being in the mood when he would have loaned anything to anybody,
yielded the required five pounds without a murmur.
But what was five pounds? The garment of gloom and the intellectual
pallor were once more prominent when his lordship repaired to his
room to don the loud tweeds which, as Lord Herbert, he was to wear
in the first act.
There is a good deal to be said against stealing, as a habit; but it
cannot be denied that, in certain circumstances, it offers an
admirable solution of a financial difficulty, and, if the penalties
were not so exceedingly unpleasant, it is probable that it would
become far more fashionable than it is.
His lordship's mind did not turn immediately to this outlet from his
embarrassment. He had never stolen before, and it did not occur to
him directly to do so now. There is a conservative strain in all of
us. But, gradually, as it was borne in upon him that it was the only
course possible, unless he were to grovel before Hargate on the
morrow and ask for time to pay--an unthinkable alternative--he found
himself contemplating the possibility of having to secure the money
by unlawful means. By the time he had finished his theatrical
toilet, he had definitely decided that this was the only thing to be
done.
His plan was simple. He knew where the money was, in the dressing-
table in Sir Thomas's room. He had heard Saunders instructed to put
it there. What could be easier than to go and get it? Everything was
in his favor. Sir Thomas would be downstairs, receiving his guests.
The coast would be clear. Why, it was like finding the money.
Besides, he reflected, as he worked his way through the bottle of
Mumm's which he had had the forethought to abstract from the supper-
table as a nerve-steadier, it wasn't really stealing. Dash it all,
the man had given him the money! It was his own! He had half a mind-
-he poured himself out another glass of the elixir--to give Sir
Thomas a jolly good talking-to into the bargain. Yes, dash it all!
He shot his cuffs fiercely. The British Lion was roused.
A man's first crime is, as a rule, a shockingly amateurish affair.
Now and then, it is true, we find beginners forging with the
accuracy of old hands, or breaking into houses with the finish of
experts. But these are isolated cases. The average tyro lacks
generalship altogether. Spennie Dreever may be cited as a typical
novice. It did not strike him that inquiries might be instituted by
Sir Thomas, when he found the money gone, and that suspicion might
conceivably fall upon himself. Courage may be born of champagne, but
rarely prudence.
The theatricals began at half-past eight with a duologue. The
audience had been hustled into their seats, happier than is usual in
such circumstances, owing to the rumor which had been circulated
that the proceedings were to terminate with an informal dance. The
castle was singularly well constructed for such a purpose. There was
plenty of room, and a sufficiency of retreat for those who sat out,
in addition to a conservatory large enough to have married off half
the couples in the county.
Spennie's idea had been to establish an alibi by mingling with the
throng for a few minutes, and then to get through his burglarious
specialty during the duologue, when his absence would not be
noticed. It might be that, if he disappeared later in the evening,
people would wonder what had become of him.
He lurked about until the last of the audience had taken their
seats. As he was moving off through the hall, a hand fell upon his
shoulder. Conscience makes cowards of us all. Spennie bit his tongue
and leaped three inches into the air.
"Hello, Charteris!" he said, gaspingly.
Charteris appeared to be in a somewhat overwrought condition.
Rehearsals had turned him into a pessimist, and, now that the actual
moment of production had arrived, his nerves were in a thoroughly
jumpy condition, especially as the duologue was to begin in two
minutes and the obliging person who had undertaken to prompt had
disappeared.
"Spennie," said Charteris, "where are you off to?"
"What--what do you mean? I was just going upstairs."
"No, you don't. You've got to come and prompt. That devil Blake has
vanished. I'll wring his neck! Come along."
Spennie went, reluctantly. Half-way through the duologue, the
official prompter returned with the remark that he had been having a
bit of a smoke on the terrace, and that his watch had gone wrong.
Leaving him to discuss the point with Charteris, Spennie slipped
quietly away.
The delay, however, had had the effect of counteracting the
uplifting effects of the Mumm's. The British Lion required a fresh
fillip. He went to his room to administer it. By the time he
emerged, he was feeling just right for the task in hand. A momentary
doubt occurred to him as to whether it would not be a good thing to
go down and pull Sir Thomas' nose as a preliminary to the
proceedings; but he put the temptation aside. Business before
pleasure.
With a jaunty, if somewhat unsteady, step, he climbed the stairs to
the floor above, and made his way down the corridor to Sir Thomas's
room. He switched on the light, and went to the dressing-table. The
drawer was locked, but in his present mood Spennie, like Love,
laughed at locksmiths. He grasped the handle, and threw his weight
into a sudden tug. The drawer came out with a report like a pistol-
shot.
"There!" said his lordship, wagging his head severely.
In the drawer lay the four bank-notes. The sight of them brought
back his grievance with a rush. He would teach Sir Thomas to treat
him like a kid! He would show him!
He was removing the notes, frowning fiercely the while, when he
heard a cry of surprise from behind him.
He turned, to see Molly. She was still dressed in the evening gown
she had worn at dinner; and her eyes were round with wonder. A few
moments earlier, as she was seeking her room in order to change her
costume for the theatricals, she had almost reached the end of the
corridor that led to the landing, when she observed his lordship,
flushed of face and moving like some restive charger, come
curvetting out of his bedroom in a dazzling suit of tweeds, and make
his way upstairs. Ever since their mutual encounter with Sir Thomas
before dinner, she had been hoping for a chance of seeing Spennie
alone. She had not failed to notice his depression during the meal,
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.