“Hey!” said Hamilton Beamish.
“But, May, you know you don’t love me. …”
“Hey!” said Hamilton Beamish again in a nasty, snarling voice. And silence fell.
The caveman adjusted his spectacles, and glared at his erstwhile friend with venomous dislike. His fingers twitched, as if searching for a club.
“Listen to me, you,” said Hamilton Beamish, “and get me right! See? That’ll be about all from you about this girl loving you, unless you want me to step across and bust you on the beezer. I love her, see? And she’s going to marry me, see? And nobody else, see? And anyone who says different had better notify his friends where he wants his body sent, see? Love you, indeed? A swell chance! I’m the little guy she’s going to marry, see? Me!”
And, folding his arms, the thinker paused for a reply.
It did not come immediately. George Finch, unused to primitive emotions from this particular quarter, remained completely dumb. It was left for Madame Eulalie to supply comment.
“Jimmy!” she said faintly.
Hamilton Beamish caught her masterfully about the waist. He kissed her eleven times.
“So that’s that!” said Hamilton Beamish.
“Yes, Jimmy.”
“We’ll get married tomorrow.”
“Yes, Jimmy.”
“You are my mate!”
“Yes, Jimmy.”
“All right, then,” said Hamilton Beamish.
George came to life like a clockwork toy.
“Hamilton, I congratulate you!”
“Thanks, thanks.”
Mr. Beamish spoke a little dazedly. He blinked. Already the ferment had begun to subside, and Beamish the caveman was fast giving place to Beamish of the Booklets. He was dimly conscious of having expressed himself a little too warmly and in language which in a calmer moment he would never have selected. Then he caught the girl’s eyes, fixed on him adoringly, and he had no regrets.
“Thanks,” he said again.
“May is a splendid girl,” said George. “You will be very happy. I speak as one who knows her. How sympathetic you always were in the old days, May.”
“Was I?”
“You certainly were. Don’t you remember how I used to bring my troubles to you, and we would sit together on the sofa in front of your parlour fire?”
“We were always afraid someone was listening at the door.”
“If they had been, the only thing they’d have found out would have been the lamp.”
“Hey!” said Hamilton Beamish abruptly.
“Those were happy days,” said Madame Eulalie.
“And do you remember how your little brother used to call me April Showers?”
“He did, did he?” said Mr. Beamish, snorting a little. “Why?”
“Because I brought May flowers.”
“That’s quite enough,” said Hamilton Beamish, not without reason. “I should like to remind you, Finch, that this lady is engaged to me.”
“Oh, quite,” said George.
“Endeavour not to forget it,” said Hamilton Beamish curtly. “And, later on, should you ever come to share a meal at our little home, be sparing of your reminiscences of the dear old days. You get—you take my meaning?”
“Oh, quite.”
“Then we will be getting along. May has to return to New York immediately, and I am going with her. You must look elsewhere for a best man at your wedding. You are very lucky to be having a wedding at all. Goodbye, George. Come, darling.”
The two-seater was moving down the drive, when Hamilton Beamish clapped a hand to his forehead.
“I had quite forgotten,” he exclaimed.
“What have you forgotten, Jimmy dear?”
“Just something I wanted to say to George, sweetheart. Wait here for me.”
“George,” said Hamilton Beamish, returning to the hall. “I have just remembered something. Ring for Ferris and tell him to stay in the room with the wedding-presents and not leave it for a moment. They aren’t safe, lying loose like that. You should have had a detective.”
“We intended to, but Mr. Waddington insisted on it so strongly that Mrs. Waddington said the idea was absurd. I’ll go and tell Ferris immediately.”
“Do so,” said Hamilton Beamish.
He passed out on to the lawn: and reaching the rhododendron bushes, whistled softly.
“Now what?” said Fanny, pushing out an inquiring head.
“Oh, there you are.”
“Yes, here I am. When does the show start?”
“It doesn’t,” said Hamilton Beamish. “Events have occurred which render our little ruse unnecessary. So you can return to your home and husband as soon as you please.”
“Oh?” said Fanny.
She plucked a rhododendron leaf and crushed it reflectively.
“I don’t know as I’m in any hurry,” she said. “I kind of like it out here. The air and the sun and the birds and everything. I guess I’ll stick around for awhile.”
Hamilton Beamish regarded her with a quiet smile.
“Certainly, if you wish it,” he said. “I should mention, however, that if you were contemplating another attempt at those jewels, you would do well to abandon the idea. From now on a large butler will be stationed in the room, watching over it, and there might be unpleasantness.”
“Oh?” said Fanny meditatively.
“Yes.”
“You think of everything, don’t you?”
“I thank you for the compliment,” said Hamilton Beamish.
XI
George did not delay. Always sound, Hamilton Beamish’s advice appeared to him now even sounder than usual. He rang the bell for Ferris.
“Oh, Ferris,” said George, “Mr. Beamish thinks you had better stay in the room with the wedding-presents and keep an eye on them.”
“Very good, sir.”
“In case somebody
