“You—you blackguard!”
Jimmy placed the necklace carefully on the dressing-table. Then he turned to Sir Thomas, with his hands in the pockets of his coat. Over the knight’s head he could see the folds of the curtain quivering gently, as if stirred by some zephyr. Evidently the drama of the situation was not lost on Hildebrand Spencer, twelfth Earl of Dreever.
Nor was it lost on Jimmy. This was precisely the sort of situation that appealed to him. He had his plan of action clearly mapped out. He knew that it would be useless to tell the knight the true facts of the case. Sir Thomas was as deficient in simple faith as in Norman blood.
To all appearances this was a tight corner, but Jimmy fancied that he saw his way out of it. Meanwhile, the situation appealed to him. Curiously enough, it was almost identical with the big scene in Act III of Love, the Cracksman in which Arthur Mifflin had made such a hit as the debonair burglar.
Jimmy proceeded to give his own idea of what the rendering of a debonair burglar should be. Arthur Mifflin had lit a cigarette, and had shot out smoke-rings and repartee alternately. A cigarette would have been a great help here, but Jimmy prepared to do his best without properties.
“So—so it’s you, is it?” said Sir Thomas.
“Who told you!”
“Thief! Low thief!”
“Come, now,” protested Jimmy. “Why low? Just because you don’t know me over here, why scorn me? How do you know I haven’t got a big American reputation? For all you can tell, I may be Boston Willie or Sacramento Sam, or some one. Let us preserve the decencies of debate.”
“I had my suspicions of you. I had my suspicions from the first, when I heard that my idiot of a nephew had made a casual friend in London. So this was what you were! A thief, who——”