"I ain't got no use for gettin' married, Mr. Chames."
"Spike, the misogynist! You wait, Spike. Some day love will awake in
your heart, and you'll start writing poetry."
"I'se not dat kind of mug, Mr. Chames," protested Spike. "Dere _was_
a goil, dough. Only I was never her steady. And she married one of de
odder 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 birthday
present."
"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 chased
meself here about. Dere's a mug down in de soivant's hall what's a
detective. 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 out
of a bunch of a thousand. Sure. Dis mug's vally to Sir Thomas, dat's
him. But he ain't no vally. He's come to see dat no one don't get busy
wit 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 never
going to touch a jewel again unless I've paid for it and got the
receipt in my pocket."
Spike shuffled despondently.
"All the same," said Jimmy, "I shouldn't give yourself away to this
detective. 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' boards
at this rate. Who's the other?"
"De mug what came dis afternoon. Ole man McEachern brought him. I seed
Miss Molly talking to him."
"The chap from the inn? Why, that's an old New York friend of
McEachern's."
"Anyhow, Mr. Chames, he's a sleut'. I can tell 'em by deir eyes and
deir 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. I
might 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 him
afterward. I shall soon find out what his game is."
For the moment, Molly was forgotten. The old reckless spirit was
carrying him away. This thing was a deliberate challenge. He had been
on parole. He had imagined that his word was all that McEachern had to
rely on. But if the policeman had been working secretly against him
all this time, his parole was withdrawn automatically. The thought
that, if he did nothing, McEachern would put it down complacently to
the vigilance of his detective and his own astuteness in engaging him
stung Jimmy. His six years of burglary had given him an odd sort of
professional pride. "I've half a mind," he said softly. The familiar
expression 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 died
out 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, and
I've seen de box what de jools is put in at night. We could get at
them easy as pullin' de plug out of a bottle. Say, dis is de softest
proposition, dis house. Look what I got dis afternoon, Mr. Chames."
He plunged his hand into his pocket, and drew it out again. As he
unclosed 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 affectionate
proprietorship.
"Where on earth did you get those?" asked Jimmy.
"Out of one of de rooms. Dey belonged to one of de loidies. It was de
easiest old t'ing ever, Mr. Chames. I went in when dere was nobody
about, and dere dey were on de toible. I never butted into anyt'ing so
soft, 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 got
to go to that room and put those things back - all of them, mind
you - just where you found them. Do you understand?"
Spike's jaw had fallen.
"Put dem 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 those
things 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 his
life.
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 and
fourpence and he owed twenty pounds. He had succeeded, after dinner,
in borrowing five pounds from Jimmy, who was in the mood when he would
have lent five pounds to anybody who asked for it, but beyond that he
had had no successes in the course of a borrowing tour among the
inmates of the abbey.
In the seclusion of his bedroom, he sat down to smoke a last cigarette
and think the thing over in all its aspects. He could see no way out
of his difficulties. The thought had something of the dull persistency
of a toothache. It refused to leave him. If only this had happened at
Oxford, he knew of twenty kindly men who would have rallied round him,
and placed portions of their fathers' money at his disposal. But this
was July. He would not see Oxford again for months. And, in the
meantime, Wesson would be pressing for his money.
"Oh, damn!" he said.
He had come to this conclusion for the fiftieth time, when the door
opened, and his creditor appeared in person. To Spennie, he looked
like the embodiment of Fate, a sort of male Nemesis.
"I want to have a talk with you, Spennie," said Wesson, closing the
door.
"Well?"
Wesson lit a cigarette, and threw the match out of the window before
replying.
"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 your
sister."
"Stepsister."
"Same thing."
"Well, anyhow, it's no good coming to me. Nobody's likely to make
Molly do a thing unless she wants to. I couldn't, if I tried for a
year. We're good pals, and all that, but she'd shut me up like a knife
if I went to her and said I wanted her to marry some one."
"Not being a perfect fool," said Wesson impatiently, "I don't suggest
that 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 any
admirable 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 can
arrange it so that I shall get chances of talking to her. You can
bring 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 fellow
Pitt's game. She's always with him now. You must get her away from
him. Run him down to her. And get him out of this place as soon as
possible. You invited him here. He doesn't expect to stop here
indefinitely, I suppose? If you left, he'd have to, too. What you must
do 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 come
back."
It is improbable that Wesson was blind to certain blemishes which
could have been urged against this ingenious scheme by a critic with a
nice sense of the honorable; but, in his general conduct of life, as
in his play at cards, he was accustomed to ignore the rules when he
felt disposed to do so. He proceeded to mention in detail a few of the
things which he proposed to call upon his ally to do. A delicate pink
flush might have been seen to spread over Spennie's face. He began to
look like an angry rabbit. He had not a great deal of pride in his
composition, but the thought of the ignominious role which Wesson was
sketching 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 was
it? Ten? Twenty? Twenty pounds, wasn't it? Well, we could look on that
as canceled, of course. That will be all right."
Spennie exploded.
"Will it?" he cried, pink to the ears. "Will it, by George? I'll pay
you every frightful penny of it before the end of the week. What do
you 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 indoor
game 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 the
complexion."
"And if you think you can bribe me to do your dirty work, you never
made a bigger mistake in your life."
"Yes, I did," said Wesson, "when I thought you had some glimmerings of
intelligence. But if it gives you any pleasure to behave like the
juvenile lead in a melodrama, by all means do. Personally, I shouldn't
have thought the game would be worth the candle. Your keen sense of
honor, I understand you to say, will force you to pay your debt. It's
an expensive luxury nowadays, Spennie. You mentioned the end of the
week, I believe? That will suit me admirably. But if you change your
mind, my offer is still open. Good night, Galahad."
CHAPTER XV.
For pure discomfort there are few things in the world that can compete
with the final rehearsals of an amateur theatrical performance at a
country house. Every day the atmosphere becomes more and more heavily
charged with restlessness and irritability. The producer of the piece,
especially if he is also the author of it, develops a sort of
intermittent insanity. He plucks at his mustache, if he has one; at
his hair, if he has not. He mutters to himself. He gives vent to
occasional despairing cries. The soothing suavity which marked his
demeanor in the earlier rehearsals disappears. He no longer says with
a winning smile: "Splendid, old man; splendid. Couldn't be better. But
I think we'll take that over just once more, if you don't mind. You
missed out a few rather good lines, and you forgot to give Miss
Robinson her cue for upsetting the flowerpot." Instead, he rolls his
eyes and snaps out: "Once more, please. This'll never do. At this rate
we might just as well cut out the show altogether. For Heaven's sake,
Brown, do try and remember your lines. It's no good having the best
part 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 on
the night. And another thing. You _must_ remember to say, 'How calm
and peaceful the morning is', or how on earth do you think Miss Robinson
is going to know when to upset that flowerpot? Now, then, once more; and
do pull yourself together this time." After which the scene is sulkily
resumed by the now thoroughly irritated actors; and conversation, when
the parties concerned meet subsequently, is cold and strained.
Matters had reached this stage at the abbey. Everybody was thoroughly
tired of the piece, and, but for the thought of the disappointment
which - presumably - would rack the neighboring nobility and gentry
if it were not to be produced, would have resigned without a twinge
of regret. People who had schemed to get the best and longest parts
were wishing now that they had been content with _First Footman_ or
_Giles, a villager_.
"I'll never run an amateur show again as long as I live," confided
Charteris to Jimmy, almost tearfully the night before the production.
"It's not good enough. Most of them aren't word-perfect yet. And we've
just 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 all
right after the night. People will soon forget how badly the thing
went."
"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 Westminster
Abbey for you in your prime. You'll be getting brain fever."
Jimmy himself was feeling particularly cheerful. He was deriving a
keen amusement at present from the manoeuvres of Mr. Samuel Galer, of
New York. This lynx-eyed man, having been instructed by Mr. McEachern
to watch Jimmy, was doing so with a pertinacity which would have made
a man with the snowiest of consciences suspicious. If Jimmy went to
the billiard room after dinner, Mr. Galer was there to keep him
company. If, during the course of the day, he had occasion to fetch a
handkerchief or a cigarette case from his bedroom, he was sure, on
emerging, to stumble upon Mr. Galer in the corridor. The employees of
Wragge's Detective Agency, Ltd., believed in earning their salaries.
Occasionally, after these encounters, Jimmy would come upon Sir Thomas
Blunt's valet, the other man in whom Spike's trained eye had discerned
the distinguishing trait of the detective. He was usually somewhere
round the corner at these moments, and, when collided with, apologized
with great politeness. It tickled Jimmy to think that both these giant
brains should be so greatly exercised on his account.
Spennie, meanwhile, had been doing quite an unprecedented amount of
thinking. Quite an intellectual pallor had begun to appear on his
normally pink cheeks. He had discovered the profound truth that it is
one 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 pounds
and possess but six pounds seven shillings and fourpence. Spennie was
acutely conscious of the fact that, if he could not follow up his
words to Wesson with actual coin, the result would be something of an
anticlimax. Somehow or other he would have to get the money - and at
once. The difficulty was that no one seemed at all inclined to lend it
to him.
There is a good deal to be said against stealing as a habit; but it
cannot he denied that, in certain circumstances, it offers an
admirable solution of a difficulty, and if the penalties were not so
exceedingly unpleasant, it is probable that it would become far more
fashionable than it is.
Spennie's mind did not turn immediately to this outlet from his
embarrassment. He had never stolen before, and it did not occur to him
directly to do so now. There is a conservative strain in all of us.
But gradually, as it was borne in upon him that it was the only course
possible, unless he applied to his stepfather - a task for which his
courage was not sufficient - he found himself contemplating the
possibility of having to secure the money by unlawful means. By lunch
time, on the morning of the day fixed for the theatricals, he had
decided definitely to do so. By dinner time he had fixed upon the
object of his attentions.
With a vague idea of keeping the thing in the family, he had resolved
to make his raid upon Sir Thomas Blunt. Somehow it did not seem so bad
robbing one's relatives.
A man's first crime is, as a rule, a shockingly amateurish affair. Now
and then, it is true, we find beginners forging with the accuracy of
old hands or breaking into houses with the finish of experts. But
these are isolated cases. The average tyro lacks generalship
altogether. Spennie may be cited as a typical novice. It did not
strike him that inquiries might be instituted by Sir Thomas, when he
found his money gone, and that Wesson, finding a man whom he knew to
be impecunious suddenly in possession of twenty pounds, might have
suspicions. His mind was entirely filled with the thought of getting
the money. There was no room in it for any other reflection.
His plan was simple. Sir Thomas, he knew, always carried a good deal
of money with him. It was unlikely that he kept this on his person in
the evening. A man to whom the set of his clothes is as important as
it was to Sir Thomas, does not carry a pocket-book full of banknotes
when he is dressed for dinner. He would leave it somewhere, reasoned
Spennie. Where, he asked himself. The answer was easy. In his dressing
room. Spennie's plan of campaign was complete.
The theatricals began at half-past eight. The audience had been
hustled into their seats, happier than is usual in such circumstances
from the rumor that the proceedings were to terminate with an informal
dance. The abbey was singularly well constructed for such a purpose.
There was plenty of room, and a sufficiency of retreat for those who
sat out, in addition to a conservatory large enough to have married
off half the couples in the county. The audience was in an excellent
humor, and the monologue, the first item of the programme, was
received with a warmth which gave Charteris, whom rehearsals had
turned into a pessimist, a faint hope that the main item on the
programme might not be the complete failure it had promised to be.
Spennie's idea had been to get through his burglarious specialty
during the monologue, when his absence would not be noticed. It might
be that if he disappeared later in the evening people would wonder
what had become of him.
He lurked 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 leaped
three inches into the air.
"Hello, Charteris!" he said gaspingly.
"Spennie, my boyhood's only friend," said Charteris, "where are you
off 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 to
take his place till he blows in. Come along."
The official prompter arrived at the end of the monologue with the
remark that he had been having a bit of a smoke in the garden and his
watch had gone wrong. Leaving him to discuss the point with Charteris,
Spennie slipped quietly away, and flitted up the stairs toward Sir
Thomas' dressing room. At the door, he stopped and listened. There was
no sound. The house might have been deserted. He opened the door, and
switched on the electric light.
Fortune was with him. On the dressing table, together with a bunch of
keys and some small change, lay a brown leather pocketbook. Evidently
Sir Thomas did not share Lady Blunt's impression that the world was
waiting for a chance to rob him as soon as his back was turned.
Spennie opened the pocketbook, and counted the contents. There were
two ten-pound notes, and four of five pounds.
He took a specimen of each variety, replaced the pocketbook, and crept
out 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 the
former one from the fact that this time no hand was placed on his
shoulder.
"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 in
time to see Spennie emerge through Sir Thomas' door with a look on his
face furtive enough to have made any jury bring in a verdict of guilty
on any count without further evidence. She did not know what he had
been doing; but she was very certain that it was something which he
ought 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 came
out?"
"Putting in my pocket!" said Spennie, rallying with the desperation of
one fighting a lost cause. "What do you mean?"
"You were putting something."
Another denial was hovering on Spennie's lips, when, in a flash, he
saw what he had not seen before, the cloud of suspicion which must
hang over him when the loss of the notes was discovered. Sir Thomas
would remember that he had tried to borrow money from him. Wesson
would wonder how he had become possessed of twenty pounds. And Molly
had actually seen him coming out of the room, putting something in his
pocket.
He threw himself at the mercy of the court.
"It's like this, Molly," he said. And, having prefaced his narrative
with the sound remark that he had been a fool, he gave her a summary
of 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 by
Saturday, 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. He
lent 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 the
best. I'm fearfully glad. Why, that's absolutely topping. It'll be all
right. I'll sweat to pay him back. I'll save out of my allowance. I
can 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 him
to-night? I want to pay Wesson first thing to-morrow morning."
"Very well. You'd better give me those notes, Spennie. I'll put them
back."
The amateur cracksman handed over his loot, and retired toward the
stairs. Molly could hear him going down them three at a time, in a
whirl of relief and good resolutions. She went to Sir Thomas' room,
and replaced the notes. Having done this, she could not resist the
temptation to examine herself in the glass for a few moments. Then she
turned away, switched off the light, and was just about to leave the
room when a soft footstep in the passage outside came to her ears.
She shrank back. She felt a curiously guilty sensation, as if she had
been in the room with criminal rather than benevolent intentions. Her
motives in being where she was were excellent - but she would wait till
this person had passed before coming out into the passage.
Then it came to her with a shock that the person was not going to
pass. The footsteps halted outside the door.
There was a curtain at her side, behind which hung certain suits of
Sir 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 in
the first act at about the time when Spennie was being seized upon by
Charteris to act as prompter. As he moved toward the stairs, a
square-cut figure appeared.
It was the faithful Galer.
There was nothing in his appearance to betray the detective to the
unskilled eye, but years of practice had left Spike with a sort of
sixth sense as regarded the force. He could pierce the subtlest
disguise. Jimmy had this gift in an almost equal degree, and it had
not needed Mr. Galer's constant shadowing of himself to prove to Jimmy
the correctness of Spike's judgment. He looked at the representative
of Wragge's Detective Agency, Ltd., as he stood before him now, taking
in his every detail: the square, unintelligent face; the badly cut
clothes; the clumsy heels; the enormous feet.
"And this," he said to himself, "is the man McEachern thinks capable
of tying my hands!" There were moments when the spectacle of Mr. Galer
filled Jimmy with an odd sort of fury, a kind of hurt professional
pride. The feeling that this espionage was a direct challenge enraged
him. Behind this clumsy watcher he saw always the self-satisfied
figure 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 a
lesson. I'm trying to hold myself in, and he sets these fool
detectives onto me. I shouldn't mind if he'd chosen somebody who knew
the rudiments of the game, but Galer! Galer!
"Well, Mr. Galer," he said, aloud, "you aren't trying to escape, are
you? You're coming in to see the show, aren't you?"
"Oh, yes," said the detective. "Jest wanted to go upstairs for 'alf a
minute. 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 the
ten minutes before he would be needed downstairs, when there burst
into 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 bin
doin's to-night for fair. Me coco's still buzzin'. Say, I was to Sir
Thomas' dressin' room - - "
"What! What were you doing there?"
Spike looked somewhat embarrassed. He grinned apologetically, and
shuffled 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 at
them. "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 the
swells. So it's up to me, I says, 'cos Mr. Chames'll be tickled to
deat', 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 when
you wanted to take those things the other day?"
"Sure, Mr. Chames. But dose was little dinky t'ings. Dese poils is
boids, 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 those
detectives after us in a minute. Didn't you know they had been
watching 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 was
after de jools, an' not knowin' dey was bote sleut's, an' now one of
dem'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 his
other 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 de
sleut' guys what's bin an' got wise to me, and he's comin' in to put
de grip on me. So I gets up, an' I blows out de lantern, and I stands
dere in de dark, waitin' for him to come in. And den I'm going to get
busy before he can see who I am, and jolt him one on de point, and
den, 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 side
de passage anodder guy, and gets de rapid strangleholt on dis foist
mug. Say, wouldn't dat make you wonder was you on your feet or your
coco?"
"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 dem
puts 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 de
irons on de odder guy. Den I hears him strike a light - I'd turned de
switch what lights up de passage before I got into de room - and den he
says, 'Ah', he says, 'got youse, have I? Not the boid I expected, but
you'll do.' I knew his voice. It was dat mug what calls himself
Galer."
"I suppose I'm the bird he expected," said Jimmy. "Well?"
"De odder mug was too busy catchin' up wit' his breat' to shoot it
back swift, but after he's bin doin' de deep breathin' stunt for a
while, he says, 'You mutt', he says, 'youse to de bad. You've made a
break, you have.' He put it different, but dat's what he meant. Den he
says 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 bin
handed 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 your
life', says Galer. 'What! Butt in among de swells what's enjoyin'
themselves and spoil deir evenin' by showin' dem a face like yours? To
de woods! It's youse for de coal cellar, me man, and we'll see what
youse has got to say afterward. G'wan!' And off dey went. And I lit me
lantern 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 those
pearls, and I'll seize the opportunity while the coast is clear to put
them 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 what
he said went. But his demeanor was tragic, telling eloquently of hopes
blighted.
Jimmy took the necklace with a thrill. He was an expert in jewels, and
a 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 jewels
through his fingers. He scrutinized them again, more closely this
time.
Then he turned to Spike, with a curious smile.
"You'd better be going downstairs," he said. "I'll just run along and
replace 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 Sir
Thomas Blunt's dressing room.
He lit his lamp, and found the box without difficulty. Dropping the
necklace 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, pale
and open-eyed, beside the curtain by the door.
CHAPTER XVII.
Pressed, rigid, against the wall behind her curtain, Molly had
listened in utter bewilderment to the sounds of strife in the passage
outside. The half-heard conversation between the detectives had done
nothing toward a solution of the mystery. Galer's voice she thought
she recognized as one that she had heard before; but she could not
identify it.
When the detectives had passed away together down the corridor, she
had imagined that the adventure was at an end and that she was at
liberty to emerge - cautiously - from her hiding place and follow them
downstairs. 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, and
shrank 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 visitors
to the dressing room was complete with the two who had striven in the
passage. 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, she
came out into the room, and found Jimmy kneeling on the floor beside
the 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 shade
them. The silence was oppressive. It seemed to Molly that they had
been standing like this for years.
Jimmy had not moved. There was something in his attitude which filled
Molly with a vague fear. In the shadow behind the lamp, he looked
shapeless and inhuman.
"What are you doing here?" he said at last, in a harsh, unnatural
voice.
"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 the
apologetic haste with which he moved the lamp seemed to relax the
strain of the situation. The feeling of stunned surprise began to
leave her. She found herself thinking coherently again.
The relief was but momentary. Why was Jimmy in the room at that time?
Why had he a lamp? What had he been doing? The questions shot from her
brain like sparks from an anvil.
The darkness began to tear at her nerves. She felt along the wall for
the switch, and flooded the room with light.
Jimmy laid down the lantern, and stood for a moment, undecided. He
looked at Molly, and suddenly there came over him an overwhelming
desire to tell her everything. He had tried to stifle his conscience,
to assure himself that the old days were over, and that there was no
need 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. He
could not allow her to marry him, in ignorance of what he had been. It
would be a villainous thing to do. Often he had tried to tell her, but
had failed. He saw that it must be done, here and now.
He lifted the lid of the jewel box, and dangled the necklace before
her 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 to
for 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't
nice, is it? But it's the truth. And whatever happens, I'm glad you
know."
"Stealing!" said Molly slowly. "You!"
He took a step forward, and laid his hand on her arm. She shrank away
from 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 story
of a weak devil who was put up to fight the world, and wasn't strong
enough for it. He got a bad start, and he never made it up. They sent
him 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 for
himself. He was seventeen, then. Seventeen, mind you. And all he knew
was a little Latin and Greek, a very little, and nothing else. And
they 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 will
remember - with ninety pounds in my pocket. It seemed illimitable
wealth at the time. Two pounds was the most I had ever possessed
before. I could not imagine its ever coming to an end. In dollars it
seemed an inconceivable amount of money. I put up at the Waldorf. I
remember, 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 had
begun to realize that my purse was shallower than I had thought. It
occurred to me that work of some sort would be an advantage. I went
round and tried to get some. My God! Remember, I was seventeen, and
absolutely ignorant of every useful trade under the sun."
"Go on."
"One day I was lunching at the Quentin, when a man came and sat down
at the same table, and we got into conversation. I had spent the
morning answering want advertisements, and I was going to break my
last twenty-dollar bill to pay for my lunch. I was in the frame of
mind when I would have done anything, good or bad, that would have
given me some money. The man was very friendly. After lunch, he took
me off to his rooms. He had a couple of parlor rooms in Forty-fifth
Street. Then he showed his hand. He was a pretty scoundrel, but I
didn't care. I didn't care for anything, except that there seemed to
be money to be had from him. Honesty! Put a man in New York with
nineteen dollars and a few cents in his pockets, and no friends, and
see 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. It
takes the fight out of you. I've felt it, and I know."
He stopped, and gave a little shiver. Nine years had passed since that
day, but a man who has all but gone under in a big city does not
readily forget the nightmare horror of it.
"Stone - that was the man's name - was running a tapless wire-tapping
game. You've read about the trick, I expect. Every one has known about
it 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 fix
it up to look like a branch of the Western Union Telegraph Company. He
would bring men in there and introduce them to a man he called the
manager of the branch, who was supposed to get racing results ten
minutes before they were sent out to the pool rooms. The victim would
put 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 a
gentleman. To inspire confidence! I looked older than I was, and he
took me on. It was a filthy business, but I was in a panic. I was with
Stone 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 was
no use hoping for work. I couldn't get it, and I couldn't have done it
if 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?' he
said, after we had talked about racing and other things for a while. I
stared at him in surprise. I was frightened, too. 'It's all right', he
said, 'I know all about Stone. You needn't be afraid of me. Aren't you