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And when, going to his room to get ready for dinner, he had nearly run into Spike Mullins in the corridor, 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 brink of a black precipice. Jimmy and Spike had burgled his house together in New York. And here they were, together again, at Dreever Castle.
Everyone had heard of the secret of Dreever, which was known only to the earl and the family lawyer, and confided to the heir at midnight on his twenty-first birthday. Jimmy had come across the story in corners of the papers all over the States, from New York to Onehorseville, Iowa. He looked with interest at the light-haired young man, the latest depository of the awful secret.
He was opening his mouth to speak, when the curtain at the end of the room heaved, and Lord Dreever burst out like a cannon-ball in tweeds. The apparition effectually checked any speech that Sir Thomas might have been intending to make. Lying back in his chair, he goggled silently at the new arrival. Even Jimmy, though knowing that his lordship had been in hiding, was taken aback.
Saunders bowed with dignified resignation. Sir Thomas led the way into his study. "Be so good as to close the door," he said. His lordship was so good. Sir Thomas backed to the mantelpiece, and stood there in the attitude which for generations has been sacred to the elderly Briton, feet well apart, hands clasped beneath his coat-tails. His stare raked Lord Dreever like a searchlight.
Lord Dreever lighted a cigar, and fixed his gaze once more on the river. "Ripping it looks," he said. Jimmy nodded. "Funny thing," said Lord Dreever. "In the daytime, the water here looks all muddy and beastly. Damn' depressing, I call it. But at night " He paused. "I say," he went on after a moment, "Did you see the girl I was with at the Savoy?" "Yes," said Jimmy.
Outside, Lord Dreever placed the palm of his right hand on his forehead. "I say, Pitt," he said. "Hullo?" "Who the devil's that?" "Who? Spike? Oh, that's my man." "Your man! Is he always like that? I mean, going on like a frightful music-hall comedian? Dancing, you know! And, I say, what on earth language was that he was talking? I couldn't understand one word in ten."
A board with the legend, "Dreever," in large letters showed that they had reached their destination. The station-master informed Lord Dreever that her ladyship had come to meet the train in the motorcar, and was now waiting in the road outside. Lord Dreever's jaw fell. "Oh, lord!" he said. "She's probably motored in to get the afternoon letters.
I had been to see the opening performance of a burglar-play called, 'Love, the Cracksman, that night, and I worked off on Spike some severely technical information I had received from a pal of mine who played lead in the show. I told you when I came in that I had been talking to Lord Dreever.
"Molly, my dear," said McEachern huskily, "I to speak to you for a moment." Jimmy took his lordship by the arm. "Come along, Dreever," he said. "You can come and sit out with me. We'll go and smoke on the terrace." They left the room together. "What does the old boy want?" inquired his lordship. "Are you and Miss McEachern ?" "We are," said Jimmy. "By Jove, I say, old chap!
Jimmy had seen him hanging about the terrace at half-past five, and had thought that he looked like a mute at a funeral. But now, only a few hours later, he was beaming on the world, and chirping like a bird. The game moved jerkily along. Jimmy took a seat, and watched. The score mounted slowly. Lord Dreever was bad, but Hargate was worse.
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