and her good little heart had been troubled by the thought that she
must have been responsible for it. She knew that, for some reason,
what she had said about the letter had brought his lordship into his
uncle’s bad books, and she wanted to find him and say she was sorry.
Accordingly, she had followed him. His lordship, still in the war-
horse vein, had made the pace upstairs too hot, and had disappeared
while she was still halfway up. She had arrived at the top just in
time to see him turn down the passage into Sir Thomas’s dressing-
room. She could not think what his object might be. She knew that
Sir Thomas was downstairs, so it could not be from the idea of a
chat with him that Spennie was seeking the dressing-room.
Faint, yet pursuing, she followed on his trail, and arrived in the
doorway just as the pistol-report of the burst lock rang out.
She stood looking at him blankly. He was holding a drawer in one
hand. Why, she could not imagine.
“Lord Dreever!” she exclaimed.
The somber determination of his lordship’s face melted into a
twisted, but kindly smile.
“Good!” he said, perhaps a trifle thickly. “Good! Glad you’ve come.
We’re pals. You said so–on stairs–b’fore dinner. Very glad you’ve
come. Won’t you sit down?”
He waved the drawer benevolently, by way of making her free of the
room. The movement disturbed one of the bank-notes, which fluttered
in Molly’s direction, and fell at her feet.
She stooped and picked it up. When she saw what it was, her
bewilderment increased.
“But–but–” she said.
His lordship beamed–upon her with a pebble-beached smile of
indiscribable good-will.
“Sit down,” he urged. “We’re pals.–No quol with you. You’re good
friend. Quol–Uncle Thomas.”
“But, Lord Dreever, what are you doing? What was that noise I
heard?”
“Opening drawer,” said his lordship, affably.
“But–” she looked again at what she had in her hand–“but this is a
five-pound note.”
“Five-pound note,” said his lordship. “Quite right. Three more of
them in here.”
Still, she could not understand.
“But–were you–stealing them?”
His lordship drew himself up.
“No,” he said, “no, not stealing, no!”
“Then–?”
“Like this. Before dinner. Old boy friendly as you please–couldn’t
do enough for me. Touched him for twenty of the best, and got away
with it. So far, all well. Then, met you on stairs. You let cat out
of bag.”
“But why–? Surely–!”
His lordship gave the drawer a dignified wave.
“Not blaming you,” he said, magnanimously. “Not your fault;
misfortune. You didn’t know. About letter.”
“About the letter?” said Molly. “Yes, what was the trouble about the
letter? I knew something was wrong directly I had said that I wrote
it.”
“Trouble was,” said his lordship, “that old boy thought it was love-
letter. Didn’t undeceive him.”
“You didn’t tell him? Why?”
His lordship raised his eyebrows.
“Wanted touch him twenty of the best,” he explained, simply.
For the life of her, Molly could not help laughing.
“Don’t laugh,” protested his lordship, wounded. “No joke. Serious.
Honor at stake.”
He removed the three notes, and replaced the drawer.
“Honor of the Dreevers!” he added, pocketing the money.
Molly was horrified.
“But, Lord Dreever!” she cried. “You can’t! You musn’t! You can’t be
going, really, to take that money! It’s stealing! It isn’t yours!
You must put it back.”
His lordship wagged a forefinger very solemnly at her.
“That,” he said, “is where you make error! Mine! Old boy gave them
to me.”
“Gave them to you? Then, why did you break open the drawer?”
“Old boy took them back again–when he found out about letter.”
“Then, they don’t belong to you.”
“Yes. Error! They do. Moral right.”
Molly wrinkled her forehead in her agitation. Men of Lord Dreever’s
type appeal to the motherly instinct of women. As a man, his
lordship was a negligible quantity. He did not count. But as a
willful child, to be kept out of trouble, he had a claim on Molly.
She spoke soothingly.
“But, Lord Dreever,–” she began. “Call me Spennie,” he urged.
“We’re pals. You said so–on stairs. Everybody calls me Spennie–
even Uncle Thomas. I’m going to pull his nose,” he broke off