He rose from his chair and dropped his cigarette into the ashtray.
“So long,” he said, with a friendly nod. “Wish I could stop, but it’s no go. That’s the last letup I shall have tonight.”
He went out, leaving Mr. McEachern seated in his chair, a prey to many and varied emotions.
XXIX
The Last Round
He had only been gone a few minutes when Mr. McEachern’s meditations were again interrupted. This time the visitor was a stranger to him—a dark-faced, clean-shaven man. He did not wear evening clothes, so could not be one of the guests; and Mr. McEachern could not place him immediately. Then he remembered. He had seen him in Sir Thomas Blunt’s dressing room. This was Sir Thomas’s valet.
“Might I have a word with you, sir?”
“What is it?” asked McEachern, staring heavily. His mind had not recovered from the effect of Lord Dreever’s philosophical remarks. There was something of a cloud on his brain. To judge from his lordship’s words, things had been happening behind his back; and the idea of Molly deceiving him was too strange to be assimilated in an instant. He looked at the valet dully.
“What is it?” he asked again.
“I must apologise for intruding, but I thought it best to approach you before making my report to Sir Thomas.”
“Your report?”
“I am employed by a private inquiry agency.”
“What?”
“Yes, sir—Wragge’s. You may have heard of us, in Holborn Bars; very old established, divorce a speciality. You will have seen the advertisements. Sir Thomas wrote asking for a man, and the governor sent me down. I have been with the house some years. My job, I gathered, was to keep my eyes open generally. Sir Thomas, it seemed, had no suspicions of any definite person. I was to be on the spot just in case, in a manner of speaking. And it’s precious lucky I was, or her ladyship’s jewels would have been gone. I’ve done a fair cop this very night.”
He paused, and eyed the ex-policeman keenly. McEachern was obviously excited. Could Jimmy have made an attempt on the jewels during the dance? Or Spike?
“Say,” he said, “was it a red headed—?”
The detective was watching him with a curious smile.
“No, he wasn’t red headed. You seem interested, sir. I thought you would be. I will tell you all about it. I had had my suspicions of this party ever since he arrived. And I may say that it struck me at the time that there was something mighty fishy about the way he got into the castle.”
McEachern started. So he had not been the only one to suspect Jimmy’s motives in attaching himself to Lord Dreever.
“Go on,” he said.
“I suspected that there was some game on, and it struck me that this would be the day for the attempt, the house being upside down, in a manner of speaking, on account of the theatricals. And I was right. I kept near those jewels on and off all day, and presently, just as I had thought, along comes this fellow. He’d hardly got to the door when I was on him.”
“Good boy! You’re no rube.”
“We fought for a while, but, being a bit to the good in strength, and knowing something about the game, I had the irons on him pretty quick, and took him off and locked him in the cellar. That’s how it was, sir.”
Mr. McEachern’s relief was overwhelming. If Lord Dreever’s statement was correct, and Jimmy had really succeeded in winning Molly’s affection, this would be indeed a rescue at the eleventh hour. It was with a Nunc Dimittis air he felt for his cigar case and extended it towards the detective. A cigar from his own private case was with him a mark of the supremest favour and good will—a sort of accolade which he bestowed only upon the really meritorious few.
Usually it was received with becoming deference, but on this occasion there was a somewhat startling deviation from routine, for, just as he was opening the case, something cold and hard pressed against each of his wrists; there was a snap and a click, and looking up, dazed, he saw that the detective had sprung back, and was contemplating him with a grim smile over the barrel of an ugly-looking little revolver.
Guilty or innocent, the first thing a man does, when he finds handcuffs on his wrists, is to try to get them off. The action is automatic. Mr. McEachern strained at the steel chain till the veins stood out on his forehead. His great body shook with rage.
The detective eyed his efforts with some satisfaction. The picture presented by the other, as he heaved and tugged, was that of a guilty man trapped.
“It’s no good, my friend,” he said.
His voice brought McEachern back to his senses. In the first shock of the thing the primitive man in him had led him beyond the confines of self-restraint. He had simply struggled unthinkingly. Now he came to himself again.
He shook his manacled hands furiously.
“What does this mean?” he shouted. “What the—”
“Less noise,” said the detective sharply. “Get back!” he snapped, as the other took a step forward.
“Do you know who I am?” thundered McEachern.
“No,” said the detective. “And that’s just why you’re wearing those bracelets. Come, now, don’t be a fool, the game’s up; can’t you see that?”
McEachern leaned helplessly against the billiard table. He felt weak. Everything was unreal. Had he gone mad? he wondered.
“That’s right,” said the detective—“stay there. You can’t do any harm there. It was a pretty little game, I’ll admit. You worked it well—meeting your old friend from New York and all, and having him invited to the castle. Very pretty. New York, indeed! Seen about as much of New York as I have of Timbuktu. I saw through him.”
Some inkling of the truth began to penetrate McEachern’s consciousness. He had become so obsessed with the idea that, as the captive was not Spike, it must be Jimmy, that the possibility of Mr. Galer being
