Part 7

“Poor brute!” said Jimmy. It seemed to him at that moment that there was only one place in the world where a man might be even reasonably happy. “What sort of part is it? Lord Dreever said I should be wanted to act. What do I do?”

“If you’re Lord Herbert, which is the part they wanted a man for, you talk to me most of the time.”

Jimmy decided that the piece had been well cast.

The dressing-gong sounded just as they entered the hall. From a door on the left there emerged two men—a big one and a little one—in friendly conversation. The big man’s back struck Jimmy as familiar.

“Oh, father!” Molly called. And Jimmy knew where he had seen the back before.

“Sir Thomas,” said Molly, “this is Mr. Pitt.”

The little man gave Jimmy a rapid glance—possibly with the object of detecting his more immediately obvious criminal points; then, as if satisfied as to his honesty, became genial.

“I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Pitt—very glad,” he said. “We have been expecting you for some time.”

Jimmy explained that he had lost his way.

“Exactly. It was ridiculous that you should be compelled to walk—perfectly ridiculous. It was gross carelessness of my nephew not to let us know that you were coming. My wife told him so in the car.”

“I bet she did,” said Jimmy to himself. “Really,” he said aloud, by way of lending a helping hand to a friend in trouble, “I preferred to walk. I have not been on a country road since I landed in England.” He turned to the big man and held out his hand. “I don’t suppose you remember me, Mr. McEachern. We met in New York.”

“You remember the night Mr. Pitt scared away our burglar, father?” said Molly.

Mr. McEachern was momentarily silent. On his native asphalt there are few situations capable of throwing the New York policeman off his balance. In that favoured clime _savoir-faire_ is represented by a shrewd blow of the fist, and a masterful stroke with the truncheon amounts to a satisfactory repartee. Thus shall you never take a policeman of Manhattan without his answer. In other surroundings Mr. McEachern would have known how to deal with the young man whom with such good reason he believed to be an expert criminal. But another plan of action was needed here. First and foremost of all the hints on etiquette which he had imbibed since he entered this more reposeful life came this maxim, “Never make a scene.” Scenes, he had gathered, were of all things what polite society most resolutely abhorred. The natural man in him must be bound in chains. The sturdy blow must give way to the honeyed word. A cold “Really!” was the most vigorous retort that the best circles would countenance.

It had cost Mr. McEachern some pains to learn this lesson, but he had done it.

He shook hands and gruffly acknowledged the acquaintanceship.

“Really, really!” chirped Sir Thomas amiably. “So you find yourself among old friends, Mr. Pitt.”

“Old friends,” echoed Jimmy, painfully conscious of the ex-policeman’s eyes, which were boring holes in him.

“Excellent, excellent! Let me take you to your room. It is just opposite my own. This way.”

They parted from Mr. McEachern on the first landing, but Jimmy could still feel those eyes. The policeman’s stare had been of the sort which turns corners, goes upstairs, and pierces walls.

★ 13 ★ _Spike’s Views_

Nevertheless, it was in a very exalted frame of mind that he dressed for dinner. It seemed to him that he had awakened from a sort of stupor. Life, so grey yesterday, now appeared full of colour and possibilities. Most men who, either from choice or necessity, have knocked about the world for any length of time are more or less fatalists. Jimmy was an optimistic fatalist. He had always looked on fate not as a blind dispenser at random of gifts good and bad, but rather as a benevolent being with a pleasing bias in his favour. He had almost a Napoleonic faith in his star. At various periods of his life—notably at the time when, as he had told Lord Dreever, he had breakfasted on birdseed—he had been in uncommonly tight corners, but his luck had always extricated him. It struck him that it would be an unthinkable piece of bad sportsmanship on Fate’s part to see him through so much and then to abandon him just as he had arrived in sight of what was by far the biggest thing of his life. Of course, his view of what constituted the biggest thing in life had changed with the years. Every ridge of the Hill of Supreme Moments in turn had been mistaken by him for the summit; but this last, he felt instinctively, was genuine. For good or bad, Molly was woven into the texture of his life. In the stormy period of the early twenties he had thought the same of other girls, who were now mere memories as dim as those of figures in a half-forgotten play. In their case his convalescence had been temporarily painful, but brief. Force of will and an active life had worked the cure. He had merely braced himself up and firmly ejected them from his mind. A week or two of aching emptiness, and his heart had been once more in readiness—all nicely swept and done up—for the next lodger.

But in the case of Molly it was different. He had passed the age of instantaneous susceptibility. Like a landlord who had been cheated by previous tenants, he had become wary. He mistrusted his powers of recuperation in case of disaster. The will in these matters, just like the mundane “bouncer”, gets past his work. For some years now Jimmy had had a feeling that the next arrival would come to stay, and he had adopted, in consequence, a gently defensive attitude towards the other sex. Molly had broken through this, and he saw that his estimate of his willpower had been just. Methods which had proved excellent in the past were useless now. There was no trace here of that dimly-consoling feeling of earlier years that there were other girls in the world. He did not try to deceive himself. He knew that he had passed the age when a man can fall in love with any one of a number of types.

This was the finish, one way or the other. There was no second throw. She had him. However it might end, he belonged to her.

There are few moments in a man’s day when his brain is more contemplative than during that brief space when he is lathering his face preparatory to shaving. Flying the brush, Jimmy reviewed the situation. He was perhaps a little too optimistic. Not unnaturally he was inclined to look upon his luck as a sort of special train which would convey him without effort to Paradise. Fate had behaved so exceedingly handsomely up till now. By a series of the most workmanlike miracles it had brought him to the point of being Molly’s fellow-guest at a country-house. This, as Reason coldly pointed out a few moments later, was merely the beginning; but to Jimmy, thoughtfully lathering, it seemed the end. It was only when he had finished shaving and was arranging his tie that he began to perceive that there were obstacles in his way—and sufficiently big obstacles at that.

In the first place, Molly did not love him. And, he was bound to admit, there was no earthly reason why she ever should. A man in love is seldom vain about his personal attractions. Also, her father firmly believed him to be a master-burglar.

“Otherwise,” said Jimmy, scowling at his reflection in the glass, “everything’s splendid.”

He brushed his hair sadly.

There was a furtive rap at the door.

“Halloa?” said Jimmy. “Yes?”

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

“Halloa, Spike! Come in. What’s the matter?”

The rest of Mr. Mullins entered the room.

“Gee, boss, I wasn’t sure dis was your room. Say, who do you t’ink I nearly bumped me coco against out in de corridor downstairs? Why, old man McEachern, de cop. Dat’s right!”

“Yes?”

“Sure. Say, what’s he doin’ on dis beat? I pretty near went down and out when I seen him. Dat’s right. Me breath ain’t got back home yet.”

“Did he recognise you?”

“Did he! He starts like an actor on top de stoige when he sees he’s up against 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 up here. Say, boss, what’s de game? What’s old man McEachern doin’ stunts dis side for?”

“It’s all right, Spike. Keep calm. I can explain. He has retired—like me. He’s one of the handsome guests here.”

“On your way, boss! What’s dat?”

“He left the Force just after that merry meeting of ours when you frolicked with the bulldog. He came over here and butted into society. So here we are again, all gathered together under the same roof, like a jolly little family party.”

Spike’s open mouth bore witness to his amazement.

“Den——” he stammered.

“Yes?”

“Den what’s he goin’ to do?”

“I couldn’t say. I’m expecting to hear shortly. But we needn’t worry ourselves. The next move’s with him. If he wants to comment on the situation he won’t be backward. He’ll come and do it.”

“Sure. It’s up to him,” agreed Spike.

“I’m quite comfortable. Speaking for myself, I’m having a good time. How are you getting along downstairs?”

“De limit, boss. Honest, it’s to de velvet. Dere’s old gazebo, de butler, Saunders his name is, dat’s de best ever at handing out long woids. I sits and listens. 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’t have an excellent time here. I don’t think that Mr. McEachern will try to have us turned out, after he’s heard one or two little things I have to say to him—just a few reminiscences of the past which may interest him. I have the greatest affection for Mr. McEachern—I wish it was mutual—but nothing he can say is going to make me stir from here.”

“Not on your life,” agreed Spike. “Say, boss, he must have got a lot of plunks to be able to butt in here. And I know how he got dem, too. Dat’s right. I comes from little old New York meself.”

“Hush, Spike; this is scandal!”

“Sure!” said the Bowery boy, doggedly, safely started now on his favourite subject. “I knows, and youse knows, boss. Gee! I wish I’d bin a cop. But I wasn’t tall enough. Dey’s de fellers wit de big bank-rolls! Look at dis old McEachern. Money to boin a wet dog wit he’s got, and never a bit of woik for it from de start to de finish. An’ look at me, boss.”

“I do, Spike; I do.”

“Look at me. Getting busy all de year round, woiking to beat de band——”

“In prisons oft,” said Jimmy.

“Sure t’ing. And chased all roun’ de town. And den what? Why, to de bad at de end of it all. Say, it’s enough to make a feller——”

“Turn honest!” said Jimmy. “That’s it, Spike—reform. You’ll be glad some day.”

Spike seemed to be doubtful. He was silent for a moment; then, as if following up a train of thought, he said:

“Boss, dis is a fine big house.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Say, couldn’t we——?”

“Spike!” said Jimmy warningly.

“Well, couldn’t we?” said Spike doggedly. “It ain’t often youse butts into a dead easy proposition like dis one. We shouldn’t have to do a t’ing excep’ git busy. De stuff’s just lying about, boss.”

“I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Aw, it’s a waste to leave it.”

“Spike,” said Jimmy. “I warned you of this. I begged you to be on your guard, to fight against your professional instincts. Be a man! Crush them. Try to occupy your mind. Collect butterflies.”

Spike shuffled in gloomy silence.

“’Member dose jools you swiped from de Duchess?” he said, musingly.

“The dear Duchess!” murmured Jimmy. “Ah, me!”

“And de bank you busted?”

“Those were happy days, Spike.”

“Gee!” said the Bowery boy.

He paused. “Dat was to de good,” he said wistfully.

Jimmy arranged his tie at the mirror.

“Dere’s a loidy here,” continued Spike, addressing the chest of drawers, “dat’s got a necklace of jools what’s worth a hundred t’ousand plunks. Honest, boss—a hundred t’ousand plunks. Saunders told me that—de old gazebo dat hands out de long woids. I says to him ‘Gee!’ and he says, ‘Surest t’ing you know.’ A hundred t’ousand plunks!”

“So I understand,” said Jimmy.

“Shall I rubber around and find out where is dey kept, boss?”

“Spike,” said Jimmy, “ask me no more. All this is in direct contravention of our treaty respecting keeping our fingers off the spoons. You pain me. Desist.”

“Sorry, boss. But dey’ll be willy-wonders, dem jools. A hundred t’ousand plunks! Dat’s going some, ain’t it? What’s dat dis side?”

“Twenty thousand pounds.”

“Gee! Can I help you wit de duds, boss?”

“No, thanks, Spike. I’m through now. You might just give me a brush down, though. No, not that. That’s a hair-brush. Try the big black one.”

“Dis is a boid of a dude suit,” observed Spike, pausing in his labours.

“Glad you like it, Spike. Rather _chic_, I think.”

“It’s de limit. Excuse me, how much did it set you back, boss?”

“Something like twelve guineas, I believe. I could look up the bill and let you know.”

“What’s dat—guineas? Is that more dan a pound?”

“A shilling more. Why these higher mathematics?”

Spike resumed his brushing.

“What a lot of dude suits youse could get,” he observed meditatively, “if you had dem jools.” He became suddenly animated. He waved the clothes-brush. “Oh, you boss!” he cried. “What’s eatin’ you? Aw, it’s a shame not to. Come along, you boss. Say, what’s doin’? Why ain’t you sittin’ in at de game? Oh, you boss!”

Whatever reply Jimmy might have made to this impassioned appeal was checked by a sudden bang on the door. Almost immediately the handle turned.

“Gee!” cried Spike. “It’s de cop.”

Jimmy smiled pleasantly.

“Come in, Mr. McEachern,” he said, “come in. Journeys end in lovers meeting. You know my friend Mr. Mullins, I think? Shut the door and sit down, and let’s talk of many things.”

★ 14 ★ _Check, and a Counter Move_

Mr. McEachern stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. As the result of a long connection with evildoers, the ex-policeman was somewhat prone to harbour suspicions of those round about him, and at the present moment his mind was aflame. Indeed, a more trusting man might have been excused for feeling a little doubtful as to the intentions of Jimmy and Spike. When McEachern had heard that Lord Dreever had brought home a casual London acquaintance, he had suspected as a possible drawback to the visit the existence of hidden motives on the part of the unknown. Lord Dreever, he had felt, was precisely the sort of youth to whom the professional bunco-steerer would attach himself with shouts of joy. Never, he had assured himself, had there been a softer proposition than his lordship since bunco-steering became a profession.

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

And when, going to his room to get ready for dinner, he had nearly run into Spike Mullins in the corridor, his frame of mind had been that of a man to whom a sudden ray of light reveals the fact that he is on the brink of a black precipice. Jimmy and Spike had burgled his house together in New York; and here they were, together again, at Dreever Castle. To say that the thing struck McEachern as sinister is to put the matter badly. There was once a gentleman who remarked that he smelt a rat and saw it floating in the air. Ex-Constable McEachern smelt a regiment of rats, and the air seemed to him positively congested with them.

His first impulse had been to rush to Jimmy’s room there and then; but he had learned society’s lessons well. Though the heavens might fall, he must not be late for dinner, so he went and dressed, and an obstinate tie put the finishing touches to his wrath.

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

“You scoundrels!” growled McEachern.

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

“Say, youse won’t want me any more, boss?” he whispered.

“No; you can go, Spike.”

“You stay where you are, you red-headed devil!” said McEachern tartly.

“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.

“You stay——” began McEachern.

Jimmy got up and walked round him to the door, which he opened. Spike shot out like a rabbit released from a trap. He was not lacking in courage, but he disliked embarrassing interviews, and it struck him that Jimmy was the man to handle a situation of this kind. He felt that he 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 he mastered his feelings.

“And now——” he said.

He stopped.

“Yes?” asked Jimmy.

“What are you doing here?”

“Nothing at the moment.”

“You know what I mean. Why are you here—you and that red-headed devil, Spike Mullins?”

He jerked his head in the direction of the door.

“I am here because I was very kindly invited to come by Lord Dreever.”

“I know you.”

“You have that privilege. Seeing we only met once, it’s very good of you to remember me.”

“What’s your game? What do you mean to do?”

“To do? Well, I shall potter about the garden, you know, and shoot a bit, perhaps, and look at the horses, and think of life, and feed the chickens— I suppose there are chickens somewhere about—and possibly go for an occasional row on the lake. Nothing more. Oh, yes, I believe they want me to act in some theatricals.”

“You’ll miss those theatricals. You’ll leave here to-morrow.”

“To-morrow? But I’ve only just arrived, dear heart.”

“I don’t care about that. Out you go to-morrow. I’ll give you till to-morrow.”

“I congratulate you,” said Jimmy. “One of the oldest houses in England.”

“What do you mean?”

“I gathered from what you said that you had bought the castle. Isn’t that so? If it still belongs to Lord Dreever, don’t you think you ought to consult him before revising his list of guests?”

McEachern looked at him steadily. His manner became quieter.

“Oh! you take that tone, do you?”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘that tone’. What tone would you take if a comparative stranger ordered you to leave another man’s house?”

McEachern’s massive jaw protruded truculently in the manner which had scared good behaviour into brawling East Siders.

“I know your sort,” he said. “I’ll call your bluff. And you won’t get till to-morrow, either—it’ll be now.”

“‘Why should we wait for the morrow? You are queen of my heart to-night,’” murmured Jimmy encouragingly.

“I’ll expose you before them all. I’ll tell them everything.”

Jimmy shook his head.

“Too melodramatic,” he said. “Sort of ‘I call on Heaven to judge between this man and me’ kind of thing. I shouldn’t. What do you propose to tell, anyway?”

“Will you deny that you were a crook in New York?”

“I will. I was nothing of the kind.”

“What?”

“If you’ll listen, I can explain.”

“Explain!” The other’s voice rose again. “You talk about explaining, you scum, when I caught you in my own parlour at three in the morning, you——”

The smile faded from Jimmy’s face.

“Half a minute,” he said.

It might be that the ideal course would be to let the storm expend itself and then to explain quietly the whole matter of Arthur Mifflin and the bet which had led to his one excursion into burglary. But he doubted it. Things—including his temper—had got beyond the stage of quiet explanations. McEachern would most certainly disbelieve his story. What would happen after that he did not know. A scene, probably—a melodramatic denunciation, at the worst, before the other guests; at the best, before Sir Thomas alone. He saw nothing but chaos beyond that. His story was thin to a degree, unless backed by witnesses, and his witnesses were three thousand miles away. Worse, he had not been alone in the policeman’s parlour. A man who is burgling a house for a bet does not usually do it in the company of a professional burglar well known to the police.

No; quiet explanations must be postponed. They could do no good, and would probably lead to his spending the night and the next few nights at the local police-station. And even if he were spared that fate, it was certain that he would have to leave the castle.

Leave the castle and Molly! He jumped up. The thought had stung him.

“One moment,” he said.

McEachern stopped.

“Well?”

“You’re going to tell them that?” asked Jimmy.

“I am.”

“Are you also going to tell them why you didn’t have me arrested that night?” he said.

McEachern started. Jimmy planted himself in front of him and glared up into his face. It would have been hard to say which of the two was the angrier. The policeman was flushed, and the veins stood out on his forehead. Jimmy was in a white heat of rage. He had turned very pale, and his muscles were quivering. Jimmy in this mood had once cleared a Los Angeles bar-room with the leg of a chair in the space of two and a quarter minutes by the clock.

“Are you?” he demanded. “Are you?”

McEachern’s hand, hanging at his side, lifted itself hesitatingly. The fingers brushed against Jimmy’s shoulder. Jimmy’s lips twitched.

“Yes,” he said, “do it! Do it, and see what happens! By God! if you put a hand on me I’ll finish you. Do you think you can bully me? Do you think I care for your size?”

McEachern dropped his hand. For the first time in his life he had met a man who, instinct told him, was his match and more. He stepped back a pace.

Jimmy put his hands in his pockets and turned away. He walked to the mantelpiece and leaned his back against it.

“You haven’t answered my question,” he said. “Perhaps you can’t!”

McEachern was wiping his forehead and breathing quickly.

“If you like,” said Jimmy, “we’ll go down to the drawing-room now, and you shall tell your story and I’ll tell mine. I wonder which they will think the more interesting? Damn you!” he went on, his anger rising once more, “what do you mean by it? You come into my room and bluster and talk big about exposing crooks. What do you call yourself, I wonder? Do you realise what you are? Why, poor Spike’s an angel compared with you! He did take chances. He wasn’t in a position of trust. You——”

He stopped.

“Hadn’t you better get out of here, don’t you think?” he said curtly.

Without a word McEachern walked to the door and went out.

Jimmy dropped into a chair with a deep breath. He took up his cigarette-case, but before he could light a match the gong sounded from the distance.

He rose and laughed rather shakily. He felt limp. “As an effort to conciliating papa,” he said, “I’m afraid that wasn’t much of a success.”

It was not often that Mr. McEachern was visited by ideas—he ran rather to muscle than to brain—but he had one that evening during dinner. His interview with Jimmy had left him furious, but baffled. He knew that his hands were tied. Frontal attack was useless; to drive Jimmy from the castle would be out of the question. All that could be done was to watch him while he was there, for he had never been more convinced of anything in his life than that Jimmy had wormed his way into the house-party with felonious intent. The appearance of Lady Julia at dinner wearing the famous rope of diamonds supplied an obvious motive. The necklace had an international reputation. Probably there was not a prominent thief in England or on the Continent who had not marked it down as a possible prey. It had already been tried for once. It was big game—just the sort of lure which would draw the type of criminal he imagined Jimmy to be.