fiver. He might kick if I tried to touch him again so soon. "

"I'll ask him for it. "

"But, look here, Molly----"

"Jimmy and I are engaged, Spennie. "

"What! Not really? I say, I'm frightfully pleased. He's one of thebest. I'm fearfully glad. Why, that's absolutely topping. It'll be allright. I'll sweat to pay him back. I'll save out of my allowance. Ican easily do it if I cut out a few things and don't go about so much. You're a frightfully good sort, Molly. I say, will you ask himto-night? I want to pay Wesson first thing to-morrow morning. "

"Very well. You'd better give me those notes, Spennie. I'll put themback. "

The amateur cracksman handed over his loot, and retired toward thestairs. Molly could hear him going down them three at a time, in awhirl of relief and good resolutions. She went to Sir Thomas' room, and replaced the notes. Having done this, she could not resist thetemptation to examine herself in the glass for a few moments. Then sheturned away, switched off the light, and was just about to leave theroom when a soft footstep in the passage outside came to her ears. 

She shrank back. She felt a curiously guilty sensation, as if she hadbeen in the room with criminal rather than benevolent intentions. Hermotives in being where she was were excellent--but she would wait tillthis person had passed before coming out into the passage. 

Then it came to her with a shock that the person was not going topass. The footsteps halted outside the door. 

There was a curtain at her side, behind which hung certain suits ofSir Thomas'. She stepped noiselessly behind this. 

The footsteps passed on into the room. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Jimmy had gone up to his room to put on the costume he was to wear inthe first act at about the time when Spennie was being seized upon byCharteris to act as prompter. As he moved toward the stairs, asquare-cut figure appeared. 

It was the faithful Galer. 

There was nothing in his appearance to betray the detective to theunskilled eye, but years of practice had left Spike with a sort ofsixth sense as regarded the force. He could pierce the subtlestdisguise. Jimmy had this gift in an almost equal degree, and it hadnot needed Mr. Galer's constant shadowing of himself to prove to Jimmythe correctness of Spike's judgment. He looked at the representativeof Wragge's Detective Agency, Ltd. , as he stood before him now, takingin his every detail: the square, unintelligent face; the badly cutclothes; the clumsy heels; the enormous feet. 

"And this, " he said to himself, "is the man McEachern thinks capableof tying my hands!" There were moments when the spectacle of Mr. Galerfilled Jimmy with an odd sort of fury, a kind of hurt professionalpride. The feeling that this espionage was a direct challenge enragedhim. Behind this clumsy watcher he saw always the self-satisfiedfigure of Mr. McEachern. He seemed to hear him chuckling to himself. 

"If it wasn't for Molly, " he said to himself, "I'd teach McEachern alesson. I'm trying to hold myself in, and he sets these fooldetectives onto me. I shouldn't mind if he'd chosen somebody who knewthe rudiments of the game, but Galer! Galer!

"Well, Mr. Galer, " he said, aloud, "you aren't trying to escape, areyou? You're coming in to see the show, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes, " said the detective. "Jest wanted to go upstairs for 'alf aminute. You coming, too?"

"I was going to dress, " said Jimmy, as they went up. "See you later, "he added, at the door. "Hope you'll like the show. "

He went into his room. Mr. Galer passed on. 

 * * * * *

Jimmy had finished dressing, and had picked up a book to occupy theten minutes before he would be needed downstairs, when there burstinto the room Spike Mullins, in a state of obvious excitement. 

"Gee, Mr. Chames!"

"Hello, Spike. "

Spike went to the door, opened it, and looked up and down the passage. 

"Mr. Chames, " he said, in a whisper, shutting the door, "there's bindoin's to-night for fair. Me coco's still buzzin'. Say, I was to SirThomas' dressin' room----"

"What! What were you doing there?"

Spike looked somewhat embarrassed. He grinned apologetically, andshuffled his feet. 

"I've got dem, Mr. Chames, " he said. 

"Got them? Got what?"

"Dese. "

He plunged his hand in his pocket, and drew forth a glittering mass. Jimmy's jaw dropped as he gazed at Lady Blunt's rope of pearls. 

"Two hundred t'ousand plunks, " murmured Spike, gazing lovingly atthem. "I says to myself, Mr. Chames ain't got no time to be getting'after dem himself. He's too busy dese days wit' jollyin' along theswells. So it's up to me, I says, 'cos Mr. Chames'll be tickled todeat', all right, all right, if we can git away wit' dem. So I----"

Jimmy gave tongue with an energy which amazed his faithful follower. 

"Spike! You lunatic! Didn't I tell you there was nothing doing whenyou wanted to take those things the other day?"

"Sure, Mr. Chames. But dose was little dinky t'ings. Dese poils isboids, for fair. "

"Good heavens, Spike, you must be mad. Can't you see--Oh, Lord!Directly the loss of those pearls is discovered, we shall have thosedetectives after us in a minute. Didn't you know they had beenwatching us?"

An involuntary chuckle escaped Spike. 

"'Scuse me, Mr. Chames, but dat's funny about dem sleut's. Listen. Dey's bin an' arrest each other. "

"What!"

"Dat's right. Dey had a scrap in de dark, each finking de odder wasafter de jools, an' not knowin' dey was bote sleut's, an' now one ofdem's bin an' taken de odder off, an' locked him in de cellar. "

"What on earth do you mean?"

Spike giggled at the recollection. 

"Listen, Mr. Chames, it's dis way. I'm in de dressin' room, chasin'around wit' dis lantern here for de jool box"--he produced from hisother pocket a small bicycle lamp--"and just as I gets a line on it, gee! I hears a footstep comin' down de passage straight for de door. Was to de bad? Dat's right. Gee, I says to m'self, here's one of desleut' guys what's bin an' got wise to me, and he's comin' in to putde grip on me. So I gets up, an' I blows out de lantern, and I standsdere in de dark, waitin' for him to come in. And den I'm going to getbusy before he can see who I am, and jolt him one on de point, andden, while he's down and out, chase meself for de soivants' hall. "

"Yes?" said Jimmy. 

"Well, dis guy, he gets to de door, and opens it, and I'm just goin'to butt in, when dere suddenly jumps out from de room on de odder sidede passage anodder guy, and gets de rapid strangleholt on dis foistmug. Say, wouldn't dat make you wonder was you on your feet or yourcoco?"

"Go on. What happened, then?"

"Dey begins to scrap good and hard in de dark. Dey couldn't see me, and I couldn't see dem, but I could hear dem bumpin' about an'sluggin' each odder, all right, all right. And by an' by one of demputs de odder to de bad, so dat he goes down and takes de count; an'den I hears a click. And I know what dat is. One of de guys has put deirons on de odder guy. Den I hears him strike a light--I'd turned deswitch what lights up de passage before I got into de room--and den hesays, 'Ah', he says, 'got youse, have I? Not the boid I expected, butyou'll do. ' I knew his voice. It was dat mug what calls himselfGaler. "

"I suppose I'm the bird he expected, " said Jimmy. "Well?"

"De odder mug was too busy catchin' up wit' his breat' to shoot itback swift, but after he's bin doin' de deep breathin' stunt for awhile, he says, 'You mutt', he says, 'youse to de bad. You've made abreak, you have. ' He put it different, but dat's what he meant. Den hesays that he's a sleut', too. Does de Galer mug give him de glad eye?Not on your life. He says dat dat's de woist tale that's ever binhanded to him. De odder mug says, 'I'm Sir Tummas' vally', he says. 'Aw, cut it out', says Galer. 'Sure youse ain't Sir Tummas himself?''Show me to him', says de foist guy, 'den you'll see. ' 'Not on yourlife', says Galer. 'What! Butt in among de swells what's enjoyin'themselves and spoil deir evenin' by showin' dem a face like yours? Tode woods! It's youse for de coal cellar, me man, and we'll see whatyouse has got to say afterward. G'wan!' And off dey went. And I lit melantern again, got de jools, and chased meself here. "

Jimmy stretched out his hand. 

"All very exciting, " he said. "And now you'll just hand me thosepearls, and I'll seize the opportunity while the coast is clear to putthem back where they belong. "

Only for a moment did Spike hesitate. Then he pulled out the jewels, and placed them in Jimmy's hand. Mr. Chames was Mr. Chames, and whathe said went. But his demeanor was tragic, telling eloquently of hopesblighted. 

Jimmy took the necklace with a thrill. He was an expert in jewels, anda fine gem affected him much as a fine picture affects the artistic. He went to the light, and inspected them gloatingly. 

As he did so, he uttered a surprised exclamation. He ran the jewelsthrough his fingers. He scrutinized them again, more closely thistime. 

Then he turned to Spike, with a curious smile. 

"You'd better be going downstairs, " he said. "I'll just run along andreplace them. Where is the box?"

"It's on de floor against de wall, near de window, Mr. Chames. "

"Good. Better give me that lamp. "

There was no one in the passage. He raced softly along it to SirThomas Blunt's dressing room. 

He lit his lamp, and found the box without difficulty. Dropping thenecklace in, he closed down the lid. 

"They'll want a new lock, I'm afraid, " he said. "However!"

He rose to his feet. 

"Jimmy!" said a startled voice. 

He whipped round. The light of the lamp fell on Molly, standing, paleand open-eyed, beside the curtain by the door. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Pressed, rigid, against the wall behind her curtain, Molly hadlistened in utter bewilderment to the sounds of strife in the passageoutside. The half-heard conversation between the detectives had donenothing toward a solution of the mystery. Galer's voice she thoughtshe recognized as one that she had heard before; but she could notidentify it. 

When the detectives had passed away together down the corridor, shehad imagined that the adventure was at an end and that she was atliberty to emerge--cautiously--from her hiding place and follow themdownstairs. She had stretched out a hand, to draw the curtain aside, when she caught sight of the yellow ray of the lamp on the floor, andshrank back again. As she did so, she heard the sound of breathing. Somebody was still in the room. 

Her mystification deepened. She had supposed that the tale of visitorsto the dressing room was complete with the two who had striven in thepassage. Yet here was another. 

She strained her ears to catch a sound. For a while she heard nothing. Then came a voice that she knew well; and, abandoning concealment, shecame out into the room, and found Jimmy kneeling on the floor besidethe rifled jewel box. 

For a full minute they stood staring at each other, without a word. The light of the lamp hurt Molly's eyes. She put up a hand, to shadethem. The silence was oppressive. It seemed to Molly that they hadbeen standing like this for years. 

Jimmy had not moved. There was something in his attitude which filledMolly with a vague fear. In the shadow behind the lamp, he lookedshapeless and inhuman. 

"What are you doing here?" he said at last, in a harsh, unnaturalvoice. 

"I----"

She stopped. 

"You're hurting my eyes, " she said. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't think. Is that better?"

He turned the light from her face. Something in his voice and theapologetic haste with which he moved the lamp seemed to relax thestrain of the situation. The feeling of stunned surprise began toleave 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 lamp? What had he been doing? The questions shot from herbrain like sparks from an anvil. 

The darkness began to tear at her nerves. She felt along the wall forthe switch, and flooded the room with light. 

Jimmy laid down the lantern, and stood for a moment, undecided. Helooked at Molly, and suddenly there came over him an overwhelmingdesire to tell her everything. He had tried to stifle his conscience, to assure himself that the old days were over, and that there was noneed to refer to them. And for a while he had imposed upon himself. But lately the falseness of his position had come home to him. Hecould not allow her to marry him, in ignorance of what he had been. Itwould be a villainous thing to do. Often he had tried to tell her, buthad failed. He saw that it must be done, here and now. 

He lifted the lid of the jewel box, and dangled the necklace beforeher eyes. 

She drew back. 

"Jimmy! You were--stealing them?"

"No, I was putting them back. "

"Putting them back?"

"Listen. I'm going to tell you the truth, Molly--I've been trying tofor days, but I never had the pluck. I wasn't stealing this necklace, but for seven years I lived by this sort of thing. "

"By----"

"By stealing. By breaking into houses and stealing. There. It isn'tnice, is it? But it's the truth. And whatever happens, I'm glad youknow. "

"Stealing!" said Molly slowly. "You!"

He took a step forward, and laid his hand on her arm. She shrank awayfrom him. His hand fell to his side like lead. 

"Molly, do you hate me?"

"How could you?" she whispered. "How could you?"

"Molly, I want to tell you a story. Are you listening? It's the storyof a weak devil who was put up to fight the world, and wasn't strongenough for it. He got a bad start, and he never made it up. They senthim to school, the best school in the country; and he got expelled. Then they gave him a hundred pounds, and told him to make out forhimself. He was seventeen, then. Seventeen, mind you. And all he knewwas a little Latin and Greek, a very little, and nothing else. Andthey sent him out to make his fortune. "

He stopped. 

"It will be much simpler to tell it in the first person, " he said, with a short laugh. "I arrived in New York--I was seventeen, you willremember--with ninety pounds in my pocket. It seemed illimitablewealth at the time. Two pounds was the most I had ever possessedbefore. I could not imagine its ever coming to an end. In dollars itseemed an inconceivable amount of money. I put up at the Waldorf. Iremember, I took a cab there. I gave the man three dollars. "

He laughed again. 

"You can guess how long my ninety pounds lasted. Within a month I hadbegun to realize that my purse was shallower than I had thought. Itoccurred to me that work of some sort would be an advantage. I wentround and tried to get some. My God! Remember, I was seventeen, andabsolutely ignorant of every useful trade under the sun. "

"Go on. "

"One day I was lunching at the Quentin, when a man came and sat downat the same table, and we got into conversation. I had spent themorning answering want advertisements, and I was going to break mylast twenty-dollar bill to pay for my lunch. I was in the frame ofmind when I would have done anything, good or bad, that would havegiven me some money. The man was very friendly. After lunch, he tookme off to his rooms. He had a couple of parlor rooms in Forty-fifthStreet. Then he showed his hand. He was a pretty scoundrel, but Ididn't care. I didn't care for anything, except that there seemed tobe money to be had from him. Honesty! Put a man in New York withnineteen dollars and a few cents in his pockets, and no friends, andsee what happens! It's a hell for the poor, in New York. An iron, grinding city. It frightens you. It's so big and hard and cruel. Ittakes the fight out of you. I've felt it, and I know. "

He stopped, and gave a little shiver. Nine years had passed since thatday, but a man who has all but gone under in a big city does notreadily forget the nightmare horror of it. 

"Stone--that was the man's name--was running a tapless wire-tappinggame. You've read about the trick, I expect. Every one has known aboutit since Larry Summerfield was sent to Sing Sing. But it was new then. There are lots of ways of doing it. Stone's was to hire a room and fixit up to look like a branch of the Western Union Telegraph Company. Hewould bring men in there and introduce them to a man he called themanager of the branch, who was supposed to get racing results tenminutes before they were sent out to the pool rooms. The victim wouldput up the money for a bet, and Stone and his friends got it at once. Stone was looking for an assistant. He wanted a man who looked like agentleman. To inspire confidence! I looked older than I was, and hetook me on. It was a filthy business, but I was in a panic. I was withStone eight months. Then I left him. It was too unsavory--even for me. 

"It was after that that I became a cracksman. I wanted money. It wasno use hoping for work. I couldn't get it, and I couldn't have done itif I had got it. I was a pirate, and fit for nothing except piracy. One night I met a man in a Broadway rathskeller. I knew him by sight. I had seen him about at places. 'You're with Stone, aren't you?' hesaid, after we had talked about racing and other things for a while. Istared at him in surprise. I was frightened, too. 'It's all right', hesaid, 'I know all about Stone. You needn't be afraid of me. Aren't youwith him?' 'I was', I said. 'You left him? Why?' I told him. 'You seema bright kid', he said. 'Join me if you feel like it. ' He was acracksman. I never found out his real name. He was always called Bob. A curious man. He had been at Harvard, and spoke half a dozenlanguages. I think he took to burglary from sheer craving forexcitement. He used to speak of it as if it were an art. I joined him, and he taught me all he knew. When he died--he was run over by acar--I went on with the thing. Then my uncle died, and I came back toEngland, rich. 

"When I left the lawyer's office, I made up my mind that I would drawa line across my life. I swore I would never crack another crib. Andwhen I met you I swore it again. "

"And yet----"

"No. It isn't as bad as you think. When I was in London I fell in witha man named Mullins, who used to work with me in the old days. He wasstarving, so I took him in, and brought him along here with me, tokeep him out of mischief. To-night he came to me with this necklace. He had been in here, and stolen it. I took it from him, and came toput it back. You believe me, don't you, Molly?"

"Yes, " said she simply. 

He came a step nearer. 

"Molly, don't give me up. I know I've been a blackguard, but I swearthat's all over now. I've drawn a line right through it. I oughtn'tto have let myself love you. But I couldn't help it. I couldn't, dear. You won't give me up, will you? If you'd only take me in hand, you could make what you liked of me. I'd do anything for you. Anymortal thing you wanted. You can make me just anything you please. Will you try? Molly!"

He stopped. She held out both her hands to him. 

The next moment she had gone. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

With a wonderful feeling of light-heartedness, Jimmy turned once moreto the jewel box. He picked up the lamp and switched off the electriclight. He had dropped the necklace to the floor, and had knelt torecover it when the opening of the door, followed by a blaze of lightand a startled exclamation, brought him to his feet with a bound, blinking but alert. 

In the doorway stood Sir Thomas Blunt. His face expressed the mostlively astonishment. His bulging eyes were fixed upon the pearls inJimmy's hand. 

"Good evening, " said Jimmy pleasantly. 

Sir Thomas stammered. It is a disquieting experience to find the floorof one's dressing room occupied by a burglar. 

"What--what--what--" said Sir Thomas. 

"Out with it, " said Jimmy. 

"What----"

"I knew a man once who stammered, " said Jimmy. "He used to chew dogbiscuit while he was speaking. It cured him. Besides beingnutritious. "

"You--you blackguard!" said Sir Thomas. 

Jimmy placed the pearls carefully on the dressing table. Then heturned to Sir Thomas, with his hands in the pockets of his coat. Itwas a tight corner, but he had been in tighter in his time, and inthis instance he fancied that he held a winning card. He found himselfenjoying the interview. 

"So--so it's you, is it?" said Sir Thomas. 

"Who told you?"

"So you're a thief, " went on the baronet viciously, "a low thief. "

"Dash it all--I say, come now, " protested Jimmy. "Not low. You may notknow me, over here, but I've got a big American reputation. Askanybody. But----

"And, I say, " added Jimmy, "I know you don't mean to be offensive, butI wish you wouldn't call me a thief. I'm a cracksman. There's a worldof difference between the two branches of the profession. I mean, well, suppose you were an actor-manager, you wouldn't like to becalled a super, would you? I mean--well, you see don't you? Anordinary thief, for instance, would use violence in a case like this. Violence--except in extreme cases; I hope this won't be one ofthem--is contrary to cracksmen's etiquette. On the other hand, SirThomas, I should like to say that I have you covered. "

There was a pipe in the pocket of his coat. He thrust the stem of thisearnestly against the lining. Sir Thomas eyed the protuberanceapprehensively, and turned a little pale. 

"My gun, as you see, is in my pocket. It is loaded and cocked. It ispointing straight at you at the present moment, and my finger is onthe trigger. I may add that I am a dead shot at a yard and a half. SoI should recommend you _not_ to touch that bell you are looking at. "

Sir Thomas' hand wavered. 

"Do, if you like, of course, " said Jimmy agreeably. "In any case, Ishan't fire to kill you. I shall just smash your knees. Beastlypainful, but not fatal. "

He waggled the pipe suggestively. Sir Thomas blanched. His hand fellto his side. 

"How are the theatricals going?" asked Jimmy. "Did you like themonologue?"

Sir Thomas had backed away from the bell, but the retreat was merelyfor the convenience of the moment. He understood that it might beinconvenient to press the button just then; but he had recovered hiscomposure by this time, and he saw that the game must be his. Jimmywas trapped, and he hastened to make this clear to him. 

"How, may I ask, " he said, "do you propose to leave the abbey?"

"I suppose they'll let me have the automobile, " said Jimmy. "They canhardly ask me to walk. But I wasn't thinking of leaving just yet. "

"You mean to stop!"

"Why not? It's a pretty place. "

"And what steps, if I may ask, do you imagine I shall take?"

"Waltz steps. They're going to have a dance after the show, you know. You ought to be in that. "

"You wish me, in fact, to become a silent accomplice? To refrain frommentioning this little matter?"

"You put things so well. "

"And do you propose to keep my wife's jewels, or may I have them?"

"Oh, you may have those, " said Jimmy. 

"Thank you. "

"I never touch paste. "

Sir Thomas failed to see the significance of this remark. Jimmyrepeated it, with emphasis. 

"I never touch paste, " he said, "and Lady Blunt's necklace is, Iregret to say, made of that material. "

Sir Thomas grew purple. 

"Mind you, " said Jimmy, "it's very good paste. I'll say that for it. Ididn't see through it till I had it in my hands. Looking at thething--even quite close--I was taken in for a moment. "

The baronet made strange, gurgling noises. 

"Paste!" he said, speaking with difficulty. "Paste! Paste! Damn yourimpertinence, sir! Are you aware that that necklace cost fortythousand pounds?"

"Then whoever paid that sum for it wasted a great deal of money. Pasteit is, and paste it always will be. "

"It can't be paste. How do you know?"

"How do I know? I'm an expert. Ask a jeweler how he knows diamondsfrom paste. He can feel them. He can almost smell them. "

"Let me look. It's impossible. "

"Certainly. I don't know the extent of your knowledge of pearls. If itis even moderate, I think you will admit that I am right. "

Sir Thomas snatched the necklace from the table and darted with it tothe electric light. He scrutinized it, breathing heavily. Jimmy'sprophecy was fulfilled. The baronet burst into a vehement flood ofoaths, and hurled the glittering mass across the room. The unemotionalmask of the man seemed to have been torn off him. He shook with futilepassion. 

Jimmy watched him in interested silence. 

Sir Thomas ran to the jewels, and would have crushed them beneath hisfeet, had not Jimmy sprang forward and jerked him away from them. 

"Be quiet, " he said. "Confound you, sir, will you stop that noise?"

Sir Thomas, unaccustomed to this style of address, checked the floodfor a moment. 

"Now, " said Jimmy, "you see the situation. At present, you and I arethe only persons alive, to the best of our knowledge, who know aboutthis. Stay, though, there must be one other. The real necklace musthave been stolen. It is impossible to say when. Years ago, perhaps. Well, that doesn't affect us. The thief, whoever he is, is not likelyto reveal what he knows. So here you have it in a nutshell. Let me go, and don't say a word about having found me here, and I will do thesame for you. No one will know that the necklace is not genuine. Ishall not mention the subject, and I imagine that you will not. Verywell, then. Now, for the alternative. Give me up, give the alarm, andI get--well, whatever they give me. I don't know what it would be, exactly. Something unpleasant. But what do you get out of it? LadyBlunt, if I may say so, is not precisely the sort of lady, I shouldthink, who would bear a loss like this calmly. If I know her, she willshout loudly for another necklace, and see that she gets it. I shouldfancy you would find the expense unpleasantly heavy. That is only onedisadvantage of the alternative. Others will suggest themselves toyou. Which is it to be?"

Sir Thomas suspended his operation of glaring at the paste necklace toglare at Jimmy. 

"Well?" said Jimmy. "I should like your decision as soon as it'sconvenient to you. They will be wanting me on the stage in a fewminutes. Which is it to be?"

"Which?" snapped Sir Thomas. "Why, go away, and go to the devil!"

"All in good time, " said Jimmy cheerfully. "I think you have chosenwisely. Coming downstairs?"

Sir Thomas made no response. He was regarding the necklace moodily. 

"You'd better come. You'll enjoy the show. Charteris says it's thebest piece there's been since 'The Magistrate'! And he ought to know. He wrote it. Well, good-by, then. See you downstairs later, Isuppose?"

For some time after he had gone Sir Thomas stood, motionless. Then hewent across the room and picked up the necklace. It occurred to himthat if Lady Blunt found it lying in a corner, there would bequestions. And questions from Lady Blunt ranked among the keenest ofhis trials. 

 * * * * *

"If I had gone into the army, " said Jimmy complacently to himself, ashe went downstairs, "I should have been a great general. Instead ofwhich I go about the country, scoring off dyspeptic baronets. Well, well!"

CHAPTER XIX. 

The evening's entertainment was over. The last of the nobility andgentry had departed, and Mr. McEachern had retired to his lair tosmoke--in his shirt sleeves--the last and best cigar of the day, whenhis solitude was invaded by his old New York friend, Mr. Samuel Galer. 

"I've done a fair cop, sir, " said Mr. Galer, without preamble, quivering with self-congratulation. 

"How's that?" said the master of the house. 

"A fair cop, sir. Caught him in the very blooming act, sir. Dark itwas. Oo, pitch. Fair pitch. Like this, sir. Room opposite where thejewels was. One of the gents' bedrooms. Me hiding in there. Door onthe jar. Waited a goodish bit. Footsteps. Hullo, they've stopped!Opened door a trifle and looked out. Couldn't see much. Just made outman's figure. Door of dressing room was open. Showed up againstopening. Just see him. Caught you at it, my beauty, have I? says I tomyself. Out I jumped. Got hold of him. Being a bit to the good instrength, and knowing something about the game, downed him after awhile and got the darbies on him. Took him off and locked him in thecellar. That's how it _was_, sir. "

"Good boy, " said Mr. McEachern approvingly. "You're no rube. "

"No, sir. "

"Put one of these cigars into your face. "

"Thank you, sir. Very enjoyable thing, a cigar, sir. 'Specially a goodun. I have a light, I thank you, sir. "

"Well, and who was he?"

"Not the man you told me to watch, for. 'Nother chap altogether. "

"That red-headed----"

"No, sir. Dark-haired chap. Seen him hanging about, suspicious, for along time. Had my eye on him. "

Mr. Galer chuckled reminiscently. 

"Rummest card, sir, _I_ ever lagged in my natural, " he said. 

"How's that? inquired Mr. McEachern amiably. 

"Why, " grinned Mr. Galer, "you'll hardly believe it, sir, but he hadthe impudence, the gall, if I may use the word, the sauce to tell mehe was in my own line of business. A detective, sir! Said he was goinginto the room to keep guard. I said to him at the time, I said, it'stoo thin, cocky. That's to say----"

Mr. McEachern started. 

"A detective!"

"A detective, sir, " said Mr. Galer, with a chuckle. "I said to him atthe time----"

"The valet!" cried Mr. McEachern. 

"That's it, sir. Sir Thomas Blunt's valet, he was. That's how he gotinto the house, sir. "

Mr. McEachern grunted despairingly. 

"The man was right. He is a detective. Sir Thomas brought him downfrom London. He niver travels without him. Ye've done it. Ye'vearristed wan of the bhoys. "

Mr. Galer's jaw dropped slightly. 

"He was? He really was----"

"Ye'd better go straight to where it was ye locked him up, and let himloose. And I'd suggest ye hand him an apology. G'wan, mister. Livelyas you can step. "

"I never thought----"

"That's the trouble with you fly cops, " said his employer caustically. "Ye niver do think. "

"It never occurred to me----"

"G'wan!" said the master of the house. "Up an alley!"

Mr. Galer departed. 

"And I asked them, " said Mr. McEachern, "I asked them particularly notto send me a rube!"

He lit another cigar, and began to brood over the folly of mankind. 

He was in a very pessimistic frame of mind when Jimmy curveted intothe room, with his head in the clouds and his feet on air. 

"Can you spare me a few minutes, Mr. McEachern?" said Jimmy. 

The policeman stared heavily. 

"I can, " he said slowly. "What is ut?"

"Several things, " said Jimmy, sitting down. "I'll take them in order. I'll start with our bright friend, Galer. "

"Galer!"

"Of New York, according to you. Personally, I should think that he'sseen about as much of New York as I have of Timbuctoo. Look here, McEachern, we've known each other some time, and I ask you, as man toman, do you think it playing the game to set a farmer like poor oldGaler to watch me? I put it to you?"

The policeman stammered. The question chimed in so exactly with theopinion he had just formed, on his own account, of the humanbloodhound who was now in the cellar making the peace with his injuredfellow worker. 

"Hits you where you live, that, doesn't it?" said Jimmy. "I wonder youdidn't have more self-respect, let alone consideration for myfeelings. I'm surprised at you. "

"Ye're----"

"In fact, if you weren't going to be my father-in-law, I doubt if Icould bring myself to forgive you. As it is, I overlook it. "

The policeman's face turned purple. 

"Only, " said Jimmy, with quiet severity, taking a cigar from the boxand snipping off the end, "don't let it occur again. "

He lit the cigar. Mr. McEachern continued to stare fixedly at him. Somight the colonel of a regiment have looked at the latest-joinedsubaltern, if the latter, during mess, had offered to teach him how toconduct himself on parade. 

"I'm going to marry your daughter, " said Jimmy. 

"You are going to marry me daughter!" echoed Mr. McEachern, as one ina trance. 

"I am going to marry your daughter. "

The purple deepened on Mr. McEachern's face. 

"More, " said Jimmy, blowing a smoke ring. "_She_ is going to marryme. We are going to marry each other, " he explained. 

McEachern's glare became frightful. He struggled for speech. 

"I must congratulate you, " said Jimmy, "on the way things went offtonight. It was a thorough success. Everybody was saying so. You'rethe most popular man in the county. What would they say of you atJefferson Market, if they knew? By the way, do you correspond with anyof the old set? Splendid fellows, they were. I wish we had some ofthem here tonight. "

Mr. McEachern's emotions found relief in words. He rose, and waved ahuge fist in Jimmy's face. His great body was shaking with rage. 

"You!" shouted the policeman. "You!"

The fist was within an inch of Jimmy's chin. 

Outwardly calm, inwardly very much alive to the fact that at anymoment the primitive man in him might lead his prospectivefather-in-law beyond the confines of self-restraint, Jimmy sat stillin his chair, his eyes fixed steadily on those of his relative-to-be. It was an uncomfortable moment. Mr. McEachern, if he made an assault, might regret it subsequently. But he would not be the first to do so. The man who did that would be a certain James Pitt. If it came toblows, the younger man could not hope to hold his own with the hugepoliceman. 

"You!" roared McEachern. Jimmy fancied he could feel the wind ofmoving fist. "You marry me daughter! A New York crook. The sweepingsof the Bowery. A man who ought to be in jail. I'd like to break yourface in. "

"I noticed that, " said Jimmy. "If it's all the same to you, will youtake your fist out of my mouth? It makes it a little difficult tocarry on a conversation. And I've several things I should like tosay. "

"Ye'll listen to me!"

"Certainly. You were saying?"

"Ye come here. Ye worm yourself into my house, crawl into it----"

"I came by invitation, and in passing, not on all fours. Mr. McEachern, may I ask one question?"

"What is ut?"

"If you didn't want me, why did you let me stop here?"

The policeman stopped as if he had received a blow. There cameflooding back into his mind the recollection of his position. In hiswrath, he had forgotten that Jimmy knew his secret. And he looked onJimmy as a man who would use his knowledge. 

He sat down heavily. 

Jimmy went on smoking in silence for a while. He saw what was passingin his adversary's mind, and it seemed to him that it would do no harmto let the thing sink in. 

"Look here, Mr. McEachern, " he said, at last, "I wish you could listenquietly to me for a minute or two. There's really no reason on earthwhy we should always be at one another's throats in this way. We mightjust a well be friends, as we should be if we met now for the firsttime. Our difficulty is that we know too much about each other. Youknew me in New York, and you know what I did there. Naturally, youdon't like the idea of my marrying your daughter. You can't believethat I'm not simply an ordinary yegg, like the rest of the crooks youused to know. I promise you, I'm not. Can't you see that it doesn'tmatter what a man has been? It's what he is and what he means to be thatcounts. Mr. Patrick McEachern, of Corven Abbey, isn't the same asConstable McEachern, of the New York police. Well, then, I havenothing to do with the man I was when you knew me first. I havedisowned him. He's a back number. I am an ordinary English gentlemannow. My uncle has left me more than well off. I am a baronet. And isit likely that a baronet--_with_ money, mind you--is going to carryon the yegg business as a side line? Be reasonable. There's really nopossible objection to me now. Let's shake, and call the fight off. Does that go?"

The policeman was plainly not unmoved by these arguments. He drummedhis fingers on the table, and stared thoughtfully at Jimmy. 

"Is Molly--" he said, at length, "does Molly----"

"Yes, " said Jimmy. "And I can promise you I love her. Come along, now. Why wait?"

McEachern looked doubtfully at Jimmy's outstretched hand. He moved hisown an inch from the table, then let it fall again. 

"Come on, " said Jimmy. "Do it now. Be a sport. "

And with a great grunt, which might have meant anything, fromresignation to cordiality, Mr. McEachern capitulated. 

CHAPTER XX. 

The American liner, _St. Louis_, lay in the Empress Dock, atSouthampton, taking aboard her passengers. All sorts and conditions ofmen flowed in an unceasing stream up the gangway. 

Leaning over the second-class railing, Jimmy Pitt and Spike Mullinswatched them thoughtfully. 

Jimmy looked up at the Blue Peter that fluttered from the foremast, and then at Spike. The Bowery boy's face was stolid andexpressionless. He was smoking a short wooden pipe, with an air ofdetachment. 

"Well, Spike, " said Jimmy. "Your schooner's on the tide now, isn't it?Your vessel's at the quay. You've got some queer-looking fellowtravellers. Don't miss the two Cinghalese sports, and the man in theturban and the baggy breeches. I wonder if they're air-tight. Usefulif he fell overboard. "

"Sure, " said Spike, directing a contemplative eye toward the garmentin question. "He knows his business. "

"I wonder what those men on the deck are writing. They've beenscribbling away ever since we came here. Probably society journalists. We shall see in next week's _Sphere_: 'Among the second-classpassengers we noticed Mr. "Spike" Mullins, looking as cheery as ever. 'It's a pity you're so set on going, Spike. Why not change your mind, and stop?"

For a moment, Spike looked wistful. Then his countenance resumed itswoodenness. "Dere ain't no use for me dis side, Mr. Chames, " he said. "New York's de spot. Youse don't want none of me, now you're married. How's Miss Molly, Mr. Chames?"

"Splendid, Spike; thanks. We're going over to France by to-night'sboat. "

"It's been a queer business, " said Jimmy, after a pause. "A deuced rumbusiness. Well, I've come very well out of it, at any rate. It seemsto me that you're the only one of us who doesn't end happily, Spike. I'm married. McEachern's butted into society so deep that it wouldtake an excavating party with dynamite to get him out of it. Molly. Well, Molly's made a bad bargain, but I hope she won't regret it. We're all going some, except you. You're going out on the old trailagain--which begins in Third Avenue and ends in Sing Sing. Why tearyourself away, Spike?"

Spike concentrated his gaze on a weedy young emigrant in a bluejersey, who was having his eye examined by the overworked doctor, andseemed to be resenting it. 

"Dere's nuttin' doin' dis side, Mr. Chames, " he said, at length. "Iwant to get busy. "

"Ulysses Mullins!" said Jimmy, looking at him curiously. "I know thefeeling. There's only one cure, and I don't suppose you'll ever takeit. You don't think a lot of women, do you? You're the ruggedbachelor. "

"Goils----" began Spike comprehensively, and abandoned the topic withoutdilating on it further. 

Jimmy lit his pipe, and threw the match overboard. The sun came outfrom behind a cloud, and the water sparkled. 

"Dose were great jools, Mr. Chames, " said Spike thoughtfully. 

"I believe you're still brooding over them, Spike. "

"We could have got away wit' dem, if you'd have stood for it. Deadeasy. "

"You _are_ brooding over them. Spike, I'll tell you something whichwill console you a little before you start out on your wanderings. That necklace was paste. "

"What's dat?"

"Nothing but paste. They weren't worth thirty dollars. "

A light of understanding came into Spike's eyes. His face beamed withthe smile of one to whom dark matters are made clear. 

"So _dat's_ why you wouldn't stand for gettin' away wit' dem!" heexclaimed. 

 * * * * *

The last voyager had embarked. The deck was full to congestion. 

"They'll be sending us ashore in a minute, " said Jimmy. "I'd better bemoving. Let me know how you're making out, Spike, from time to time. You know the address. And, I say. It's just possible you may find youwant a dollar or two, every now and then. When you're going to buyanother automobile, for instance. Well, you know where to write forit, don't you?"

"T'anks, Mr. Chames. But dat'll be all right. I'm going to sit in atanother game dis time. Politics, Mr. Chames. A fr'en' of a mug what Iknows has got a pull. Me brother Dan is an _alderman_ wit' a grip onde 'Levent' Ward, " he went on softly. "He'll find me a job!"

"You'll be a boss before you know where you are. "

"Sure!" said Spike, grinning modestly. 

"You ought to be a thundering success in American politics, " saidJimmy. "You've got all the necessary qualities. "

A steward passed. 

"Any more for the shore?"

"Which shore?" asked Jimmy. "Well, Spike----"

"Good-by, Mr. Chames. "

"Good-by, " said Jimmy. "And good luck!"

 * * * * *

Two tugs attached themselves excitedly to the liner's side. The greatship began to move slowly from the shore. Jimmy stood at the waterside, and watched her. The rails were lined with gesticulatingfigures. In the front row, Spike waved his hat with silent vigor. 

The sun had gone behind the clouds. As the ship slid out on its way, astray beam pierced the grayness. 

It shone on a red head.