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The Gem Collector

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Jimmy bowed.

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

"I was telling Spencer in the automobile," put in Lady Blunt, with
ferocity, "that _my_ father would have horsewhipped him if he had
been 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 to
forget things if he's going to make his way in the world. I told
Spencer so in the automobile."

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

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

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

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

"How interesting," said Lady Jane languidly, as if the intellectual
strain of the conversation had been too much for her. "You will have
such 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 McEachern
had walked solidly into the room. The ornaments on the Chippendale
tables jingled as he came. Secretly he was somewhat embarrassed at
finding himself in the midst of so many people. He had not yet
mastered the art of feeling at home in his own house. At meals he did
not fear his wife's guests so much. Their attention was in a manner
distributed at such times, instead of being, as now, focused upon
himself. He stood there square and massive, outwardly the picture of
all that was rugged and independent, looking about him for a friendly
face. To offer a general remark, or to go boldly and sit down beside
one of those dazzling young ladies, like some heavyweight spider
beside a Miss Muffet, was beyond him. In his time he had stopped
runaway horses, clubbed mad dogs, and helped to break up East Side
gang fights, when the combatants on both sides were using their guns
lavishly 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 to
father?"

"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's
attention, and, looking in the direction whence it proceeded, he
caught 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 his
feet.

"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 the
New York policeman off his balance. In that favored clime, _savoir
faire_ is represented by a shrewd left hook at the jaw, and a masterful
stroke of the truncheon amounts to a satisfactory repartee. Thus shall
you never take the policeman of Manhattan without his answer. In other
surroundings, Mr. Patrick McEachern would have known how to deal with
his young acquaintance, Mr. Jimmy Pitt. But another plan of action was
needed here. First of all, the hints on etiquette with which Lady Jane
had favored him, from time to time, and foremost came the mandate:
"Never make a scene." Scenes, Lady Jane had explained--on the occasion
of his knocking down an objectionable cabman during their honeymoon
trip--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; and he proceeded on the present occasion to conduct himself
high and disposedly, according to instructions from headquarters.

The surprise of finding an old acquaintance in this company rendered
him dumb for a brief space, during which Jimmy looked after the
conversation.

"How do you do, Mr. McEachern?" inquired Jimmy genially. "Quite a
surprise meeting you in England. A pleasant surprise. By the way, one
generally shakes hands in the smartest circles. Yours seem to be down
there 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 of
novelty to the hackneyed salutation by pronouncing it as one word. He
took some little time getting into his stride when carrying on polite
conversation.

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

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

Molly had regained her composure by this time. Her father was taking
the 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 taking
nourishment. No further bulletins will be issued."

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

"This is the friend that Spennie brought," said Jimmy in a rapid
undertone. "This is the maiden all forlorn who crossed the seas, and
lived 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 chaffing
her father had caused her trouble in the old days. It may be admitted
that this recreation of Jimmy's was not in the best taste; but it must
also be remembered that the relations between the two had always been
out of the ordinary. Great as was his affection for Molly, Jimmy could
not recollect a time when war had not been raging in a greater or
lesser degree between the ex-policeman and himself.

"It is very kind of you to invite me down here," said he. "We shall be
able to have some cozy chats over old times when I was a wanderer on
the 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 ask
you how you liked leaving the----"

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

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

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

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

"I, too, have been speculating," said Mr. Wesson, "as to whether you
would care to show me the rose garden, Miss McEachern, as you promised
yesterday. Of all flowers, I love roses best. You remember Bryant's
lines, Miss McEachern? 'The rose that lives its little hour is prized
beyond the sculptured flower.'"

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

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

"I'd quite forgotten," said Molly.

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

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

"Perhaps not," said Jimmy thoughtfully, "perhaps not. I might be
better employed here, amusing the people by telling them all about our
old 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 we
start, Miss McEachern?"

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

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

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

"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 exchanged
every day in the best society. You should hear dukes and earls! The
wit! the _esprit_! The flow of soul! Mine is nothing to it. What's this
in the iron pot? Is this what you feed them? Queer birds, hens--I
wouldn't touch the stuff for a fortune. It looks perfectly poisonous.
Flock around, you pullets. Come in your thousands. All bad nuts
returned, and a souvenir goes with every corpse. A little more of this
putrescent mixture for you, sir. Certainly, pick up your dead, pick up
your dead."

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

"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 a
girl 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 came
to him again, now, as sobering as a blow. Something which he could not
define had changed the atmosphere. Suddenly in an instant, like a
shallow 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 to
say.

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

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

"Be careful, Jimmy! You nearly touched me with the spoon. I don't want
to be covered with that horrible stuff. Look at that poor, little
chicken 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 to
walk 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 it
wasn't--I mean, I sometimes wish--oh, you know. I mean it's lovely
here, but it _was_ nice in the old days, wasn't it, Jimmy? It's a pity
that 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 the
road."

"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 the
dressing gong. The echoes of it still lingered. Molly paused on the
bottom 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. Life
was so much fuller of possibilities than he had imagined a few days
back. The sudden acquisition of his uncle's money had, in a manner,
brought him to a halt. Till then the exhilarating feeling of having
his hand against the world had lent a zest to life. There had been no
monotony. There had always been obstacles. One may hardly perhaps
dilate on the joys of toil in connection with him, considering the
precise methods by which he had supported himself; but nevertheless
his emotions when breaking the law of the United States had been akin
to those of the honest worker in so far that his operations had
satisfied the desire for action which possesses every man of brains
and energy. They had given him something to do. He had felt alive. His
uncle's legacy had left him with a sensation of abrupt stoppage. Life
had suddenly become aimless.

But now everything was altered. Once more the future was a thing of
importance, to-morrow a day to be looked forward to with keen
expectation.

He tried to throw his mind back to the last occasion when he had seen
Molly. He could not remember that he had felt any excessive emotion.
Between _camaraderie_ and love there is a broad gulf. It had certainly
never been bridged in the old New York days. Then the frank
friendliness of which the American girl appears to have the monopoly
had been Molly's chief charm in his eyes. It had made possible a
comradeship such as might have existed between men. But now there was
a difference. England seemed to have brought about a subtle change in
her. Instinctively he felt that the old friendship, adequate before,
was not enough now. He wanted more. The unexpected meeting, following
so closely upon Spike's careless words in London, had shown him his
true 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 an
impartial judge. He saw them stripped of the glamour which triumphant
cunning 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, my
son," he said. "There's only one thing in your favor; and that is the
fact that you've cut it all out for keeps. We must be content with
that."

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 do
youse t'ink I nearly bumped me coco ag'in out in de corridor? Why, old
man McEachern, de cop. Dat's right!"

"Yes?"

"Sure. Say, what's he doin' on dis beat? Youse c'u'd have knocked me
down wit' a bit of poiper when I see him. I pretty near went down and
out. 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 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, 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 owns
the 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, all
gathered together under the same roof, like a jolly little family
party."

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 worry
ourselves. The next move's with him. If he wants to say anything about
it, 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 old
gazebo, de butler, Keggs his name is, dat's de best ever at handing
out 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't
have an excellent time here. I don't think that Mr. McEachern will
turn us 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, though he did club me
once with his night stick; but nothing shall make me stir from here
for the next week at any rate."

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

"Hush, Spike, this is scandal!"

"Sure," said the Bowery boy doggedly, securely mounted now on his
favorite hobby horse. "I knows, and youse knows, Mr. Chames. Gee, I
wish I'd bin a cop. But I wasn't tall enough. Dey's de fellers wit' de
long green in der banks. 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, Mr. Chames."

"I do, Spike, I do."

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

"In prisons oft," said Jimmy.

"Dat's right. 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. "You've hit it, Spike. You'll be glad some
day that you reformed."

But on this point Spike seemed to be doubtful. He was silent for a
moment; 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 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, 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 your
guard, to fight against your professional instincts; and you must do
it. I know it's hard, but it's got to be done. Try and occupy your
mind. 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 the
glass, 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's
right. An' we didn't do a t'ing else. An' we lived for de rest of de
year 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 of
drawers, "dat's got a necklace of jools what's wort' two hundred
thousand 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. I
could 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 a
start.

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

"Confound you, Spike! How often am I to tell you that I have done with
all that sort of thing forever? I never want to see or touch another
stone that doesn't belong to me. I don't want to hear about them. They
don'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 brush
down, though, if you don't mind. Not that. That's a hair brush. Try
the 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 pungle
for it, Mr. Chames?"

"I really can't remember," said Jimmy, with a laugh. "I could look up
the 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 was
checked by a sudden bang on the door. Almost simultaneously the handle
turned.

"P'Chee!" 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."




CHAPTER VIII.


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

He stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. It has been shown that the
ex-policeman was somewhat prone to harbor 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 his stepson had brought home a casual London acquaintance,
he had suspected the existence of hidden motives on the part of the
unknown. Spennie, he had told himself, was precisely the sort of youth
to whom the professional bunko-steerer would attach himself with
shouts of joy. Never, he had assured himself, had there been a softer
proposition than his stepson since bunko-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 dressing room to get ready for dinner, he had
nearly run into Spike Mullins, Red Spike of shameful memory, 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 very brink of a black precipice. Jimmy and
Spike 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 as
sinister is to put the matter baldly. 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
Lady Jane had trained him 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.

"Ye 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, 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.

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