There are few moments in a man’s day when his brain is more contemplative than during that brief space when he is lathering his face preparatory to shaving. Flying the brush, Jimmy reviewed the situation. He was perhaps a little too optimistic. Not unnaturally he was inclined to look upon his luck as a sort of special train which would convey him without effort to Paradise. Fate had behaved so exceedingly handsomely up till now. By a series of the most workmanlike miracles it had brought him to the point of being Molly’s fellow-guest at a country-house. This, as Reason coldly pointed out a few moments later, was merely the beginning; but to Jimmy, thoughtfully lathering, it seemed the end. It was only when he had finished shaving and was arranging his tie that he began to perceive that there were obstacles in his way—and sufficiently big obstacles at that.
In the first place, Molly did not love him. And, he was bound to admit, there was no earthly reason why she ever should. A man in love is seldom vain about his personal attractions. Also, her father firmly believed him to be a master-burglar.
“Otherwise,” said Jimmy, scowling at his reflection in the glass, “everything’s splendid.”
He brushed his hair sadly.
There was a furtive rap at the door.
“Halloa?” said Jimmy. “Yes?”
The door opened slowly. A grin, surmounted by a mop of red hair, appeared round the edge of it.
“Halloa, Spike! Come in. What’s the matter?”
The rest of Mr. Mullins entered the room.
“Gee, boss, I wasn’t sure dis was your room. Say, who do you t’ink I nearly bumped me coco against out in de corridor downstairs? Why, old man McEachern, de cop. Dat’s right!”