A Gentleman of Leisure by P. G. Wodehouse (english books to improve english .TXT) 📕

her hold out her hands to Jimmy. It was embarrassing for a chap! He looked away.

The next moment the door opened and closed again, and she had gone.

He looked at Jimmy. Jimmy was still apparently unconscious of his presence.

His lordship coughed.

“Pitt, old man⁠—”

“Halloa!” said Jimmy, coming out of his thoughts with a start. “You still here? By the way”⁠—he eyed Lord Dreever curiously⁠—“I never thought of asking before⁠—what on earth are you doing here? Why were you behind the curtain? Were you playing hide-and-seek?”

His lordship was not one of those who invent circumstantial stories easily on the spur of the moment. He searched rapidly for something that would pass muster, then abandoned the hopeless struggle. After all, why not be frank? He still believed Jimmy to be of the class of the hero of Love, the Cracksman. There would be no harm in confiding in him. He was a good fellow, a kindred soul, and would sympathise.

“It’s like this,” he said. And, having prefaced his narrative with the sound remark that he had been a bit of an ass, he gave Jimmy a summary of recent events.

“What!” said Jimmy. “You taught Hargate piquet? Why, my dear man, he was playing piquet like a professor when you were in short frocks. He’s a wonder at it.”

His lordship stared.

“How’s that?” he said. “You don’t know him, do you?”

“I met him in New York at the Strollers’ Club. A pal of mine, an actor⁠—this fellow Mifflin I mentioned just now⁠—put him up as a guest. He coined money at piquet. And there were some pretty useful players in the place, too. I don’t wonder you found him a promising pupil.”

“Then⁠—then⁠—why, dash it! then he’s a bally sharper?”

“You’re a genius at crisp description,” said Jimmy. “You’ve got him summed up to rights first shot.”

“I shan’t pay him a bally penny.”

“Of course not. If he makes any objection refer him to me.”

His lordship’s relief was extreme. The more overpowering effects of the elixir had passed away, and he saw now what he had not seen in his more exuberant frame of mind⁠—the cloud of suspicion which must hang over him when the loss of the banknotes was discovered.

He wiped his forehead.

“By Jove!” he said. “That’s something off my mind! By George, I feel like a two-year-old! I say, you’re a dashed good sort, Pitt.”

“You flatter me,” said Jimmy. “I strive to please.”

“I say, Pitt, that yarn you told us just now⁠—the bet and all that⁠—honestly, you don’t mean to say that was true, was it? I mean⁠—By Jove! I’ve got an idea.”

“We live in stirring times!”

“Did you say your actor pal’s name was Mifflin?” He broke off suddenly before Jimmy could answer. “Great Scot!” he whispered, “What’s that? Good lord! Somebody’s coming!”

He dived behind the curtain like a rabbit. It had only just ceased to shake when the door opened and Sir Thomas Blunt walked in.

XXVI Stirring Times for Sir Thomas

For a man whose intentions towards the jewels and their owner were so innocent, and even benevolent, Jimmy was in a singularly compromising position. It would have been difficult, even under more favourable conditions, to have explained to Sir Thomas’s satisfaction his presence in the dressing room. As things stood it was even harder, for his lordship’s last action before seeking cover had been to fling the necklace from him like a burning coal. For the second time in ten minutes it had fallen to the carpet, and it was just as Jimmy straightened himself after picking it up that Sir Thomas got a full view of him.

The knight stood in the doorway, his face expressing the most lively astonishment. His bulging eyes were fixed upon the necklace in Jimmy’s hand. Jimmy could see him struggling to find words to cope with so special a situation, and he felt rather sorry for him. Excitement of this kind was bad for a short-necked man of Sir Thomas’s type.

With kindly tact he endeavoured to help him out.

“Good evening,” he said pleasantly.

Sir Thomas stammered. He was gradually nearing speech.

“What⁠—what⁠—what⁠—” he said.

“Out with it,” said Jimmy.

“What⁠—”

“I knew a man once in South Dakota who stammered,” said Jimmy. “He used to chew dog biscuit while he was speaking. It cured him, besides being nutritious. Another good way is to count ten while you’re thinking what to say, and then get it out quick.”

“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,