Intrusion of Jimmy Read online

  The only drawback is that some of them pick up queer friends."

  Hargate did not reply. He did not seem interested.

  "Yes," went on Jimmy. "For instance, a pal of mine, an actor named

  Mifflin, introduced a man a year ago as a member's guest for a

  fortnight, and this man rooked the fellows of I don't know how much

  at billiards. The old game, you know. Nursing his man right up to

  the end, and then finishing with a burst. Of course, when that

  happens once or twice, it may be an accident, but, when a man who

  poses as a novice always manages by a really brilliant shot--"

  Hargate turned round.

  "They fired this fellow out," said Jimmy.

  "Look here!"

  "Yes?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's a dull yarn," said Jimmy, apologetically. "I've been boring

  you. By the way, Dreever asked me to square up with you for that

  game, in case he shouldn't be back. Here you are."

  He held out an empty hand.

  "Got it?"

  "What are you going to do?" demanded Hargate.

  "What am I going to do?" queried Jimmy.

  "You know what I mean. If you'll keep your mouth shut, and stand in,

  it's halves. Is that what you're after?"

  Jimmy was delighted. He knew that by rights the proposal should have

  brought him from his seat, with stern, set face, to wreak vengeance

  for the insult, but on such occasions he was apt to ignore the

  conventions. His impulse, when he met a man whose code of behavior

  was not the ordinary code, was to chat with him and extract his

  point of view. He felt as little animus against Hargate as he had

  felt against Spike on the occasion of their first meeting.

  "Do you make much at this sort of game?" he asked.

  Hargate was relieved. This was business-like.

  "Pots," he said, with some enthusiasm. "Pots. I tell you, if you'll

  stand in--"

  "Bit risky, isn't it?"

  "Not a bit of it. An occasional accident--"

  "I suppose you'd call me one?"

  Hargate grinned.

  "It must be pretty tough work," said Jimmy. "You must have to use a

  tremendous lot of self-restraint."

  Hargate sighed.

  "That's the worst of it," he admitted, "the having to seem a mug at

  the game. I've been patronized sometimes by young fools, who thought

  they were teaching me, till I nearly forgot myself and showed them

  what real billiards was."

  "There's always some drawback to the learned professions," said

  Jimmy.

  "But there's a heap to make up for it in this one," said Hargate.

  "Well, look here, is it a deal? You'll stand in--"

  Jimmy shook his head.

  "I guess not," he said. "It's good of you, but commercial

  speculation never was in my line. I'm afraid you must count me out

  of this."

  "What! You're going to tell--?"

  "No," said Jimmy, "I'm not. I'm not a vigilance committee. I won't

  tell a soul."

  '"Why, then--" began Hargate, relieved.

  "Unless, of course," Jimmy went on, "you play billiards again while

  you're here."

  Hargate stared.

  "But, damn it, man, if I don't, what's the good--? Look here. What

  am I to do if they ask me to play?"

  "Give your wrist as an excuse."

  "My wrist?"

  "Yes. You sprained it to-morrow after breakfast. It was bad luck. I

  wonder how you came to do it. You didn't sprain it much, but just

  enough to stop you playing billiards."

  Hargate reflected.

  "Understand?" said Jimmy.

  "Oh, very well," said Hargate, sullenly. "But," he burst out, "if I

  ever get a chance to get even with you--"

  "You won't," said Jimmy. "Dismiss the rosy dream. Get even! You

  don't know me. There's not a flaw in my armor. I'm a sort of modern

  edition of the stainless knight. Tennyson drew Galahad from me. I

  move through life with almost a sickening absence of sin. But hush!

  We are observed. At least, we shall be in another minute. Somebody

  is coming down the passage. You do understand, don't you? Sprained

  wrist is the watchword."

  The handle turned. It was Lord Dreever, back again, from his

  interview.

  "Hullo, Dreever," said Jimmy. "We've missed you. Hargate has been

  doing his best to amuse me with acrobatic tricks. But you're too

  reckless, Hargate, old man. Mark my words, one of these days you'll

  be spraining your wrist. You should be more careful. What, going?

  Good-night. Pleasant fellow, Hargate," he added, as the footsteps

  retreated down, the passage. "Well, my lad, what's the matter with

  you? You look depressed."

  Lord Dreever flung himself on to the lounge, and groaned hollowly.

  "Damn! Damn!! Damn.!!!" he observed.

  His glassy eye met Jimmy's, and wandered away again.

  "What on earth's the matter?" demanded Jimmy. "You go out of here

  caroling like a song-bird, and you come back moaning like a lost

  soul. What's happened?"

  "Give me a brandy-and-soda, Pitt, old man. There's a good chap. I'm

  in a fearful hole."

  "Why? What's the matter?"

  "I'm engaged," groaned his lordship.

  "Engaged! I wish you'd explain. What on earth's wrong with you?

  Don't you want to be engaged? What's your--?"

  He broke off, as a sudden, awful suspicion dawned upon him. "Who is

  she?" he cried.

  He gripped the stricken peer's shoulder, and shook it savagely.

  Unfortunately, he selected the precise moment when the latter was in

  the act of calming his quivering nerve-centers with a gulp of

  brandy-and-soda, and for the space of some two minutes it seemed as

  if the engagement would be broken off by the premature extinction of

  the Dreever line. A long and painful fit of coughing, however, ended

  with his lordship still alive and on the road to recovery.

  He eyed Jimmy reproachfully, but Jimmy was in no mood for apologies.

  "Who is she?" he kept demanding. "What's her name?"

  "Might have killed me!" grumbled the convalescent.

  "Who is she?"

  "What? Why, Miss McEachern."

  Jimmy had known what the answer would be, but it was scarcely less

  of a shock for that reason.

  "Miss McEachern?" he echoed.

  Lord Dreever nodded a somber nod.

  "You're engaged to her?"

  Another somber nod.

  "I don't believe it," said Jimmy.

  "I wish I didn't," said his lordship wistfully, ignoring the slight

  rudeness of the remark. "But, worse luck, it's true."

  For the first time since the disclosure of the name, Jimmy's

  attention was directed to the remarkable demeanor of his successful

  rival.

  "You don't seem over-pleased," he said.

  "Pleased! Have a fiver each way on 'pleased'! No, I'm not exactly

  leaping with joy."

  "Then, what the devil is it all about? What do you mean? What's the

  idea? If you don't want to marry Miss McEachern, why did you propose

  to her?"

  Lord Dreever closed his eyes.

  "Dear old boy, don't! It's my uncle."

  "Your uncle?"

  "Didn't I explain it all to you--about him wanting me to marry? You
/>   know! I told you the whole thing."

  Jimmy stared in silence.

  "Do you mean to say--?" he said, slowly.

  He stopped. It was a profanation to put the thing into words.

  "What, old man?"

  Jimmy gulped.

  "Do you mean to say you want to marry Miss McEachern simply because

  she has money?" he said.

  It was not the first time that he had heard of a case of a British

  peer marrying for such a reason, but it was the first time that the

  thing had filled him with horror. In some circumstances, things come

  home more forcibly to us.

  "It's not me, old man," murmured his lordship; "it's my uncle."

  "Your uncle! Good God!" Jimmy clenched his hands, despairingly. "Do

  you mean to say that you let your uncle order you about in a thing

  like this? Do you mean to say you're such a--such a--such a

  gelatine--backboneless worm--"

  "Old man! I say!" protested his lordship, wounded.

  "I'd call you a wretched knock-kneed skunk, only I don't want to be

  fulsome. I hate flattering a man to his face."

  Lord Dreever, deeply pained, half-rose from his seat.

  "Don't get up," urged Jimmy, smoothly. "I couldn't trust myself."

  His lordship subsided hastily. He was feeling alarmed. He had never

  seen this side of Jimmy's character. At first, he had been merely

  aggrieved and disappointed. He had expected sympathy. How, the

  matter had become more serious. Jimmy was pacing the room like a

  young and hungry tiger. At present, it was true, there was a

  billiard-table between them; but his lordship felt that he could

  have done with good, stout bars. He nestled in his seat with the

  earnest concentration of a limpet on a rock. It would be deuced bad

  form, of course, for Jimmy to assault his host, but could Jimmy be

  trusted to remember the niceties of etiquette?

  "Why the devil she accepted you, I can't think," said Jimmy half to

  himself, stopping suddenly, and glaring across the table.

  Lord Dreever felt relieved. This was not polite, perhaps, but at

  least it was not violent.

  "That's what beats me, too, old man," he said.

  "Between you and me, it's a jolly rum business. This afternoon--"

  "What about this afternoon?"

  "Why, she wouldn't have me at any price."

  "You asked her this afternoon?"

  "Yes, and it was all right then. She refused me like a bird.

  Wouldn't hear of it. Came damn near laughing in my face. And then,

  to-night," he went on, his voice squeaky at the thought of his

  wrongs, "my uncle sends for me, and says she's changed her mind and

  is waiting for me in the morning-room. I go there, and she tells me

  in about three words that she's been thinking it over and that the

  whole fearful thing is on again. I call it jolly rough on a chap. I

  felt such a frightful ass, you know. I didn't know what to do,

  whether to kiss her, I mean--"

  Jimmy snorted violently.

  "Eh?" said his lordship, blankly.

  "Go on," said Jimmy, between his teeth.

  "I felt a fearful fool, you know. I just said 'Right ho!' or

  something--dashed if I know now what I did say--and legged it. It's

  a jolly rum business, the whole thing. It isn't as if she wanted me.

  I could see that with half an eye. She doesn't care a hang for me.

  It's my belief, old man," he said solemnly, "that she's been

  badgered into it, I believe my uncle's been at her."

  Jimmy laughed shortly.

  "My dear man, you seem to think your uncle's persuasive influence is

  universal. I guess it's confined to you."

  "Well, anyhow, I believe that's what's happened. What do you say?"

  "Why say anything? There doesn't seem to be much need."

  He poured some brandy into a glass, and added a little soda.

  "You take it pretty stiff," observed his lordship, with a touch of

  envy.

  "On occasion," said Jimmy, emptying the glass.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE LOCHINVAR METHOD

  As Jimmy sat smoking a last cigarette in his bedroom before going to

  bed that night, Spike Mullins came in. Jimmy had been thinking

  things over. He was one of those men who are at their best in a

  losing game. Imminent disaster always had the effect of keying him

  up and putting an edge on his mind. The news he had heard that night

  had left him with undiminished determination, but conscious that a

  change of method would be needed. He must stake all on a single

  throw now. Young Lochinvar rather than Romeo must be his model. He

  declined to believe himself incapable of getting anything that he

  wanted as badly as he wanted Molly. He also declined to believe that

  she was really attached to Lord Dreever. He suspected the hand of

  McEachern in the affair, though the suspicion did not clear up the

  mystery by any means. Molly was a girl of character, not a feminine

  counterpart of his lordship, content meekly to do what she was told

  in a matter of this kind. The whole thing puzzled him.

  "Well, Spike?" he said.

  He was not too pleased at the interruption. He was thinking, and he

  wanted to be alone.

  Something appeared to have disturbed Spike. His bearing was excited.

  "Say, boss! Guess what. You know dat guy dat come dis afternoon--de

  guy from de village, dat came wit' old man McEachern?"

  "Galer?" said Jimmy. "What about him?"

  There had been an addition to the guests at the castle that

  afternoon. Mr. McEachern, walking in the village, had happened upon

  an old New York acquaintance of his, who, touring England, had

  reached Dreever and was anxious to see the historic castle. Mr.

  McEachern had brought him thither, introduced him to Sir Thomas, and

  now Mr. Samuel Galer was occupying a room on the same floor as

  Jimmy's. He had appeared at dinner that night, a short, wooden-faced

  man, with no more conversation than Hargate. Jimmy had paid little

  attention to the newcomer.

  "What about him?" he said.

  "He's a sleut', boss."

  "A what?"

  "A sleut'."

  "A detective?"

  "Dat's right. A fly cop."

  "What makes you think that?"

  "T'ink! Why, I can tell dem by deir eyes an' deir feet, an' de whole

  of dem. I could pick out a fly cop from a bunch of a t'ousand. He's

  a sure 'nough sleut' all right, all right. I seen him rubber in' at

  youse, boss."

  "At me! Why at me? Why, of course. I see now. Our friend McEachern

  has got him in to spy on us."

  "Dat's right, boss."

  "Of course, you may be mistaken."

  "Not me, boss. An', say, 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?"

  "A mug what's down in de soivants' hall. I wasn't so sure of him at

  foist, but now I'm onto his curves. He's a sleut' all right. He's

  vally to Sir Tummas, dis second mug is. But he ain't no vally. He's

  come to see no one don't get busy wit' de jools. Say, what do youse

  t'ink of dem jools, boss?"

  "Finest I ever saw."

  "Yes, dat's right. A hundred t'ousand plunks dey set him back.

  Dey
're de limit, ain't dey? Say, won't youse really--?"

  "Spike! I'm surprised at you! Do you know, you're getting a regular

  Mephistopheles, Spike? Suppose I hadn't an iron will, what would

  happen? You really must select your subjects of conversation more

  carefully. You're bad company for the likes of me."

  Spike shuffled despondently.

  "But, boss--!"

  Jimmy shook his head.

  "It can't be done, my lad."

  "But it can, boss," protested Spike. "It's dead easy. I've been up

  to de room, an' I seen de box what de jools is kept in. Why, it's de

  softest ever! We could get dem as easy as pullin' de plug out of a

  bottle. Why, say, dere's never been such a peach of a place for

  gittin' hold of de stuff as dis house. Dat's right, boss. Why, look

  what I got dis afternoon, just snoopin' around an' not really tryin'

  to git busy at all. It was just lyin' about."

  He plunged his hand into his pocket, and drew it out again. As he

  unclosed his fingers, Jimmy caught the gleam of precious stones.

  "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, boss. I just went in when dere was nobody

  around, an' dere dey was on de toible. I never butted into anyt'in'

  so soft."

  "Spike!"

  "Yes, boss?"

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

  "Sure. It was de foist on de--"

  "Then, just listen to me for a moment, my bright boy. When we're at

  breakfast to-morrow, you want 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, boss!" he faltered.

  "Every single one of them."

  "Boss!" said Spike, plaintively.

  "Remember. Every single one of them, just where it belongs. See?"

  "Very well, boss."

  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.

  It had also gone out of the lives of a good many other people at the

  castle. This was mainly due to the growing shadow of the day of the

  theatricals.

  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