And when, going to his dressing room to get ready for dinner, he had
nearly run into Spike Mullins, Red Spike of shameful memory, his frame
of mind had been that of a man to whom a sudden ray of light reveals
the fact that he is on the very brink of a black precipice. Jimmy and
Spike had been a firm in New York. And here they were, together again,
in his house in Shropshire. To say that the thing struck McEachern as
sinister is to put the matter baldly. There was once a gentleman who
remarked that he smelt a rat and saw it floating in the air.
Ex-constable McEachern smelt a regiment of rats, and the air seemed to
him positively congested with them.

His first impulse had been to rush to Jimmy's room there and then; but
Lady Jane had trained him well. Though the heavens might fall, he must
not be late for dinner. So he went and dressed, and an obstinate tie
put the finishing touches to his wrath.

Jimmy regarded him coolly, without moving from the chair in which he
had seated himself. Spike, on the other hand, seemed embarrassed. He
stood first on one leg and then on the other, as if he were testing
the respective merits of each, and would make a definite choice later
on.

"Ye scoundrels!" growled McEachern.

Spike, who had been standing for a few moments on his right leg, and
seemed at last to have come to a decision, hastily changed to the
left, and grinned feebly.

"Say, youse won't want me any more, Mr. Chames?" he whispered.