chance has come. Molly, dear, don't throw it away.'
She had leaned back with closed eyes. A wave of exhaustion had swept
over her. She listened in a dull dream. She felt beaten. They were
too strong for her. There were too many of them. What did it matter?
Why not give in, and end it all and win peace? That was all she
wanted--peace now. What did it all matter?
'Very well, father,' she said, listlessly.
McEachern stopped short.
'You'll do it, dear?' he cried. 'You will?'
'Very well, father.'
He stooped and kissed her.
'My own dear little girl,' he said.
She got up.
'I'm rather tired, father,' she said. 'I think I'll go in.'
Two minutes later, Mr. McEachern was in Sir Thomas Blunt's study.
Five minutes later, Sir Thomas pressed the bell.
Saunders appeared.
'Tell his lordship,' said Sir Thomas, 'that I wish to see him a
moment. He is in the billiard-room, I think.'
CHAPTER XVII
JIMMY REMEMBERS SOMETHING
The game between Hargate and Lord Dreever was still in progress when
Jimmy returned to the billiard-room. A glance at the board showed
that the score was seventy--sixty-nine, in favor of spot.
'Good game,' said Jimmy. 'Who's spot?'
'I am,' said his lordship, missing an easy cannon. For some reason,
he appeared in high spirits. 'Hargate's been going great guns. I was
eleven ahead a moment ago, but he made a break of twelve.'
Lord Dreever belonged to the class of billiard-players to whom a
double-figure break is a thing to be noted and greeted with respect.
'Fluky,' muttered the silent Hargate, deprecatingly. This was a long
speech for him. Since their meeting at Paddington station, Jimmy had
seldom heard him utter anything beyond a monosyllable.
'Not a bit of it, dear old son,' said Lord Dreever, handsomely.
'You're coming on like a two-year-old. I sha'n't be able to give you
twenty in a hundred much longer.'
He went to a side-table, and mixed himself a whiskey-and-soda,
singing a brief extract from musical comedy as he did so. There
could be no shadow of doubt that he was finding life good. For the
past few days, and particularly that afternoon, he had been rather
noticeably ill at ease. 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.
At length, in the eighties, his lordship struck a brilliant vein.
When he had finished his break, his score was ninety-five. Hargate,
who had profited by a series of misses on his opponent's part, had
reached ninety-six.
