CHAPTER XV.
For pure discomfort there are few things in the world that can competewith the final rehearsals of an amateur theatrical performance at acountry house. Every day the atmosphere becomes more and more heavilycharged with restlessness and irritability. The producer of the piece,especially if he is also the author of it, develops a sort ofintermittent insanity. He plucks at his mustache, if he has one; athis hair, if he has not. He mutters to himself. He gives vent tooccasional despairing cries. The soothing suavity which marked hisdemeanor in the earlier rehearsals disappears. He no longer says witha winning smile: "Splendid, old man; splendid. Couldn't be better. ButI think we'll take that over just once more, if you don't mind. Youmissed out a few rather good lines, and you forgot to give MissRobinson her cue for upsetting the flowerpot." Instead, he rolls hiseyes and snaps out: "Once more, please. This'll never do. At this ratewe 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 bestpart 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 onthe night. And another thing. You _must_ remember to say, 'How calmand peaceful the morning is', or how on earth do you think Miss Robinsonis going to know when to upset that flowerpot? Now, then, once more; anddo pull yourself together this time." After which the scene is sulkilyresumed by the now thoroughly irritated actors; and conversation, whenthe parties concerned meet subsequently, is cold and strained.
Matters had reached this stage at the abbey. Everybody was thoroughlytired of the piece, and, but for the thought of the disappointmentwhich--presumably--would rack the neighboring nobility and gentryif it were not to be produced, would have resigned without a twingeof regret. People who had schemed to get the best and longest partswere 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," confidedCharteris to Jimmy, almost tearfully the night before the production."It's not good enough. Most of them aren't word-perfect yet. And we'vejust 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 allright after the night. People will soon forget how badly the thingwent."
"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 WestminsterAbbey for you in your prime. You'll be getting brain fever."
Jimmy himself was feeling particularly cheerful. He was deriving akeen amusement at present from the manoeuvres of Mr. Samuel Galer, ofNew York. This lynx-eyed man, having been instructed by Mr. McEachernto watch Jimmy, was doing so with a pertinacity which would have madea man with the snowiest of consciences suspicious. If Jimmy went tothe billiard room after dinner, Mr. Galer was there to keep himcompany. If, during the course of the day, he had occasion to fetch ahandkerchief or a cigarette case from his bedroom, he was sure, onemerging, to stumble upon Mr. Galer in the corridor. The employees ofWragge's Detective Agency, Ltd., believed in earning their salaries.Occasionally, after these encounters, Jimmy would come upon Sir ThomasBlunt's valet, the other man in whom Spike's trained eye had discernedthe distinguishing trait of the detective. He was usually somewhereround the corner at these moments, and, when collided with, apologizedwith great politeness. It tickled Jimmy to think that both these giantbrains should be so greatly exercised on his account.
Spennie, meanwhile, had been doing quite an unprecedented amount ofthinking. Quite an intellectual pallor had begun to appear on hisnormally pink cheeks. He had discovered the profound truth that it isone 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 poundsand possess but six pounds seven shillings and fourpence. Spennie wasacutely conscious of the fact that, if he could not follow up hiswords to Wesson with actual coin, the result would be something of ananticlimax. Somehow or other he would have to get the money--and atonce. The difficulty was that no one seemed at all inclined to lend itto him.
There is a good deal to be said against stealing as a habit; but itcannot he denied that, in certain circumstances, it offers anadmirable solution of a difficulty, and if the penalties were not soexceedingly unpleasant, it is probable that it would become far morefashionable than it is.
Spennie's mind did not turn immediately to this outlet from hisembarrassment. He had never stolen before, and it did not occur to himdirectly 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 coursepossible, unless he applied to his stepfather--a task for which hiscourage was not sufficient--he found himself contemplating thepossibility of having to secure the money by unlawful means. By lunchtime, on the morning of the day fixed for the theatricals, he haddecided definitely to do so. By dinner time he had fixed upon theobject of his attentions.
With a vague idea of keeping the thing in the family, he had resolvedto make his raid upon Sir Thomas Blunt. Somehow it did not seem so badrobbing one's relatives.
A man's first crime is, as a rule, a shockingly amateurish affair. Nowand then, it is true, we find beginners forging with the accuracy ofold hands or breaking into houses with the finish of experts. Butthese are isolated cases. The average tyro lacks generalshipaltogether. Spennie may be cited as a typical novice. It did notstrike him that inquiries might be instituted by Sir Thomas, when hefound his money gone, and that Wesson, finding a man whom he knew tobe impecunious suddenly in possession of twenty pounds, might havesuspicions. His mind was entirely filled with the thought of gettingthe money. There was no room in it for any other reflection.
His plan was simple. Sir Thomas, he knew, always carried a good dealof money with him. It was unlikely that he kept this on his person inthe evening. A man to whom the set of his clothes is as important asit was to Sir Thomas, does not carry a pocket-book full of banknoteswhen he is dressed for dinner. He would leave it somewhere, reasonedSpennie. Where, he asked himself. The answer was easy. In his dressingroom. Spennie's plan of campaign was complete.
The theatricals began at half-past eight. The audience had beenhustled into their seats, happier than is usual in such circumstancesfrom the rumor that the proceedings were to terminate with an informaldance. The abbey was singularly well constructed for such a purpose.There was plenty of room, and a sufficiency of retreat for those whosat out, in addition to a conservatory large enough to have marriedoff half the couples in the county. The audience was in an excellenthumor, and the monologue, the first item of the programme, wasreceived with a warmth which gave Charteris, whom rehearsals hadturned into a pessimist, a faint hope that the main item on theprogramme might not be the complete failure it had promised to be.
Spennie's idea had been to get through his burglarious specialtyduring the monologue, when his absence would not be noticed. It mightbe that if he disappeared later in the evening people would wonderwhat 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 leapedthree inches into the air.
"Hello, Charteris!" he said gaspingly.
"Spennie, my boyhood's only friend," said Charteris, "where are youoff 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 totake his place till he blows in. Come along."
The official prompter arrived at the end of the monologue with theremark that he had been having a bit of a smoke in the garden and hiswatch had gone wrong. Leaving him to discuss the point with Charteris,Spennie slipped quietly away, and flitted up the stairs toward SirThomas' dressing room. At the door, he stopped and listened. There wasno sound. The house might have been deserted. He opened the door, andsw
itched on the electric light.
Fortune was with him. On the dressing table, together with a bunch ofkeys and some small change, lay a brown leather pocketbook. EvidentlySir Thomas did not share Lady Blunt's impression that the world waswaiting for a chance to rob him as soon as his back was turned.
Spennie opened the pocketbook, and counted the contents. There weretwo ten-pound notes, and four of five pounds.
He took a specimen of each variety, replaced the pocketbook, and creptout 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 theformer one from the fact that this time no hand was placed on hisshoulder.
"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 intime to see Spennie emerge through Sir Thomas' door with a look on hisface furtive enough to have made any jury bring in a verdict of guiltyon any count without further evidence. She did not know what he hadbeen doing; but she was very certain that it was something which heought 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 cameout?"
"Putting in my pocket!" said Spennie, rallying with the desperation ofone fighting a lost cause. "What do you mean?"
"You were putting something."
Another denial was hovering on Spennie's lips, when, in a flash, hesaw what he had not seen before, the cloud of suspicion which musthang over him when the loss of the notes was discovered. Sir Thomaswould remember that he had tried to borrow money from him. Wessonwould wonder how he had become possessed of twenty pounds. And Mollyhad actually seen him coming out of the room, putting something in hispocket.
He threw himself at the mercy of the court.
"It's like this, Molly," he said. And, having prefaced his narrativewith the sound remark that he had been a fool, he gave her a summaryof 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 bySaturday, 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. Helent 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 thebest. I'm fearfully glad. Why, that's absolutely topping. It'll be allright. I'll sweat to pay him back. I'll save out of my allowance. Ican 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 himto-night? I want to pay Wesson first thing to-morrow morning."
"Very well. You'd better give me those notes, Spennie. I'll put themback."
The amateur cracksman handed over his loot, and retired toward thestairs. Molly could hear him going down them three at a time, in awhirl of relief and good resolutions. She went to Sir Thomas' room,and replaced the notes. Having done this, she could not resist thetemptation to examine herself in the glass for a few moments. Then sheturned away, switched off the light, and was just about to leave theroom when a soft footstep in the passage outside came to her ears.
She shrank back. She felt a curiously guilty sensation, as if she hadbeen in the room with criminal rather than benevolent intentions. Hermotives in being where she was were excellent--but she would wait tillthis person had passed before coming out into the passage.
Then it came to her with a shock that the person was not going topass. The footsteps halted outside the door.
There was a curtain at her side, behind which hung certain suits ofSir Thomas'. She stepped noiselessly behind this.
The footsteps passed on into the room.
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