CHAPTER XXV

JIMMY LAYS HIS PLANS

Jimmy Thesiger was feeling depressed. Avoiding George, whom he

suspected of being ready to tackle him on serious subjects, he stole

quietly away after lunch. Proficient as he was in details of the Santa

Fé boundary dispute, he had no wish to stand an examination on it this

minute.

Presently what he hoped would happen came to pass. Loraine Wade, also

unaccompanied, strolled down one of the shady garden paths. In a moment

Jimmy was by her side. They walked for some minutes in silence and then

Jimmy said tentatively:

"Loraine?"

"Yes?"

"Look here, I'm a bad chap at putting things--but what about it? What's

wrong with getting a special license and being married and living

together happy ever afterwards?"

Loraine displayed no embarrassment at this surprising proposal. Instead

she threw back her head and laughed frankly.

"Don't laugh at a chap," said Jimmy reproachfully.

"I can't help it. You were so funny."

"Loraine--you are a little devil."

"I'm not. I'm what's called a thoroughly nice girl."

"Only to those who don't know you--who are taken in by your delusive

appearance of meekness and decorum."

"I like your long words."

"All out of cross-word puzzles."

"So educative."

"Loraine dear, don't beat about the bush. Will you or won't you!"

Loraine's face sobered. It took on its characteristic appearance of

determination. Her small mouth hardened and her little chin shot out

aggressively.

"No, Jimmy. Not while things are as they are at present--all

unfinished."

"I know we haven't done what we set out to do," agreed Jimmy. "But all

the same--well, it's the end of a chapter. The papers are safe at the

Air Ministry. Virtue triumphant. And--for the moment--nothing doing."

"So--let's get married?" said Loraine with a slight smile.

"You've said it. Precisely the idea."

But again Loraine shook her head.

"No, Jimmy. Until this thing's rounded up--until we're safe--"

"You think we're in danger?"

"Don't you?"

Jimmy's cherubic pink face clouded over.

"You're right," he said at last. "If that extraordinary rigmarole of

Bundle's is true--and I suppose, incredible as it sounds, it must be

true--then we're not safe till we've settled with--No. 7!"

"And the others?"

"No--the others don't count. It's No. 7 with his own ways of working

that frightens me. Because I don't know who he is or where to look for

him."

Loraine shivered.

"I've been frightened," she said in a low voice. "Ever since Gerry's

death...."

"You needn't be frightened. There's nothing for you to be frightened

about. You leave everything to me. I tell you, Loraine--_I'll get No.

7 yet_. Once we get him--well, I don't think there'll be much trouble

with the rest of the gang, whoever they are."

"_If_ you get him--and suppose he gets you?"

"Impossible," said Jimmy cheerfully. "I'm much too clever. Always have

a good opinion of yourself--that's my motto."

"When I think of the things that might have happened last night--"

Loraine shivered.

"Well, they didn't," said Jimmy. "We're both here, safe and

sound--though I must admit my arm is confoundedly painful."

"Poor boy."

"Oh, one must expect to suffer in a good cause. And what with my wounds

and my cheerful conversation, I've made a complete conquest of Lady

Coote."

"Oh! Do you think that important?"

"I've an idea it may come in useful."

"You've got some plan in your mind, Jimmy. What is it?"

"The young hero never tells his plans," said Jimmy firmly. "They mature

in the dark."

"You are an idiot, Jimmy."

"I know. I know. That's what everyone says. But I can assure you,

Loraine, there's a lot of brain-work going on underneath. Now what

about your plans? Got any?"

"Bundle has suggested that I should go to Chimneys with her for a bit."

"Excellent," said Jimmy approvingly. "Nothing could be better. I'd like

an eye kept on Bundle anyway. You never know what mad thing she won't

be up to next. She's so frightfully unexpected. And the worst of it is,

she's so astonishingly successful. I tell you, keeping Bundle out of

mischief is a whole-time job."

"Bill ought to look after her," suggested Loraine.

"Bill's pretty busy elsewhere."

"Don't you believe it," said Loraine.

"What? Not the Countess? But the lad's potty about her."

Loraine continued to shake her head.

"There's something there I don't quite understand. But it's not the

Countess with Bill--it's Bundle. Why, this morning Bill was talking to

me when Mr. Lomax came out and sat down by Bundle. He took her hand or

something, and Bill was off like--like a rocket."

"What a curious taste some people have," observed Mr. Thesiger. "Fancy

anyone who was talking to you wanting to do anything else. But you

surprise me very much, Loraine. I thought our simple Bill was enmeshed

in the toils of the beautiful foreign adventuress. Bundle thinks so, I

know."

"Bundle may," said Loraine, "but I tell you, Jimmy, it isn't so."

"Then what's the big idea?"

"Don't you think it possible that Bill is doing a bit of sleuthing on

his own?"

"Bill? He hasn't got the brains."

"I'm not so sure. When a simple, muscular person like Bill does set out

to be subtle, no one ever gives him credit for it."

"And in consequence he can put in some good work. Yes, there's

something in that. But all the same I'd never have thought it of Bill.

He's doing the Countess's little woolly lamb to perfection. I think

you're wrong, you know, Loraine. The Countess is an extraordinarily

beautiful woman--not my type, of course," put in Mr. Thesiger

hastily--"and old Bill has always had a heart like an hotel."

Loraine shook her head, unconvinced.

"Well," said Jimmy, "have it your own way. We seem to have more or less

settled things. You go back with Bundle to Chimneys, and for Heavens'

sake keep her from poking about in that Seven Dials place again.

Heavens knows what will happen if she does."

Loraine nodded.

"And now," said Jimmy, "I think a few words with Lady Coote would be

advisable."

Lady Coote was sitting on a garden seat doing wool-work. The subject

was a disconsolate and somewhat misshapen young woman weeping over an

urn.

Lady Coote made room for Jimmy by her side, and he promptly, being a

tactful young man, admired her work.

"Do you like it?" said Lady Coote, pleased. "It was begun by my Aunt

Selina the week before she died. Cancer of the liver, poor thing."

"How beastly," said Jimmy.

"And how is the arm?"

"Oh, it's feeling quite all right. Bit of a nuisance and all that, you

know."

"You'll have to be careful," said Lady Coote in a warning voice. "I've

known blood-poisoning set in--and in that case you might lose your arm

altogether."

"Oh! I say, I hope not."

"I'm only warning you," said Lady Coote.

"Where are you hanging out now?" inquired Mr. Thesiger. "Town--or

where?"

Considering that he knew the answer to his query perfectly well, he put

the question with a praiseworthy amount of ingenuousness.

Lady Coote sighed heavily.

"Sir Oswald has taken the Duke of Alton's place. Letherbury. You know

it, perhaps?"

"Oh, rather. Topping place, isn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Lady Coote. "It's a very large place, and

gloomy, you know. Rows of picture galleries with such forbidding

looking people. What they call Old Masters are very depressing, I

think. You should have seen a little house we had in Yorkshire, Mr.

Thesiger. When Sir Oswald was plain Mr. Coote. Such a nice lounge hall

and a cheerful drawing-room with an ingle-nook--a white striped paper

with a frieze of wisteria I chose for it, I remember. Satin stripe, you

know, not moiré. Much better taste, I always think. The dining-room

faced northeast, so we didn't get much sun in it, but with a good

bright scarlet paper and a set of those comic hunting prints--why, it

was as cheerful as Christmas."

In the excitement of these reminiscences, Lady Coote dropped several

little balls of wool, which Jimmy dutifully retrieved.

"Thank you, my dear," said Lady Coote. "Now, what was I saying?

Oh!--about houses--yes, I do like a cheerful house. And choosing things

for it gives you an interest."

"I suppose Sir Oswald will be buying a place of his own one of these

days," suggested Jimmy. "And then you can have it just as you like."

Lady Coote shook her head sadly.

"Sir Oswald talks of a firm doing it--and you know what that means."

"Oh! But they'd consult you!"

"It would be one of those grand places--all for the antique. They'd

look down on the things I call comfortable and homey. Not but that Sir

Oswald wasn't very comfortable and satisfied in his home always, and I

daresay his tastes are just the same underneath. But nothing will suit

him now but the best! He's got on wonderfully, and naturally he wants

something to show for it, but many's the time I wonder where it will

end."

Jimmy looked sympathetic.

"It's like a runaway horse," said Lady Coote. "Got the bit between its

teeth and away it goes. It's the same with Sir Oswald. He's got on, and

he's got on, till he can't stop getting on. He's one of the richest men

in England now--but does that satisfy him? No, he wants still more.

He wants to be--I don't know what he wants to be! I can tell you, it

frightens me sometimes!"

"Like the Persian Johnny," said Jimmy, "who went about wailing for

fresh worlds to conquer."

Lady Coote nodded acquiescence without much knowing what Jimmy was

talking about.

"What I wonder is--will his stomach stand it?" she went on tearfully.

"To have him an invalid--with his ideas--oh, it won't bear thinking of."

"He looks very hearty," said Jimmy, consolingly.

"He's got something on his mind," said Lady Coote. "Worried, that's

what he is. _I_ know."

"What's he worried about?"

"I don't know. Perhaps something at the works. It's a great comfort

for him having Mr. Bateman. Such an earnest young man--and so

conscientious."

"Marvellously conscientious," agreed Jimmy.

"Oswald thinks a lot of Mr. Bateman's judgment. He says that Mr.

Bateman is always right."

"That was one of his worst characteristics years ago," said Jimmy

feelingly.

Lady Coote looked slightly puzzled.

"That was an awfully jolly week-end I had with you at Chimneys," said

Jimmy. "I mean it would have been awfully jolly if it hadn't been for

poor old Gerry kicking the bucket. Jolly nice girls."

"I find girls very perplexing," said Lady Coote. "Not romantic, you

know. Why, I embroidered some handkerchiefs for Sir Oswald with my own

hair when we were engaged."

"Did you?" said Jimmy. "How marvellous. But I suppose girls haven't got

long enough hair to do that nowadays."

"That's true," admitted Lady Coote. "But, oh, it shows in lots of

other ways. I remember when I was a girl, one of my--well, my young

men--picked up a handful of gravel, and a girl who was with me said at

once that he was treasuring it because my feet had trodden on it. Such

a pretty idea, I thought. Though it turned out afterwards that he was

taking a course of mineralogy--or do I mean geology?--at a technical

school. But I liked the idea--and stealing a girl's handkerchief and

treasuring it--all those sort of things."

"Awkward if the girl wanted to blow her nose," said the practical Mr.

Thesiger.

Lady Coote laid down her wool-work and looked searchingly but kindly at

him.

"Come now," she said, "isn't there some nice girl that you fancy? That

you'd like to work and make a little home for?"

Jimmy blushed and mumbled.

"I thought you got on very well with one of those girls at Chimneys

that time--Vera Daventry."

"Socks?"

"They do call her that," admitted Lady Coote. "I can't think why. It

isn't pretty."

"Oh, she's a topper," said Jimmy. "I'd like to meet her again."

"She's coming down to stay with us next week-end."

"Is she?" said Jimmy, trying to infuse a large amount of wistful

longing into the two words.

"Yes. Would--would you like to come?"'

"I _would_," said Jimmy heartily. "Thanks ever so much, Lady Coote."

And reiterating fervent thanks, he left her.

Sir Oswald presently joined his wife.

"What has that young jackanapes been boring you about?" he demanded. "I

can't stand that young fellow."

"He's a dear boy," said Lady Coote. "And so brave. Look how he got

wounded last night."

"Yes, messing around where he'd no business to be."

"I think you're very unfair, Oswald."

"Never done an honest day's work in his life. A real waster if there

ever was one. He'd never get on if he had his way to make in the world."

"You must have got your feet damp last night," said Lady Coote. "I hope

you won't get pneumonia. Freddie Richards died of it the other day.

Dear me, Oswald, it makes my blood run cold to think of you wandering

about with a dangerous burglar loose in the grounds. He might have shot

you. I've asked Mr. Thesiger down for next week-end, by the way."

"Nonsense," said Sir Oswald. "I won't have that young man in my house,

do you hear, Maria?"

"Why not?"

"That's my business."

"I'm so sorry, dear," said Lady Coote placidly. "I've asked him now, so

it can't be helped. Pick up that ball of pink wool, will you, Oswald?"

Sir Oswald complied, his face black as thunder. He looked at his wife

and hesitated. Lady Coote was placidly threading her wool needle.

"I particularly don't want Thesiger down next week-end," he said at

last. "I've heard a good deal about him from Bateman. He was at school

with him."

"What did Mr. Bateman say?"

"He'd no good to say of him. In fact, he warned me very seriously

against him."

"He did, did he?" said Lady Coote thoughtfully.

"And I have the highest respect for Bateman's judgment. I've never

known him wrong."

"Dear me," said Lady Coote. "What a mess I seem to have made of things.

Of course, I should never have asked him if I had known. You should

have told me all this before, Oswald. It's too late now."

She began to roll up her work very carefully. Sir Oswald looked at her,

made as if to speak, then shrugged his shoulders. He followed her into

the house. Lady Coote, walking ahead, wore a very faint smile on her

face. She was fond of her husband, but she was also fond--in a quiet,

unobtrusive, wholly womanly manner--of getting her own way.