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 Timbuctoo. I saw through him.”
Some inkling of the truth began to penetrate McEachern’s
consciousness. He had become obsessed with the idea that, as the
captive was not Spike, it must be Jimmy. The possibility of Mr.
Galer’s being the subject of discussion only dawned upon him now.
“What do you mean?” he cried. “Who is it that you have arrested?”
“Blest if I know. You can tell me that, I should think, seeing he’s
an old Timbuctoo friend of yours. Galer’s the name he goes by here.”
“Galer!”
“That’s the man. And do you know what he had the impudence, the
gall, to tell me? That he was in my own line of business. A
detective! He said you had sent for him to come here!”
The detective laughed amusedly at the recollection.
“And so he is, you fool. So I did.”
“Oh, you did, did you? And what business had you bringing detectives
into other people’s houses?”
Mr. McEachern started to answer, but checked himself. Never before
had he appreciated to the full the depth and truth of the proverb
relating to the frying-pan and the fire. To clear himself, he must
mention his suspicions of Jimmy, and also his reasons for those
suspicions. And to do that would mean revealing his past. It was
Scylla and Charybdis.
A drop of perspiration trickled down his temple.
“What’s the good?” said the detective. “Mighty ingenious idea, that,
only you hadn’t allowed for there being a real detective in the
house. It was that chap pitching me that yarn that made me
suspicious of you. I put two and two together. ‘Partners,’ I said to
myself. I’d heard all about you, scraping acquaintance with Sir
Thomas and all. Mighty ingenious. You become the old family friend,
and then you let in your pal. He gets the stuff, and hands it over
to you. Nobody dreams of suspecting you, and there you are.
Honestly, now, wasn’t that the game?”
“It’s all a mistake–” McEachern was beginning, when the door-handle
turned.
The detective looked over his shoulder. McEachern glared dumbly.
This was the crowning blow, that there should be spectators of his
predicament.
Jimmy strolled into the room.
“Dreever told me you were in here,” he said to McEachern. “Can you
spare me a–Hullo!”
The detective had pocketed his revolver at the first sound of the
handle. To be discreet was one of the chief articles in the creed of
the young men from Wragge’s Detective Agency. But handcuffs are not
easily concealed. Jimmy stood staring in amazement at McEachern’s
wrists.
“Some sort of a round game?” he enquired with interest.
The detective became confidential.
“It’s this way, Mr. Pitt. There’s been some pretty deep work going
on here. There’s a regular gang of burglars in the place. This chap
here’s one of them.”
“What, Mr. McEachern!”
“That’s what he calls himself.”
It was all Jimmy could do to keep himself from asking Mr. McEachern
whether he attributed his downfall to drink. He contented himself
with a sorrowful shake of the head at the fermenting captive. Then,
he took up the part of the prisoner’s attorney.
“I don’t believe it,” he said. “What makes you. think so?”