Spike was looking at him over his glass with silent admiration. This flat, which Jimmy had rented for a year, in the hope that the possession of a fixed abode might help to tie him down to one spot, was handsomely, even luxuriously, furnished. To Spike every chair and table in the room had a romance of its own as having been purchased out of the proceeds of that New Asiatic Bank robbery, or from the revenue accruing from the Duchess of Havent’s jewels. He was dumb with reverence for one who could make burglary pay to this extent. In his own case the profession had rarely provided anything more than bread and butter and an occasional trip to Coney Island.
Jimmy caught his eye, and spoke.
“Well, Spike,” he said. “Curious that we should meet like this?”
“De limit,” agreed Spike.
“I can’t imagine you three thousand miles from New York. How do you know the cars still run both ways on Broadway?”
A wistful look came into Spike’s eyes.
“I t’ought it was time I give old Lunnon a call. T’ings was getting too fierce in Noo York. De cops was layin’ for me. Dey didn’t seem like as if they had any use for me. So I beat it.”
“Bad luck,” said Jimmy.
“Fierce,” agreed Spike.
“Do you know, Spike,” said Jimmy, “I spent a great deal of time before I left New York looking for you.”
“Gee, I wish you’d found me. And did youse want me to help on some lay, boss?”
“Well, no, not that. Do you remember that night we broke into that house uptown—the police captain’s house?”
“Sure.”
“What was his name?”
“What, de cop’s? Why, McEachern, boss.”
“Mac what? How do you spell it?”
“Search me,” said Spike, simply.
“Say it again. Fill your lungs and enunciate slowly and clearly. Be bell-like. Now.”
“McEachern.”
“Ah! And where was the house? Can you remember that?”
Spike’s forehead wrinkled.
“It’s gone,” he said at last. “It was somewheres up some street up de town.”
“That’s a lot of help,” said Jimmy. “Try again.”
“It’ll come back some time, boss, sure.”
“Then I’m going to keep an eye on you till it does. Just for the moment you’re the most important man in the world to me. Where are you living?”
“Me? Why, in de Park. Dat’s right. One of dem swell detached benches wit a southern exposure.”
“Well, unless you prefer it, you needn’t sleep in the Park any more. You can pitch your moving tent with me.”
“What, here, boss?”
“Unless we move.”
“Me fer dis,” said Spike, rolling luxuriously in his chair.
“You’ll want some clothes,” said Jimmy. “We’ll get those tomorrow. You’re the sort of figure they can fit off the peg. You’re not too tall, which is a good thing.”
“Bad t’ing for me, boss. If I’d bin taller I’d have stood for being a cop, and bin buying a brownstone house on Fifth Avenue by this. It’s de cops makes de big money in little old Manhattan, dat’s who it is.”
“The man who knows!” said Jimmy. “Tell me more, Spike. I suppose a good many of the New York force do get rich by graft?”
“Sure. Look at old man McEachern.”
“I wish I could. Tell me about him, Spike. You seemed to know him pretty well.”
“Me? Sure. Dere wasn’t a worse grafter dan him in de bunch. He was out for the dough all the time. But, say, did youse ever see his girl?”
“What’s that?” said Jimmy sharply.
“I seen her once.” Spike became almost lyrical in his enthusiasm. “Gee, she was a bird. A peach for fair. I’d have left me happy home for her. Molly was her monaker. She—”
Jimmy was glaring at him.
“Drop it!” he cried.
“What’s dat, boss?” said Spike.
“Cut it out!” said Jimmy savagely.
Spike looked at him amazed.
“Sure,” he said, puzzled, but realising that his words had not pleased the great man.
Jimmy chewed the stem of his pipe irritably, while Spike, full of excellent intentions, sat on the edge of his chair drawing sorrowfully at his cigar and wondering what he had done to give offence.
“Boss?” said Spike.
“Halloa!”
“Boss, what’s doin’ here? Put me next to de game. Is it de old lay? Banks and jools from duchesses! You’ll be able to let me sit in on de game, won’t you?”
“I’d quite forgotten I hadn’t told you about myself, Spike. I’ve retired.”
The horrid truth sank slowly into the other’s mind.
“Say! What’s dat, boss? You’re cuttin’ it out?”
“That’s it. Absolutely.”
“Ain’t youse swiping no more jools?”
“Not me.”
“Nor usin’ de what’s-its-name blowpipe?”
“I have sold my oxyacetylene blowpipe, given away my anaesthetics, and am going to turn over a new leaf and settle down as a respectable citizen.”
Spike gasped. His world had fallen about his ears. His excursion with Jimmy, the master cracksman, in New York had been the highest and proudest memory of his life, and now that he had met him again in London, he had looked forward to a long and prosperous partnership in crime. He was content that his own share in the partnership should be humble. It was enough for him to be connected, however humbly, with such a master. He had looked upon the richness of London, and he had said with Blucher, “What a city to loot!”
And here was his idol shattering his visions with a word.
“Have another drink, Spike,” said the Lost Leader sympathetically. “It’s a shock to you, I expect.”
“I t’ought, boss—”
“I know, I know. These are life’s tragedies. I’m very sorry for you; but it can’t be helped.”
Spike sat silent, with a long face. Jimmy slapped him on the shoulder.
“Cheer up,” he said. “How do you know that living honestly may not be splendid fun? Numbers of people do it, you know, and enjoy themselves tremendously. You must give it a trial, Spike.”
“Me, boss? What, me too?”
“Rather. You’re my link with—I don’t want to have
