“If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Pitt,” said the detective obsequiously. He thrust the key into Jimmy’s hands and fled. Jimmy unlocked the handcuffs. Mr. McEachern rubbed his wrists.
“Ingenious little things,” said Jimmy.
“I’m much obliged to you,” growled Mr. McEachern, without looking up.
“Not at all—a pleasure. This circumstantial evidence business is the devil, isn’t it? I knew a man who broke into a house in New York to win a bet, and to this day the owner of the house thinks him a professional burglar.”
“What’s that?” said Mr. McEachern sharply.
“Why do I say ‘a man’? Why am I so elusive and mysterious? You’re quite right. It sounds more dramatic; but, after all, what you want is facts. Very well. I broke into your house that night to win a bet. That’s the limpid truth.”
McEachern was staring at him. Jimmy proceeded.
“You are just about to ask—what was Spike Mullins doing with me? Well, Spike had broken into my flat an hour before, and I took him along with me as a sort of guide, philosopher, and friend.”
“Spike Mullins said you were a burglar from England.”
“I’m afraid I rather led him to think so. I had been to see the opening performance of a burglar-play called Love, the Cracksman, that night, and I worked off on Spike some severely technical information I had received from a pal of mine who played lead in the show. I told you when I came in that I had been talking to Lord Dreever. Well, what he was saying to me was that he had met this very actor-man, a fellow called Mifflin—Arthur Mifflin—in London just before he met me. He’s in London now, rehearsing for a show that’s come over from America. You see the importance of this item? It means that if you doubt my story all you need to do is to find Mifflin—I forget what theatre his play is coming on at, but you could find out in a second—and ask him to corroborate. Are you satisfied?”