For pure discomfort there are few things in the world that can compete
with the final rehearsals of an amateur theatrical performance at a
country house. Every day the atmosphere becomes more and more heavily
charged with restlessness and irritability. The producer of the piece,
especially if he is also the author of it, develops a sort of
intermittent insanity. He plucks at his mustache, if he has one; at
his hair, if he has not. He mutters to himself. He gives vent to
occasional despairing cries. The soothing suavity which marked his
demeanor in the earlier rehearsals disappears. He no longer says with
a winning smile: "Splendid, old man; splendid. Couldn't be better. But
I think we'll take that over just once more, if you don't mind. You
missed out a few rather good lines, and you forgot to give Miss
Robinson her cue for upsetting the flowerpot." Instead, he rolls his
eyes and snaps out: "Once more, please. This'll never do. At this rate
we might just as well cut out the show altogether. For Heaven's sake,
Brown, do try and remember your lines. It's no good having the best
part in the piece if you go and forget everything you've got to say.
What's that? All right on the night? No, it _won't_ be all right on
the night. And another thing. You _must_ remember to say, 'How calm
and peaceful the morning is', or how on earth do you think Miss Robinson
is going to know when to upset that flowerpot? Now, then, once more; and
do pull yourself together this time." After which the scene is sulkily
resumed by the now thoroughly irritated actors; and conversation, when
the parties concerned meet subsequently, is cold and strained.
Matters had reached this stage at the abbey. Everybody was thoroughly
tired of the piece, and, but for the thought of the disappointment
which--presumably--would rack the neighboring nobility and gentry
if it were not to be produced, would have resigned without a twinge
of regret. People who had schemed to get the best and longest parts
were wishing now that they had been content with _First Footman_ or
_Giles, a villager_.
"I'll never run an amateur show again as long as I live," confided
Charteris to Jimmy, almost tearfully the night before the production.
"It's not good enough. Most of them aren't word-perfect yet. And we've
just had the dress rehearsal!"
"It'll be all right on----"
"Oh, don't say it'll be all right on the night."
"I wasn't going to," said Jimmy. "I was going to say it'll be all
right after the night. People will soon forget how badly the thing
went."
"You're a nice, comforting sort of man, aren't you?" said Charteris.
"Why worry?" said Jimmy. "If you go on like this, it'll be Westminster
Abbey for you in your prime. You'll be getting brain fever."
Jimmy himself was feeling particularly cheerful. He was deriving a
keen amusement at present from the manoeuvres of Mr. Samuel Galer, of
New York. This lynx-eyed man, having been instructed by Mr. McEachern
to watch Jimmy, was doing so with a pertinacity which would have made
a man with the snowiest of consciences suspicious. If Jimmy went to
the billiard room after dinner, Mr. Galer was there to keep him
company. If, during the course of the day, he had occasion to fetch a
handkerchief or a cigarette case from his bedroom, he was sure, on
emerging, to stumble upon Mr. Galer in the corridor. The employees of
Wragge's Detective Agency, Ltd., believed in earning their salaries.
Occasionally, after these encounters, Jimmy would come upon Sir Thomas
Blunt's valet, the other man in whom Spike's trained eye had discerned
the distinguishing trait of the detective. He was usually somewhere
round the corner at these moments, and, when collided with, apologized
with great politeness. It tickled Jimmy to think that both these giant
brains should be so greatly exercised on his account.
Spennie, meanwhile, had been doing quite an unprecedented amount of
thinking. Quite an intellectual pallor had begun to appear on his
normally pink cheeks. He had discovered the profound truth that it is
one thing to talk about paying one's debts, another actually to do it,
and that this is more particularly the case when we owe twenty pounds
and possess but six pounds seven shillings and fourpence. Spennie was
acutely conscious of the fact that, if he could not follow up his
words to Wesson with actual coin, the result would be something of an
anticlimax. Somehow or other he would have to get the money--and at
once. The difficulty was that no one seemed at all inclined to lend it
to him.
There is a good deal to be said against stealing as a habit; but it
cannot he denied that, in certain circumstances, it offers an
admirable solution of a difficulty, and if the penalties were not so
exceedingly unpleasant, it is probable that it would become far more
fashionable than it is.
Spennie'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 applied to his stepfather--a task for which his
courage was not sufficient--he found himself contemplating the
possibility of having to secure the money by unlawful means. By lunch
time, on the morning of the day fixed for the theatricals, he had
decided definitely to do so. By dinner time he had fixed upon the
object of his attentions.
With a vague idea of keeping the thing in the family, he had resolved
to make his raid upon Sir Thomas Blunt. Somehow it did not seem so bad
robbing one's relatives.
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 may be cited as a typical novice. It did not
strike him that inquiries might be instituted by Sir Thomas, when he
found his money gone, and that Wesson, finding a man whom he knew to
be impecunious suddenly in possession of twenty pounds, might have
suspicions. His mind was entirely filled with the thought of getting
the money. There was no room in it for any other reflection.
His plan was simple. Sir Thomas, he knew, always carried a good deal
of money with him. It was unlikely that he kept this on his person in
the evening. A man to whom the set of his clothes is as important as
it was to Sir Thomas, does not carry a pocket-book full of banknotes
when he is dressed for dinner. He would leave it somewhere, reasoned
Spennie. Where, he asked himself. The answer was easy. In his dressing
room. Spennie's plan of campaign was complete.
The theatricals began at half-past eight. The audience had been
hustled into their seats, happier than is usual in such circumstances
from the rumor that the proceedings were to terminate with an informal
dance. The abbey 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. The audience was in an excellent
humor, and the monologue, the first item of the programme, was
received with a warmth which gave Charteris, whom rehearsals had
turned into a pessimist, a faint hope that the main item on the
programme might not be the complete failure it had promised to be.
Spennie's idea had been to get through his burglarious specialty
during the monologue, 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 apart till the last of the audience had taken their seats.
As he was passing through the hall, a hand fell on his shoulder.
Conscience makes cowards of us all. Spennie bit his tongue and leaped
three inches into the air.
"Hello, Charteris!" he said gaspingly.
"Spennie, my boyhood's only friend," said Charteris, "where are you
off to?"
"What--what do you mean? I was just going upstairs."
"Then don't. You're wanted. Our prompter can't be found. I want you to
take his place till he blows in. Come along."
The official prompter arrived at the end of the monologue with the
remark that he had been having a bit of a smoke in the garden and his
watch had gone wrong. Leaving him to discuss the point with Charteris,
Spennie slipped quietly away, and flitted up the stairs toward Sir
Thomas' dressing room. At the door, he stopped and listened. There was
no sound. The house might have been deserted. He opened the door, and
switched on the electric light.
Fortune was with him. On the dressing table, together with a bunch of
keys and some small change, lay a brown leather pocketbook. Evidently
Sir Thomas did not share Lady Blunt's impression that the world was
waiting for a chance to rob him as soon as his back was turned.
Spennie opened the pocketbook, and counted the contents. There were
two ten-pound notes, and four of five pounds.
He took a specimen of each variety, replaced the pocketbook, and crept
out of the door.
Then he walked rapidly down the corridor to his own room.
Just as he reached it, he received a shock only less severe than the
former one from the fact that this time no hand was placed on his
shoulder.
"Spennie!" cried a voice.
He turned, to see Molly. She wore the costume of the stage milkmaid.
Coming out of her room after dressing for her part, she had been in
time to see Spennie emerge through Sir Thomas' door with a look on his
face furtive enough to have made any jury bring in a verdict of guilty
on any count without further evidence. She did not know what he had
been doing; but she was very certain that it was something which he
ought to have left undone.
"Er--hullo, Molly!" said Spennie bonelessly.
"What were you doing in Uncle Thomas' room, Spennie?"
"Nothing. I was just looking round."
"Just looking round?"
"That's all."
Molly was puzzled.
"Why did you look like that when you came out?"
"Like what?"
"So guilty."
"Guilty! What _are_ you talking about?"
Molly suddenly saw light.
"Spennie," she said, "what were you putting in your pocket as you came
out?"
"Putting in my pocket!" said Spennie, rallying with the desperation of
one fighting a lost cause. "What do you mean?"
"You were putting something."
Another denial was hovering on Spennie's lips, when, in a flash, he
saw what he had not seen before, the cloud of suspicion which must
hang over him when the loss of the notes was discovered. Sir Thomas
would remember that he had tried to borrow money from him. Wesson
would wonder how he had become possessed of twenty pounds. And Molly
had actually seen him coming out of the room, putting something in his
pocket.
He threw himself at the mercy of the court.
"It's like this, Molly," he said. And, having prefaced his narrative
with the sound remark that he had been a fool, he gave her a summary
of recent events.
"I see," said Molly. "And you must pay him at once?"
"By the end of the week. We had--we had a bit of a row."
"What about?"
"Oh, nothing," said Spennie. "Anyhow, I told him I'd pay him by
Saturday, and I don't want to have to climb down."
"Of course not. Jimmy shall lend you the money."
"Who? Jimmy Pitt?"
"Yes."
"But, I say, look here, Molly. I mean, I've been to him, already. He
lent me a fiver. He might kick if I tried to touch him again so soon."
"I'll ask him for it."
"But, look here, Molly----"
"Jimmy and I are engaged, Spennie."
"What! Not really? I say, I'm frightfully pleased. He's one of the
best. I'm fearfully glad. Why, that's absolutely topping. It'll be all
right. I'll sweat to pay him back. I'll save out of my allowance. I
can easily do it if I cut out a few things and don't go about so much.
You're a frightfully good sort, Molly. I say, will you ask him
to-night? I want to pay Wesson first thing to-morrow morning."
"Very well. You'd better give me those notes, Spennie. I'll put them
back."
The amateur cracksman handed over his loot, and retired toward the
stairs. Molly could hear him going down them three at a time, in a
whirl of relief and good resolutions. She went to Sir Thomas' room,
and replaced the notes. Having done this, she could not resist the
temptation to examine herself in the glass for a few moments. Then she
turned away, switched off the light, and was just about to leave the
room when a soft footstep in the passage outside came to her ears.
She shrank back. She felt a curiously guilty sensation, as if she had
been in the room with criminal rather than benevolent intentions. Her
motives in being where she was were excellent--but she would wait till
this person had passed before coming out into the passage.
Then it came to her with a shock that the person was not going to
pass. The footsteps halted outside the door.
There was a curtain at her side, behind which hung certain suits of
Sir Thomas'. She stepped noiselessly behind this.
The footsteps passed on into the room.