The Intrusion of Jimmy Part 52

"As a matter of fact, it's kind of broken off."

The other's exclamation jarred on him. Rotten, having to talk about this sort of thing!

"Broken off?"

Spennie nodded.

"Miss McEachern thought it over, don't you know," he said, "and came to the conclusion that it wasn't good enough."

Now that it was said, he felt easier. It had merely been the awkwardness of having to touch on the thing that had troubled him.

That his news might be a blow to McEachern did not cross his mind.

He was a singularly modest youth, and, though he realized vaguely that his t.i.tle had a certain value in some persons' eyes, he could not understand anyone mourning over the loss of him as a son-in-law.

Katie's father, the old general, thought him a fool, and once, during an attack of gout, had said so. Spennie was wont to accept this as the view which a prospective father-in-law might be expected to entertain regarding himself.

Oblivious, therefore, to the storm raging a yard away from him, he smoked on with great contentment, till suddenly it struck him that, for a presumably devout lover, jilted that very night, he was displaying too little emotion. He debated swiftly within himself whether or not he should have a dash at manly grief, but came to the conclusion that it could not be done. Melancholy on this maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year, the day on which he had utterly routed the powers of evil, as represented by Sir Thomas, was impossible. He decided, rather, on a let-us-be-reasonable att.i.tude.

"It wouldn't have done, don't you know," he said. "We weren't suited. What I mean to say is, I'm a bit of a dashed sort of silly a.s.s in some ways, if you know what I mean. A girl like Miss McEachern couldn't have been happy with me. She wants one of these capable, energetic fellers."

This struck him as a good beginning--modest, but not groveling. He continued, tapping quite a respectably deep vein of philosophy as he spoke.

"You see, dear old top--I mean, sir, you see, it's like this. As far as women are concerned, fellers are divided into two cla.s.ses.

There's the masterful, capable Johnnies, and the--er--the other sort. Now, I'm the other sort. My idea of the happy married life is to be--well, not exactly downtrodden, but--you know what I mean--kind of second fiddle. I want a wife--" his voice grew soft and dreamy--"who'll pet me a good deal, don't you know, stroke my hair a lot, and all that. I haven't it in me to do the master-in-my-own-house business. For me, the silent-devotion touch. Sleeping on the mat outside her door, don't you know, when she wasn't feeling well, and being found there in the morning and being rather cosseted for my thoughtfulness. That's the sort of idea. Hard to put it quite O.

K., but you know the sort of thing I mean. A feller's got to realize his jolly old limitations if he wants to be happy though married, what? Now, suppose Miss McEachern was to marry me! Great Scott, she'd be bored to death in a week. Honest! She couldn't help herself. She wants a chap with the same amount of go in him that she's got."

He lighted another cigarette. He was feeling pleased with himself.

Never before had ideas marshaled themselves in his mind in such long and well-ordered ranks. He felt that he could go on talking like this all night. He was getting brainier every minute. He remembered reading in some book somewhere of a girl (or chappie) who had had her (or his) "hour of clear vision." This was precisely what had happened now. Whether it was owing to the excitement of what had taken place that night, or because he had been keying up his thinking powers with excellent dry champagne, he did not know. All he knew was that he felt on top of his subject. He wished he had had a larger audience.

"A girl like Miss McEachern doesn't want any of that hair-stroking business. She'd simply laugh at a feller if he asked for it. She needs a chappie of the get-on-or-get-out type, somebody in the six cylinder cla.s.s. And, as a matter of fact, between ourselves, I rather think she's found him."

"What!"

Mr. McEachern half rose from his chair. All his old fears had come surging back.

"What do you mean?"

"Fact," said his lords.h.i.+p, nodding. "Mind you, I don't know for certain. As the girl says in the song, I don't know, but I guess.

What I mean to say is, they seemed jolly friendly, and all that; calling each other by their first names, and so on."

"Who--?"

"Pitt," said his lords.h.i.+p. He was leaning back, blowing a smoke-ring at the moment, so he did not see the look on the other's face and the sudden grip of the fingers on the arms of the chair. He went on with some enthusiasm.

"Jimmy Pitt!" he said. "Now, there's a feller! Full of oats to the brim, and fairly bursting with go and energy. A girl wouldn't have a dull moment with a chap like that. You know," he proceeded confidently, "there's a lot in this idea of affinities. Take my word for it, dear old--sir. There's a girl up in London, for instance.

Now, she and I hit it off most amazingly. There's hardly a thing we don't think alike about. For instance, 'The Merry Widow' didn't make a bit of a hit with her. Nor did it with me. Yet, look at the millions of people who raved about it. And neither of us likes oysters. We're affinities--that's why. You see the same sort of thing all over the place. It's a jolly queer business. Sometimes, makes me believe in re-in-what's-it's-name. You know what I mean.

All that in the poem, you know. How does it go? 'When you were a tiddley-om-pom, and I was a thingummajig.' Dashed brainy bit of work. I was reading it only the other day. Well, what I mean to say is, it's my belief that Jimmy Pitt and Miss McEachern are by way of being something in that line. Doesn't it strike you that they are just the sort to get on together? You can see it with half an eye.

You can't help liking a feller like Jimmy Pitt. He's a sport! I wish I could tell you some of the things he's done, but I can't, for reasons. But you can take it from me, he's a sport. You ought to cultivate him. You'd like him ... Oh, dash it, there's the music. I must be off. Got to dance this one."

He rose from his chair, and dropped his cigarette into the ash-tray.

"So long," he said, with a friendly nod. "Wish I could stop, but it's no go. That's the last let-up I shall have to-night."

He went out, leaving Mr. McEachern a prey to many and varied emotions.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE LAST ROUND

He had only been gone a few minutes when Mr. McEachern's meditations were again interrupted. This time, the visitor was a stranger to him, a dark-faced, clean-shaven man. He did not wear evening clothes, so could not be one of the guests; and Mr. McEachern could not place him immediately. Then, he remembered. He had seen him in Sir Thomas Blunt's dressing-room. This was Sir Thomas's valet.

"Might I have a word with you, sir?"

"What is it?" asked McEachern, staring heavily. His mind had not recovered from the effect of Lord Dreever's philosophical remarks.

There was something of a cloud on his brain. To judge from his lords.h.i.+p's words, things had been happening behind his back; and the idea of Molly's deceiving him was too strange to be a.s.similated in an instant. He looked at the valet dully.

"What is it?" he asked again.

"I must apologize for intruding, but I thought it best to approach you before making my report to Sir Thomas."

"Your report?"

"I am employed by a private inquiry agency."

"What!"

"Yes, sir. Wragge's. You may have heard of us. In Holborn Bars. Very old established. Divorce a specialty. You will have seen the advertis.e.m.e.nts. Sir Thomas wrote asking for a man, and the governor sent me down. I have been with the house some years. My job, I gathered, was to keep my eyes open generally. Sir Thomas, it seemed, had no suspicions of any definite person. I was to be on the spot just in case, in a manner of speaking. And it's precious lucky I was, or her ladys.h.i.+p's jewels would have been gone. I've done a fair cop this very night."

He paused, and eyed the ex-policeman keenly. McEachern was obviously excited. Could Jimmy have made an attempt on the jewels during the dance? or Spike?

"Say," he said, "was it a red-headed--?"

The detective was watching him with a curious smile.

"No, he wasn't red-headed. You seem interested, sir. I thought you would be. I will tell you all about it. I had had my suspicions of this party ever since he arrived. And I may say that it struck me at the time that there was something mighty fishy about the way he got into the castle."

McEachern started. So, he had not been the only one to suspect Jimmy's motives in attaching himself to Lord Dreever.

"Go on," he said.

"I suspected that there was some game on, and it struck me that this would be the day for the attempt, the house being upside down, in a manner of speaking, on account of the theatricals. And I was right.

I kept near those jewels on and off all day, and, presently, just as I had thought, along comes this fellow. He'd hardly got to the door when I was on him."

"Good boy! You're no rube."

"We fought for a while, but, being a bit to the good in strength, and knowing something about the game, I had the irons on him pretty quick, and took him off, and locked him in the cellar. That's how it was, sir."