Mainly as a result of the producer’s energy Jimmy found himself one of a crowd, and disliked the sensation. He had not experienced much difficulty in mastering the scenes in which he appeared; but unfortunately those who appeared with him had. It occurred to Jimmy daily, after he had finished “running through the lines” with a series of agitated amateurs, male and female, that for all practical purposes he might just as well have gone to Japan. In this confused welter of rehearsers his opportunities of talking with Molly were infinitesimal. And worse, she did not appear to mind. She was cheerful, and apparently quite content to be engulfed in a crowd. Probably, he thought with some melancholy, if she met his eye, and noted in it a distracted gleam, she put it down to the same cause which made other eyes in the company gleam distractedly during that week.
Jimmy began to take a thoroughly jaundiced view of amateur theatricals, and of these amateur theatricals in particular. He felt that in the electric flame department of the infernal regions there should be a special gridiron, reserved exclusively for the man who invented these performances, so diametrically opposed to the true spirit of civilisation. At the close of each day he cursed Charteris with unfailing regularity.
There was another thing that disturbed him. That he should be unable to talk with Molly was an evil, but a negative evil. It was supplemented by one that was positive. Even in the midst of the chaos of rehearsals he could not help noticing that Molly and Lord Dreever were very much together. Also—and this was even more sinister—he observed that both Sir Thomas Blunt and Mr. McEachern were making determined efforts to foster this state of affairs.
Of this he had sufficient proof one evening when, after scheming and plotting in a way that had made the great efforts of Machiavelli and Richelieu seem like the work of raw novices, he had cut Molly out from the throng and carried her off for the alleged purpose of helping him feed the chickens. There were, as he had suspected, chickens attached to the castle. They lived in a little world of noise and smells at the back of the stables. Bearing an iron pot full of a poisonous-looking mash, and accompanied by Molly, he had felt, for perhaps a minute and a half, like a successful general. It is difficult to be romantic when you are laden with chickenfeed in an unwieldy iron pot, but he had resolved that that portion of the proceedings should be brief—the birds should dine that evening on the quick-lunch principle—then to the more fitting surroundings of the rose garden. There was plenty of time before the hour of the sounding of the dressing gong. Perhaps even a row on the lake—
“What-ho!” said a voice.
Behind them, with a propitiatory smile on his face, stood his lordship of Dreever.
“My uncle told me I should find you out here. What have you got there, Pitt? Is this what you feed them on? I say, you know, queer coves, hens! I wouldn’t touch the stuff for a fortune. What? Looks to me poisonous.”
He met Jimmy’s eye and stopped. There was that in Jimmy’s eye that would have stopped an avalanche. His lordship twiddled his fingers in pink embarrassment.
“Oh, look!” said Molly. “There’s a poor little chicken out there in the cold. It hasn’t had a morsel. Give me the spoon, Mr. Pitt. Here, chick, chick! Don’t be silly, I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve brought you your dinner.”
She moved off in pursuit of the solitary fowl, which had edged nervously away. Lord Dreever bent towards Jimmy.
“Frightfully sorry, Pitt, old man,” he whispered feverishly. “Didn’t want to come. Couldn’t help it. He sent me out.” He half looked over his shoulder. “And,” he added rapidly, as Molly came back, “the old boy’s at his bedroom window now, watching us through his opera glasses!”
The return journey to the house was performed in silence—on Jimmy’s part in thoughtful silence. He thought hard, and had been thinking ever since.
He had material for thought. That Lord Dreever was as clay in his uncle’s hands he was aware. He had not known his lordship long, but he had known him long enough to realise that a backbone had been carelessly omitted from his composition. What his uncle directed that would he do. The situation looked bad to Jimmy. The order, he knew, had gone out that Lord Dreever was to marry money, and Molly was an heiress. He did not know how much Mr. McEachern had amassed in his dealings with New York crime, but it could not but be something considerable. Things looked black.
Then he had a reaction. He was taking too much for granted. Lord Dreever might be hounded into proposing to Molly, but what earthly reason was there for supposing that Molly would accept him? He declined even for an instant to look upon Spennie’s title in the light of a lure. Molly was not the girl to marry for a title. He endeavoured to examine impartially his lordship’s other claims. He was a pleasant fellow, with—to judge on short acquaintanceship—an undeniably amiable disposition. That much must be conceded. But against this must be placed the equally undeniable fact that he was also, as he would have put it himself, a most frightful ass. He was weak. He had no character. Altogether, the examination made Jimmy more cheerful. He could not see the light-haired one, even with Sir Thomas Blunt shoving behind, as it were, accomplishing the knight’s ends. Shove he never so wisely, Sir Thomas could never make a Romeo out of Spennie Dreever.
It was while sitting in the billiard room one night after dinner, watching his rival play a hundred up with the silent Hargate, that Jimmy came definitely to this conclusion. He had stopped to watch more because he wished to study his man at close range than because the
