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The Gem Collector

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"Would you mind letting my man pass?" said Jimmy.

"Ye 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 Mr. Chames 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.

"An' now," said he, "perhaps ye'll explain!"

"What exactly?" asked Jimmy.

"What ye're doin' here."

"Nothing at the moment."

"Ye know what I mane. Why are ye here, you and that red-headed devil?"

He jerked his head in the direction of the door.

"I am here because I was very kindly invited to come by your stepson."

"I know ye."

"You have that privilege."

"I know ye, I say, and I want to know what ye're here to do."

"To do? Well, I shall potter about the garden, don't you know, and
smell the roses, and look at the horses, and feed the chickens, and
perhaps go for an occasional row on the lake. Nothing more. Oh, yes, I
believe they want me to act in these theatricals."

"An' I'll tell ye another thing ye'll be wanted to do, and that is to
go away from here at wance!"

"My dear old sir!"

"Ye hear me? At wance."

"Couldn't think of it," said Jimmy decidedly. "Not for a moment."

"I'll expose ye," stormed McEachern. "I'll expose ye. Will ye deny
that ye was a crook in New York?"

"What proofs have you?"

"Proofs! Will you deny it?"

"No. It's quite true."

"I knew it."

"But I'm a reformed character, now, Mr. McEachern. I have money of my
own. It was left me. I hear you had money left you, too."

"I did," said McEachern shortly.

"Congratulate you. I'm glad I know, because otherwise I might have
formed quite a wrong impression when I came here and found you with
money to burn. Quite the old English squire now, Mr. McEachern, what?"

"Ye'll lave the house to-morrow."

"All the more reason why we should make the most of this opportunity
of talking over old times. Did you mind leaving the force?"

"And ye'll take that blackguard Mullins wid ye."

"Judging from the stories one hears, it must be a jolly sort of life.
What a pity so many of them go in for graft. I could tell you some
stories about a policeman I used to know in New York. He was the
champion grafter. I remember hearing one yarn from a newspaper man out
there. This reporter chap happened to hear of the grumblings of some
tenants of an apartment house uptown which led them to believe that
certain noises they complained of were made by burglars who used the
flat as a place to pack up the loot for shipment to other cities. You
know that habit of ours, don't you? He was quite right, and when he
tipped off his newspaper they reported the thing to the police. Now, I
could have gone right up and made those men show up their hands by
merely asking them to.

"Not so the police. I wonder if you remember the case. You look as if
you were beginning to. The police went blundering at wrong doors, and
most of the gang got away. And while they were in the house after the
raid a woman was able to slip in and take away on an express wagon the
three trunks which were to have been held for evidence. And that's not
all, either. There was one particular policeman who held the case for
the prosecution in his hands. If he had played up in court next day,
the one man that had been captured would have got all that was coming
to him. What happened? Why, his evidence broke down, and the man was
discharged. It's a long story. I hope it hasn't bored you."

McEachern did not look bored. He was mopping his forehead, and
breathing quickly.

"It was a most interesting case," said Jimmy. "I've got all the
names."

"It's a lie!"

"Not at all. True as anything. Ever heard of that policeman--I've got
his name, too--who made a lot of money by getting appointments in the
force for men of his acquaintance? He used to be paid heavily for it,
and you'd hardly believe what a lot of scoundrels he let in in that
way."

"See here----" began McEachern huskily.

"I wonder if you ever came across any men in the force who made
anything by that dodge of arresting a person and then getting a lawyer
for them. Ever heard of that? It's rather like a double ruff at
bridge. You--I'm awfully sorry. I shouldn't have used that word. What
I meant to say was the policeman makes his arrest, then suggests that
the person had better have a bondsman. He gathers in a bondsman, who
charges the prisoner four dollars for bailing him out. Two dollars of
this goes to the sergeant, who accepts the bail without question, and
the policeman takes one. Then the able and intelligent officer says to
the prisoner: 'What you want is a lawyer.' 'Right,' says the prisoner,
'if you think so.' Off goes the policeman and gets the lawyer. Five
more dollars, of which he gets his share. It's a beautiful system. It
might interest the people at dinner to-night to hear about it. I think
I'll tell them."

"You'll----"

"And when you come to think that some policemen in New York take
tribute from peddlers who obstruct the traffic, tradesmen who obstruct
the sidewalk, restaurant keepers who keep open after one o'clock in
the morning, drivers who exceed speed limits, and keepers of pool
rooms, you'll understand that there's a good bit to be made out of
graft, if you go in for it seriously. It's uncommonly lucky,
McEachern, that you were left that money. Otherwise you might have
been tempted, mightn't you?"

There was a somewhat breathless silence in the room. Mr. McEachern was
panting slightly.

"You couldn't reconsider your decision about sending me away
to-morrow, I suppose?" said Jimmy, flicking at his shoes with a
handkerchief. "It's a lovely part of the country, this. I would be
sorry to leave it."

Mr. McEachern's brain was working with unwonted rapidity. This man
must be silenced at all costs. It would be fatal to his prospects in
English society if one tithe of these gruesome stories were made
public. And he believed Jimmy capable of making them public, being
guilty thereby of an error of judgment. Jimmy, though he had no
respect at all for Mr. McEachern, would have died sooner than spread
any story which, even in an indirect way, could reflect upon Molly.
Mr. McEachern, however, had not the advantage of knowing his
antagonist's feelings, and the bluff was successful.

"Ye can stay," he said.

"Thanks," said Jimmy.

"And I'll beg ye not to mention the force at dinner or at any other
time."

"I won't dream of it."

"They think I made me money on Wall Street."

"It would have been a slower job there. You were wise in your choice.
Shall we go down to the drawing-room, now?"

"Ye say y'are rich yerself," said McEachern.

"Very," said Jimmy, "so don't you worry yourself, my Wall Street
speculator."

Mr. McEachern did not worry himself. He had just recollected that in a
very short time he would have a trained detective on the premises. Any
looking after that James Willoughby Pitt might require might safely be
left in the hands of this expert.




CHAPTER IX.


It was at dinner that Jimmy had his first chance of seeing the rope of
pearls which had so stimulated the roving fancy of Spike Mullins. Lady
Blunt sat almost opposite to him. Her dress was of unrelieved black,
and formed a wonderfully effective foil to the gems. It was not a rope
of pearls. It was a collar. Her neck was covered with them. There was
something Oriental and barbaric in the overwhelming display of
jewelry. And this suggestion of the East was emphasized by the
wearer's regal carriage. Lady Blunt knew when she looked well. She did
not hold herself like one apologizing for venturing to exist.

Jimmy stared hungrily across the table. The room was empty to him but
for that gleaming mass of gems. He breathed softly and quickly through
clinched teeth.

"Jimmy!" whispered a voice.

It seemed infinitely remote.

A hand shook his elbow gently. He started.

"_Don't_ stare like that, _please_. What is the matter?"

Molly, seated at his side, was looking at him wide-eyed. Jimmy smiled
with an effort. Every nerve in his body seemed to be writhing.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm only hungry. I always look like that at the
beginning of a meal."

"Well, here comes Keggs with some soup for you. You'd better not waste
another moment. You looked perfectly awful."

"No!"

"Like a starved wolf."

"You must look after me," said Jimmy, "see that the wolf's properly
fed."

* * * * *

The conversation, becoming general with the fish, was not of a kind to
remove from Jimmy's mind the impression made by the sight of the
pearls. It turned on crime in general and burglary in particular.

Spennie began it.

"Oh, I say," he said, "I forgot to tell you, mother. Number Six was
burgled the other night."

Number Six-a, Easton Square, was the family's London house.

"Burgled!"

"Well, broken into," said Spennie, gratified to find that he had got
the ear of his entire audience. Even Lady Blunt was silent and
attentive. "Chap got in through the scullery window about one o'clock,
in the morning. It was the night after you dined with me, Pitt."

"And what did our Spennie do?" inquired Sir Thomas.

"Oh, I--er--I was out at the time," said Spennie. "But something
frightened the feller," he went on hurriedly, "and he made a bolt for
it without taking anything."

Jimmy, looking down the table, became conscious that his host's eye
was fixed gloomily upon him. He knew intuitively what was passing in
McEachern's mind. The ex-policeman was feeling that his worst
suspicions had been confirmed. Jimmy had dined with Spennie--obviously
a mere excuse for spying out the land; and the very next night the
house had been burgled. Once more Mr. McEachern congratulated himself
on his astuteness in engaging the detective from Wragge's Agency. With
Jimmy above stairs and Spike Mullins below, that sleuthhound would
have his hands full.

"Burglary," said Wesson, leaning back and taking advantage of a pause,
"is the hobby of the sportsman and the life work of the avaricious."

Everybody seemed to have something to say on the subject. One young
lady gave it as her opinion that she would not like to find a burglar
under her bed. Somebody else had known a man whose father had fired at
the butler, under the impression that he was a housebreaker, and had
broken a valuable bust of Socrates. Spennie knew a man at Oxford whose
brother wrote lyrics for musical comedy, and had done one about a
burglar's best friend being his mother.

"Life," said Wesson, who had had time for reflection, "is a house
which we all burgle. We enter it uninvited, take all that we can lay
hands on, and go out again."

"This man's brother I was telling you about," said Spennie, "says
there's only one rhyme in the English language to 'burglar', and
that's 'gurgler'. Unless you count 'pergola', he says----"

"Personally," said Jimmy, with a glance at McEachern, "I have rather a
sympathy for burglars. After all, they are one of the hardest-working
classes in existence. They toil while everybody else is asleep. They
are generally thorough sportsmen. Besides, a burglar is only a
practical socialist. Philosophers talk a lot about the redistribution
of wealth. The burglar goes out and does it. I have found burglars
some of the decentest criminals I have ever met. Out of business hours
they are charming."

"I despise burglars!" ejaculated Lady Blunt, with a suddenness which
stopped Jimmy's eloquence as if a tap had been turned off. "If I found
one coming after my jewels and I had a gun handy, I'd shoot him. I
would."

"My dear Julia!" said Lady Jane. "Why suggest such dreadful things? At
any rate, this house has never been burgled, and I don't think it's
likely to be."

"Beroofen!" said Jimmy, touching the back of his chair. As he did so,
he met McEachern's eye, and smiled kindly at him. The ex-policeman was
looking at him with the gaze of a baffled but malignant basilisk.

"I take very good care no one gets a chance at my jewels," said Lady
Blunt. "I've had a steel box made for me with a special lock which
would drive the cunningest burglar on this earth mad before he'd been
at it ten minutes. It would. He'd go right away and reform."

Jimmy's lips closed tightly, and a combative look came into his eye at
this unconscious challenge. This woman was too aggressively confident.
A small lesson. He could return the jewels by post. It would give her
a much-needed jolt.

Then he pulled himself up.

"James, my boy," he said to himself, with severity, "this is
hypocrisy. You know perfectly well that is not why you want those
pearls. Don't try and bluff yourself, because it won't do."

The conversation turned to other topics. Jimmy was glad of it. He
wanted to think this thing over.

From where he sat, he had an excellent view of the rope of pearls
which was tugging him back to his old ways. And when he looked at them
he could not see Molly. The thing was symbolical. It must be one or
the other. He was at the crossroads. The affair was becoming a civil
war. He felt like a rudderless boat between two currents. Eight years
of gem collecting do not leave a man without a deep-rooted passion for
the sport. As for that steel box, that was all nonsense. It was
probably quite a good steel box, and the lock might very well be
something out of the ordinary; but it could not be a harder job than
some of those he had tackled.

The pearls shone in the lamplight. They seemed to be winking at him.




CHAPTER X.


In a cozy corner of the electric flame department of the infernal
regions there stands a little silver gridiron. It is the private
property of his Satanic majesty, and is reserved exclusively for the
man who invented amateur theatricals. It is hard to see why the
amateur actor has been allowed to work his will unchecked for so long.
These performances of his are diametrically opposed to the true sport
of civilization, which insists that the good of the many should be
considered as being of more importance than that of the few.

In the case of amateur theatricals, a large number of inoffensive
people are annoyed simply in order that a mere handful of
acquaintances may amuse themselves. Usually the whole thing can be
laid at the door of the man, the organizer. He is the serpent in the
Eden. Before his arrival, the house party were completely happy, and
asked for nothing else but to be left alone. Then he arrives. At
breakfast on his first morning, he strikes the first blow--casually
helping himself to scrambled eggs the while, with the air of a man
uttering some agreeable commonplace. "I say," he remarks, "why not get
up some theatricals?" Eve, in the person of some young lady who would
be a drawing-room reciter if drawing-room reciters were allowed
nowadays, snatches at the apple. "Oh, yes," she says. "It ought to be
for a charity," suggests somebody else. "Of course for a charity,"
says the serpent. Ten minutes later he has revealed the fact that he
has brought down a little thing of his own which will just do, and is
casting the parts. And after that the man who loves peace and quiet
may as well pack up and leave. He will have no more rest in that
house.

In the present case, the serpent was a volatile young gentleman of the
name of Charteris. This indomitable person had the love of the stage
ineradicably implanted in him. He wrote plays, and lived in hopes of
seeing them staged at the leading theatres. Meanwhile, he was content
to bring them out through the medium of amateur performances.

It says much for the basic excellence of this man's character that he
was popular among his fellows, who, liking the man, overlooked the
amateur stage manager.

The reign of unrest at the abbey was complete by the time Jimmy
arrived there. The preliminary rehearsals had been gone through with
by the company, who, being inexperienced, imagined the worst to be
over.

Having hustled Jimmy into the vacant part, Charteris gave his energy
free play. He conducted rehearsals with a vigor which occasionally
almost welded the rabble which he was coaching into something
approaching coherency. He never rested. He painted scenery, and left
it about--wet--and people sat on it. He nailed up horseshoes for luck,
and they fell on people. He distributed typed parts of the play among
the company, and they lost them. But nothing daunted him.

"Mr. Charteris," said Lady Blunt after one somewhat energetic
rehearsal, "is indefatigable. He whirled me about!"

This was perhaps his greatest triumph, that he had induced Lady Blunt
to take part in the piece. Her first remark, on being asked, had been
to the effect that she despised acting. Golden eloquence on the part
of the author-manager had induced her to modify this opinion; and
finally she had consented, on the understanding that she was not to be
expected to attend every rehearsal, to play a small part.

The only drawback to an otherwise attractive scheme was the fact that
she would not be able to wear her jewels. Secretly, she would have
given much to have done so; but the scene in which she was to appear
was a daylight scene, in which the most expensive necklace would be
out of place. So she had given up the idea with a stoicism that showed
her to be of the stuff of which heroines are made.

These same jewels had ceased, after their first imperious call, to
trouble Jimmy to the extent he had anticipated. It had been a bitter
struggle during the first few days of his stay, but gradually he had
fought the craving down, and now watched them across the dinner table
at night with a calm which filled him with self-righteousness. On the
other hand, he was uncomfortably alive to the fact that this triumph
of his might be merely temporary. There the gems were, winking and
beckoning to him across the table. At any moment----. When his thoughts
arrived at this point, he would turn them--an effort was sometimes
necessary--to Molly. Thinking of her, he forgot the pearls.

But the process of thinking of Molly was not one of unmixed comfort. A
great uneasiness had gripped him. More than ever, as the days went by,
he knew that he loved her, that now the old easy friendship was a
mockery. But on her side he could see no signs that she desired a
change in their relationship. She was still the old Molly of the New
York days, frank, cheerful unembarrassed. But he found that in this
new world of hers the opportunities of getting her to himself for any
space of time were infinitesimal. It was her unfortunate conviction,
bred of her American upbringing, that the duty of the hostess is to
see that her guests enjoy themselves. Lady Jane held the English view
that visitors like to be left to themselves. And Molly, noticing her
stepmother's lack of enterprise and putting it down as merely another
proof of her languid nature, had exerted herself all the more keenly
to do the honors.

The consequence was that Jimmy found himself one of a crowd, and
disliked the sensation.

The thing was becoming intolerable. Here was he, a young man in love,
kept from proposing simply by a series of ridiculous obstacles. It
could not go on. He must get her away somewhere by himself, not for a
few minutes, as he had been doing up to the present, but for a solid
space of time.

It was after a long and particularly irritating rehearsal that the
idea of the lake suggested itself to him. The rehearsals took place in
one of the upper rooms, and through the window, as he leaned gloomily
against the wall, listening to a homily on the drama from Charteris,
he could see the waters of the lake, lit up by the afternoon sun. It
had been a terribly hot, oppressive day and there was thunder in the
air. The rehearsal had bored everybody unspeakably. It would be
heavenly on the lake, thought Jimmy. There was a Canadian canoe moored
to that willow. If he could only get Molly.

"I'm awfully sorry, Jimmy," said Molly, as they walked out into the
garden. "I should love to come. It would be too perfect. But I've half
promised to play tennis."

"Who wants to play?"

"Mr. Wesson."

A correspondent of a London daily paper wrote to his editor not long
ago to complain that there was a wave of profanity passing over the
country. Jimmy added a silent but heartfelt contribution to that wave.

"Give him the slip," he said earnestly. It was the chance of a
lifetime, a unique chance, perhaps his last chance, and it was to be
lost for the sake of an ass like Wesson.

Molly looked doubtful.

"Well, come down to the water, and have a look at it," said Jimmy.
"That'll be better than nothing."

They walked to the water's edge together in silence, Jimmy in a fever
of anxiety. He looked behind him. No signs of Wesson yet. All might
still be well.

"It does look nice, Jimmy, doesn't it?" said Molly, placing a foot on
the side of the boat and rocking it gently.

"Come on," said Jimmy hoarsely. "Give him the slip. Get in."

Molly looked round hesitatingly.

"Well--oh, bother, there he is. And he's seen me."

Jimmy followed her gaze. The dapper figure of Mr. Wesson was moving
down the lawn. He had a tennis racquet in his hand. His face wore an
inviting smile.

Jimmy glared at him hopelessly.

Mr. Wesson had vanished now behind the great clamp of laurels which
stood on the lowest terrace. In another moment he would reappear round
them.

"Bother!" said Molly again. "Jimmy!" For gently, but with extreme
firmness and dispatch, Jimmy, who ought to have known better, had
seized her hand on the other side of the waist, swung her off her
feet, and placed her carefully on the cushions in the bow of the
canoe.

Then he had jumped in himself with a force which made the boat rock,
and was now paddling with the silent energy of a dangerous lunatic
into the middle of the lake; while Mr. Wesson, who had by this time
rounded the laurels, stood transfixed, gazing glassily after the
retreating vessel.

To the casual spectator, he might have seemed stricken dumb.

But at the end of the first ten seconds any fear that the casual
spectator might have entertained as to the permanence of the seizure
would have been relieved.




CHAPTER XI.


"The man who lays a hand upon a woman," said Jimmy, paddling strongly,
"save in the way of kindness--I'm very sorry, Molly, but you didn't
seem able to make up your mind. You aren't angry, are you?"

There was a brief pause, while Molly apparently debated the matter in
her mind.

"You wouldn't take me back even if I were angry," she said.

"You have guessed it," said Jimmy approvingly. "Do you read much
poetry, Molly?"

"Why?"

"I was only thinking how neatly some of these poets put a thing. The
chap who said, 'distance lends enchantment to the view,' for instance.
Take the case of Wesson. He looks quite nice when you see him at a
distance like this, with a good strip of water in between."

Mr. Wesson was still standing in a statuesque attitude on the bank.
Molly, gazing over the side of the boat into the lake, abstained from
feasting her eyes on the picturesque spectacle.

"Jolly the water looks," said Jimmy.

"I was just thinking it looked rather dirty."

"Beastly," agreed Jimmy.

The water as a topic of conversation dried up. Mr. Wesson had started
now to leave the stricken field. There was a reproachful look about
his back which harassed Molly's sensitive conscience. Jimmy, on the
other hand--men being of coarser fibre than women, especially as to
the conscience--appeared in no way distressed at the sight.

"You oughtn't to have done it, Jimmy," said Molly.

"I had to. There seemed to be no other way of ever getting you by
yourself for five minutes at a stretch. You're always in the middle of
a crowd nowadays."

"But I must look after my guests."

"Not a bit of it. Let 'em rip. Why should they monopolize you?"

"It will be awfully unpleasant meeting Mr. Wesson after this."

"It is always unpleasant meeting Wesson."

"I shan't know what to say."

"Don't say anything."

"I shan't be able to look him in the face."

"That's a bit of luck for you."

"You aren't much help, Jimmy."

"The subject of Wesson doesn't inspire me somehow--I don't know why.
Besides, you've simply got to say you changed your mind. You're a
woman. It's expected of you."

"I feel awfully mean."

"What you want to do is to take your thoughts off the business. Keep
your mind occupied with something else. Then you'll forget all about
it. Keep talking to me about things. That's the plan. There are heaps
of subjects. The weather, for instance, as a start. Hot, isn't it?"

"We're going to have a storm. There's a sort of feel in the air. We'd
better go back, I think."

"Tush! And possibly bah!" said Jimmy, digging the paddle into the
water. "We've only just started. I say, who was that man I saw you
talking to after lunch?"

"How soon after lunch?"

"Just before the rehearsal. He was with your father. Short chap with a
square face. Dressed in gray. I hadn't seen him before."

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