“Good boy! You’re no rube.”
“We fought for a while, but, being a bit to the good in strength, and knowing something about the game, I had the irons on him pretty quick, and took him off and locked him in the cellar. That’s how it was, sir.”
Mr. McEachern’s relief was overwhelming. If Lord Dreever’s statement was correct, and Jimmy had really succeeded in winning Molly’s affection, this would be indeed a rescue at the eleventh hour. It was with a Nunc Dimittis air he felt for his cigar case and extended it towards the detective. A cigar from his own private case was with him a mark of the supremest favour and good will—a sort of accolade which he bestowed only upon the really meritorious few.
Usually it was received with becoming deference, but on this occasion there was a somewhat startling deviation from routine, for, just as he was opening the case, something cold and hard pressed against each of his wrists; there was a snap and a click, and looking up, dazed, he saw that the detective had sprung back, and was contemplating him with a grim smile over the barrel of an ugly-looking little revolver.
Guilty or innocent, the first thing a man does, when he finds handcuffs on his wrists, is to try to get them off. The action is automatic. Mr. McEachern strained at the steel chain till the veins stood out on his forehead. His great body shook with rage.
The detective eyed his efforts with some satisfaction. The picture presented by the other, as he heaved and tugged, was that of a guilty man trapped.
“It’s no good, my friend,” he said.
His voice brought McEachern back to his senses. In the first shock of the thing the primitive man in him had led him beyond the confines of self-restraint. He had simply struggled unthinkingly. Now he came to himself again.
He shook his manacled hands furiously.
“What does this mean?” he shouted. “What the——”