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’s 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 apologize 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 specialty. 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 indeed be a rescue at the eleventh hour. It
was with a Nunc-Dimittis air that he felt for his cigar-case, and
extended it toward the detective. A cigar from his own private case
was with him a mark of supreme favor 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 these 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.
The voice brought McEachern back to his senses. In the first shock