In the days before the Welshman began to expend his surplus energy in
playing football, he was accustomed, whenever the monotony of his
everyday life began to oppress him, to collect a few friends and make
raids across the border into England, to the huge discomfort of the
dwellers on the other side. It was to cope with this habit that Corven
Abbey, in Shropshire, came into existence. It met a long-felt want.
Ministering to the spiritual needs of the neighborhood in times of
peace, it became a haven of refuge when trouble began. From all sides
people poured into it, emerging cautiously when the marauders had
disappeared.
In the whole history of the abbey there is but one instance recorded
of a bandit attempting to take the place by storm, and the attack was
an emphatic failure. On receipt of one ladle full of molten lead,
aimed to a nicety by John the Novice, who seems to have been anything
but a novice at marksmanship, this warrior retired, done to a turn, to
his mountain fastnesses, and is never heard of again. He would seem,
however, to have passed the word round among his friends, for
subsequent raiding parties studiously avoided the abbey, and a peasant
who had succeeded in crossing its threshold was for the future
considered to be "home" and out of the game. Corven Abbey, as a
result, grew in power and popularity. Abbot succeeded abbot, the lake
at the foot of the hill was restocked at intervals, the lichen grew on
the walls; and still the abbey endured.
But time, assisted by his majesty, King Henry the Eighth, had done its
work. The monks had fled. The walls had crumbled, and in the twentieth
century, the abbey was a modern country house, and the owner a rich
American.
Of this gentleman the world knew but little. That he had made money,
and a good deal of it, was certain. His name, Patrick McEachern,
suggested Irish parentage, and a slight brogue, noticeable, however,
only in moments of excitement, supported this theory. He had arrived
in London some four years back, taken rooms at the Albany, and gone
into society.
England still firmly believes that wealth accrues to every resident of
New York by some mysterious process not understandable of the Briton.
McEachern and his money were accepted by society without question. His
solecisms, which at first were numerous, were passed over as so quaint
and refreshing. People liked his rugged good humor. He speedily made
friends, among them Lady Jane Blunt, the still youthful widow of a man
about town, who, after trying for several years to live at the rate of
ten thousand per annum with an income of two and a half, had finally
given up the struggle and drank himself peacefully into the tomb,
leaving her in sole charge of their one son, Spencer Archbald.
Possibly because he was the exact antithesis of the late lamented,
Lady Jane found herself drawn to Mr. McEachern. Whatever his faults,
he had strength; and after her experience of married life with a weak
man, Lady Jane had come to the conclusion that strength was the only
male quality worth consideration. When a year later, McEachern's
daughter, Molly, had come over, it was Lady Jane who took her under
her wing and introduced her everywhere.
In the fifth month of the second year of their acquaintance, Mr.
McEachern proposed and was accepted. "The bridegroom," said a society
paper, "is one of those typical captains of industry of whom our
cousins 'across the streak' can boast so many. Tall, muscular,
square-shouldered, with the bulldog jaw and twinkling gray eye of the
born leader. You look at him and turn away satisfied. You have seen a
man!"
Lady Jane, who had fallen in love with the abbey some years before,
during a visit to the neighborhood, had prevailed upon her
square-shouldered lord to turn his twinkling gray eye in that
direction, and the captain of industry, with the remark that here, at
last, was a real bully old sure-fire English stately home, had sent
down builders and their like, not in single spies, but in battalions,
with instructions to get busy.
The results were excellent. A happy combination of deep purse on the
part of the employer and excellent taste on the part of the architect
had led to the erection of one of the handsomest buildings in
Shropshire. To stand on the hill at the back of the house was to see a
view worth remembering. The lower portion of the hill, between the
house and the lake, had been cut into broad terraces. The lake itself,
with its island with the little boathouse in the centre, was a glimpse
of fairyland. Mr. McEachern was not poetical, but he had secured as
his private sanctum a room which commanded this view.
He was sitting in this room one evening, about a week after the
meeting between Spennie and Jimmy Pitt at the Savoy.
"See, here, Jane," he was saying, "this is my point. I've been fixing
up things in my mind, and this is the way I make it out. I reckon
there's no sense in taking risks when you needn't. You've a mighty
high-toned bunch of guests here. I'm not saying you haven't. What I
say is, it would make us all feel more comfortable if we knew there
was a detective in the house keeping his eye skinned. I'm not alluding
to any of them in particular, but how are we to know that all these
social headliners are on the level?"
"If you mean our guests, Pat, I can assure you that they are all
perfectly honest."
Lady Jane looked out of the window, as she spoke, at a group of those
under discussion. Certainly at the moment the sternest censor could
have found nothing to cavil at in their movements. Some were playing
tennis, some clock golf, and the rest were smoking. She had frequently
complained, in her gentle, languid way, of her husband's unhappily
suspicious nature. She could never understand it. For her part she
suspected no one. She liked and trusted everybody, which was the
reason why she was so popular, and so often taken in.
Mr. McEachern looked bovine, as was his habit when he was endeavoring
to gain a point against opposition.
"They may be on the level," he said. "I'm not saying anything against
any one. But I've seen a lot of crooks in my time, and it's not the
ones with the low brows and the cauliflower ears that you want to
watch for. It's the innocent Willies who look as if all they could do
was to lead the cotillon and wear bangles on their ankles. I've had a
lot to do with them, and it's up to a man that don't want to be stung
not to go by what a fellow looks like."
"Really, Pat, dear, I sometimes think you ought to have been a
policeman. What _is_ the matter?"
"Matter?"
"You shouted."
"Shouted? Not me. Spark from my cigar fell on my hand."
"You know, you smoke too much, Pat," said his wife, seizing the
opening with the instinct which makes an Irishman at a fair hit every
head he sees.
"I'm all right, me dear. Faith, I c'u'd smoke wan hondred a day and no
harm done."
By way of proving the assertion he puffed out with increased vigor at
his cigar. The pause gave him time to think of another argument, which
might otherwise have escaped him.
"When we were married, me dear Jane," he said, "there was a detective
in the room to watch the presents. Two of them. I remimber seeing them
at once. There go two of the boys, I said to mysilf. I mean," he added
hastily, "two of the police force."
"But detectives at wedding receptions are quite ordinary. Nobody minds
them. You see, the presents are so valuable that it would be silly to
risk losing them."
"And are there not valuable things here," asked McEachern
triumphantly, "which it would be silly to risk losing? And Sir Thomas
is coming to-day with his wife. And you know what a deal of jewelry
she always takes about her."
"Oh, Julia!" said Lady Jane, a little disdainfully. Her late husband's
brother Thomas' wife was one of the few people to whom she objected.
And, indeed, she was not alone in this prejudice. Few who had much to
do with her did like Lady Blunt.
"That rope of pearls of hers," said Mr. McEachern, "cost forty
thousand pounds, no less, so they say."
"So she says. But if you were thinking of bringing down a detective to
watch over Julia's necklace, Pat, you needn't trouble. I believe she
takes one about with her wherever she goes, disguised as Thomas'
valet."
"Still, me dear----"
"Pat, you're absurd," laughed Lady Jane. "I won't have you littering
up the house with great, clumsy detectives. You must remember that you
aren't in horrid New York now, where everybody you meet wants to rob
you. Who is it that you suspect? Who is the--what is the word you're
so fond of? Crook. That's it. Who is the crook?"
"I don't want to mention names," said McEachern cautiously, "and I
cast no suspicions, but who is that pale, thin Willie who came
yesterday? The one that says the clever things that nobody
understands?"
"Lulu Wesson! Why, _Pat_rick! He's the most delightful boy. What
_can_ you suspect him of?"
"I don't suspect him of anything. But you'll remimber what I was
telling about the sort of boy you want to watch. That's what that boy
is. He may be the straightest ever, but if I was told there was a
crook in the company, and wasn't put next who it was, he's the boy
that would get my vote."
"What dreadful nonsense you are talking, Pat. I believe you suspect
every one you meet. I suppose you will jump to the conclusion that
this man whom Spennie is bringing down with him to-day is a criminal
of some sort."
"How's that? Spennie bringing a friend?"
There was not a great deal of enthusiasm in McEachern's voice. His
stepson was not a young man whom he respected very highly. Spennie
regarded his stepfather with nervous apprehension, as one who would
deal with his shortcomings with a vigor and severity of which his
mother was incapable. The change of treatment which had begun after
her marriage with the American had had an excellent effect upon him,
but it had not been pleasant. As Nebuchadnezzar is reported to have
said of his vegetarian diet, it may have been wholesome, but it was
not good. McEachern, for his part, regarded Spennie as a boy who would
get into mischief unless he had an eye fixed upon him. So he proceeded
to fix that eye.
"Yes, I must be seeing Harding about getting the rooms ready.
Spennie's friend is bringing his man with him."
"Who is his friend?"
"He doesn't say. He just says he's a man he met in London."
"H'm!"
"And what does that grunt mean, I should like to know? I believe
you've begun to suspect the poor man already, without seeing him."
"I don't say I have. But a man can pick up strange people in London."
"Pat, you're perfectly awful. I believe you suspect every one you
meet. What do you suspect me of, I wonder?"
"That's easy answered," said McEachern. "Robbery from the person."
"What have I stolen?"
"Me heart, me dear," replied McEachern gallantly, with a vast grin.
"After that," said his wife, "I think I had better go. I had no idea
you could make such pretty speeches. Pat!"
"Well, me dear?"
"Don't send for that detective. It really wouldn't do. If it got about
that we couldn't trust our guests, we should never live it down. You
won't, will you?"
"Very well, me dear."
What followed may afford some slight clue to the secret of Mr. Patrick
McEachern's rise in the world. It certainly suggests singleness of
purpose, which is one of the essentials of success.
No sooner had the door closed behind Lady Jane than he went to his
writing table, took pen and paper, and wrote the following letter:
_To the Manager, Wragge's Detective Agency,_
_Holborn Bars, London, E. C._
Sir:
With ref'ce to my last of the 28th ult., I should be glad if
you would send down immediately one of your best men. Am making
arrangements to receive him. Shall be glad if you will instruct
him as follows, viz. (a) that he shall stay at the village inn
in character of American seeing sights of England and anxious
to inspect the abbey; (b) that he shall call and ask to see me.
I shall then recognize him as old New York friend, and move his
baggage from above inn to the abbey. Yours faithfully,
P. McEACHERN.
P.S.--Kindly not send a rube, but a real smart man.
This brief but pregnant letter cost him some pains in its composition.
He was not a ready writer. But he completed it at last to his
satisfaction. There was a crisp purity in the style which pleased him.
He read it over, and put in a couple of commas. Then he placed it in
an envelope, and lit another cigar.