attention exclusively upon your own. Let us be frank with one
another. You’re in the cart. What do you propose to do about it?”
Sir Thomas rallied again, with the desperation of one fighting a
lost cause.
“I do not understand you–” he began.
“No?” said Jimmy. “I’ll try and make my meaning clear. Correct me
from time to time, if I am wrong. The way I size the thing up is as
follows: When you married Lady Julia, I gather that it was, so to
speak, up to you to some extent. People knew you were a millionaire,
and they expected something special in the way of gifts from the
bridegroom to the bride. Now, you, being of a prudent and economical
nature, began to wonder if there wasn’t some way of getting a
reputation for lavishness without actually unbelting to any great
extent. Am I right?”
Sir Thomas did not answer.
“I am,” said Jimmy. “Well, it occurred to you, naturally enough,
that a properly-selected gift of jewelry might work the trick. It
only needed a little nerve. When you give a present of diamonds to a
lady, she is not likely to call for polarized light and refracting
liquids and the rest of the circus. In ninety-nine cases out of a
hundred, she will take the things on trust. Very well. You trotted
off to a jeweler, and put the thing to him confidentially. I guess
you suggested paste. But, being a wily person, he pointed out that
paste has a habit of not wearing well. It is pretty enough when it’s
new, but quite a small amount of ordinary wear and tear destroys the
polish of the surface and the sharpness of the cutting. It gets
scratched easily. Having heard this, and reflecting that Lady Julia
was not likely to keep the necklace under a glass case, you rejected
paste as too risky. The genial jeweler then suggested white jargoon,
mentioning, as I have done, that, after an application or so of the
blow-pipe, it’s own mother wouldn’t know it. If he was a bit of an
antiquary, he probably added that, in the eighteenth century,
jargoon stones were supposed to be actually an inferior sort of
diamond. What could be more suitable? ‘Make it jargoon, dear heart,’
you cried joyfully, and all was well. Am I right? I notice that you
have not corrected me so far.”
Whether or not Sir Thomas would have replied in the affirmative is
uncertain. He was opening his mouth to speak, when the curtain at
the end of the room heaved, and Lord Dreever burst out like a
cannon-ball in tweeds.
The apparition effectually checked any speech that Sir Thomas might
have been intending to make. Lying back in his chair, he goggled
silently at the new arrival. Even Jimmy, though knowing that his
lordship had been in hiding, was taken aback. His attention had
become so concentrated on his duel with the knight that he had
almost forgotten they had an audience.
His lordship broke the silence.
“Great Scott!” he cried.
Neither Jimmy nor Sir Thomas seemed to consider the observation
unsound or inadequate. They permitted it to pass without comment.
“You old scoundrel!” added his lordship, addressing Sir Thomas. “And
you’re the man who called me a welsher!” There were signs of a
flicker of spirit in the knight’s prominent eyes, but they died
away. He made no reply.
“Great Scott!” moaned his lordship, in a fervor of self-pity. “Here
have I been all these years letting you give me Hades in every shape
and form, when all the while–My goodness, if I’d only known
earlier!”
He turned to Jimmy.
“Pitt, old man,” he said warmly, “I–dash it! I don’t know what to
say. If it hadn’t been for you–I always did like Americans. I
always thought it bally rot that that fuss happened in–in–whenever
it was. If it hadn’t been for fellows like you,” he continued,
addressing Sir Thomas once more, “there wouldn’t have been any of
that frightful Declaration of Independence business. Would there,
Pitt, old man?”
These were deep problems, too spacious for casual examination. Jimmy
shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, I guess Sir Thomas might not have got along with George