McEachern brought him down here."
The sleuth's jaw dropped limply, as if he had received a blow.
"What?" he said, in a feeble voice.
"Didn't I tell you--?" began Mr. McEachern; but the sleuth was
occupied with Jimmy. That sickening premonition of disaster was
beginning to steal over him. Dimly, he began to perceive that he had
blundered.
"Yes," said Jimmy. "Why, I can't say; but Mr. McEachern was afraid
someone might try to steal Lady Julia Blunt's rope of diamonds. So,
he wrote to London for this man, Galer. It was officious, perhaps,
but not criminal. I doubt if, legally, you could handcuff a man for
a thing like that. What have you done with good Mr. Galer?"
"I've locked him in the coal-cellar," said the detective, dismally.
The thought of the interview in prospect with the human bloodhound
he had so mishandled was not exhilarating.
"Locked him in the cellar, did you?" said Jimmy. "Well, well, I
daresay he's very happy there. He's probably busy detecting black-
beetles. Still, perhaps you had better go and let him out. Possibly,
if you were to apologize to him--? Eh? Just as you think. I only
suggest. If you want somebody to vouch for Mr. McEachern's non-
burglariousness, I can do it. He is a gentleman of private means,
and we knew each other out in New York--we are old acquaintances."
"I never thought--"
"That," said Jimmy, with sympathetic friendliness, "if you will
allow me to say so, is the cardinal mistake you detectives make. You
never do think."
"It never occurred to me--"
The detective looked uneasily at Mr. McEachern. There were
indications in the policeman's demeanor that the moment following
release would be devoted exclusively to a carnival of violence, with
a certain sleuth-hound playing a prominent role.
He took the key of the handcuffs from his pocket, and toyed with it.
Mr. McEachern emitted a low growl. It was enough.
"If you wouldn't mind, Mr. Pitt," said the sleuth, obsequiously. He
thrust the key into Jimmy's hands, and fled.
Jimmy unlocked the handcuffs. Mr. McEachern rubbed his wrists.
"Ingenious little things," said Jimmy.
"I'm much obliged to you," growled Mr. McEachern, without looking
up.
"Not at all. A pleasure. This circumstantial evidence thing is the
devil, isn't it? I knew a man who broke into a house in New York to
win a bet, and to this day the owner of that house thinks him a
professional burglar."
"What's that?" said Mr. McEachern, sharply.
"Why do I say 'a man '? Why am I so elusive and mysterious? You're
quite right. It sounds more dramatic, but after all what you want is
facts. Very well. I broke into your house that night to win a bet.
That's the limpid truth."
McEachern was staring at him. Jimmy proceeded.
"You are just about to ask--what was Spike Mullins doing with me?
Well, Spike had broken into my flat an hour before, and I took him
along with me as a sort of guide, philosopher, and friend."
"Spike Mullins said you were a burglar from England."
"I'm afraid I rather led him to think so. I had been to see the
opening performance of a burglar-play called, 'Love, the Cracksman,'
that night, and I worked off on Spike some severely technical
information I had received from a pal of mine who played lead in the
show. I told you when I came in that I had been talking to Lord
Dreever. Well, what he was saying to me was that he had met this
very actor man, a fellow called Mifflin--Arthur Mifflin--in London
just before he met me. He's in London now, rehearsing for a show
that's come over from America. You see the importance of this item?
It means that, if you doubt my story, all you need do is to find
Mifflin--I forgot what theater his play is coming on at, but you
could find out in a second--and ask him to corroborate. Are you
satisfied?"
McEachern did not answer. An hour before, he would have fought to
the last ditch for his belief in Jimmy's crookedness; but the events
of the last ten minutes had shaken him. He could not forget that it
was Jimmy who had extricated him from a very uncomfortable position.
He saw now that that position was not so bad as it had seemed at the
time, for the establishing of the innocence of Mr. Galer could have
been effected on the morrow by an exchange of telegrams between the
castle and Dodson's Private Inquiry Agency; yet it had certainly
been bad enough. But for Jimmy, there would have been several hours
of acute embarrassment, if nothing worse. He felt something of a
reaction in Jimmy's favor.
Still, it is hard to overcome a deep-rooted prejudice in an instant.
He stared doubtfully.
"See here, Mr. McEachern," said Jimmy, "I wish you would listen
quietly to me for a minute or two. There's really no reason on earth
why we should be at one another's throats in this way. We might just
as well be friends. Let's shake, and call the fight off. I guess you
know why I came in here to see you?"
McEachern did not speak.
"You know that your daughter has broken off her engagement to Lord
Dreever?"
"Then, he was right!" said McEachern, half to himself. "It is you?"
Jimmy nodded. McEachern drummed his fingers on the table, and gazed
thoughtfully at him.
"Is Molly--?" he said at length. "Does Molly--?"
"Yes," said Jimmy.
McEachern continued his drumming. "Don't think there's been anything
underhand about this," said Jimmy. "She absolutely refused to do
anything unless you gave your consent. She said you had been
partners all her life, and she was going to do the square thing by
you."
"She did?" said McEachern, eagerly.
"I think you ought to do the square thing by her. I'm not much, but
she wants me. Do the square thing by her."
He stretched out his hand, but he saw that the other did not notice
the movement. McEachern was staring straight in front of him. There
was a look in his eyes that Jimmy had never seen there before, a
frightened, hunted look. The rugged aggressiveness of his mouth and
chin showed up in strange contrast. The knuckles of his clenched
fists were white.
"It's too late," he burst out. "I'll be square with her now, but
it's too late. I won't stand in her way when I can make her happy.
But I'll lose her! Oh, my God, I'll lose her!"
He gripped the edge of the table.
"Did you think I had never said to myself," he went on, "the things
you said to me that day when we met here? Did you think I didn't
know what I was? Who should know it better than myself? But she
didn't. I'd kept it from her. I'd sweat for fear she would find out
some day. When I came over here, I thought I was safe. And, then,
you came, and I saw you together. I thought you were a crook. You
were with Mullins in New York. I told her you were a crook."
"You told her that!"
"I said I knew it. I couldn't tell her the truth--why I thought so.
I said I had made inquiries in New York, and found out about you."
Jimmy saw now. The mystery was solved. So, that was why Molly had
allowed them to force her into the engagement with Dreever. For a
moment, a rush of anger filled him; but he looked at McEachern, and
it died away. He could not be vindictive now. It would be like
hitting a beaten man. He saw things suddenly from the other's view-
point, and he pitied him.
"I see," he said, slowly.
McEachern gripped the table in silence.
"I see," said Jimmy again. "You mean, she'll want an explanation."
He thought for a moment.
"You must tell her," he said, quickly. "For your own sake, you must