The Intrusion of Jimmy. P. G. Wodehouse

turn for the better, so why disturb the harmony?

      "Dis gent," said Spike respectfully, "is boss of de cops. A police-captain," he corrected himself.

      A light broke upon Jimmy's darkness. He wondered he had not understood before. He had not been a newspaper-man in New York for a year without finding out something of the inner workings of the police force. He saw now why the other's manner had changed.

      "Pleased to meet you," he said. "We must have a talk together one of these days."

      "We must," said the police-captain, significantly. He was rich, richer than he had ever hoped to be; but he was still on Tom Tiddler's ground, and meant to make the most of it.

      "Of course, I don't know your methods on this side, but anything that's usual—"

      "I'll see you at my office. Spike Mullins will show you where it is."

      "Very well. You must forgive this preliminary informal call. We came in more to shelter from the rain than anything."

      "You did, did you?"

      Jimmy felt that it behooved him to stand on his dignity. The situation demanded it.

      "Why," he said with some hauteur, "in the ordinary course of business I should hardly waste time over a small crib like—"

      "It's banks fer his," murmured Spike, rapturously. "He eats dem alive. An' jools from duchesses."

      "I admit a partiality for jewels and duchesses," said Jimmy. "And, now, as it's a little late, perhaps we had better—Ready, Spike? Good-night, then. Pleased to have met you."

      "I'll see you at my office."

      "I may possibly look in. I shall be doing very little work in New York, I fancy. I am here merely on a vacation."

      "If you do any work at all," said the policeman coldly, "you'll look in at my office, or you'll wish you had when it's too late."

      "Of course, of course. I shouldn't dream of omitting any formality that may be usual. But I don't fancy I shall break my vacation. By the way, one little thing. Have you any objections to my carving a J on your front-door?"

      The policeman stared.

      "On the inside. It won't show. It's just a whim of mine. If you have no objection?"

      "I don't want any of your—" began the policeman.

      "You misunderstand me. It's only that it means paying for a dinner. I wouldn't for the world—"

      The policeman pointed to the window.

      "Out you get," he said, abruptly. "I've had enough of you. And don't you forget to come to my office."

      Spike, still deeply mistrustful of the bull-dog Rastus, jumped at the invitation. He was through the window and out of sight in the friendly darkness almost before the policeman had finished speaking. Jimmy remained.

      "I shall be delighted—" he had begun. Then, he stopped. In the doorway was standing a girl—a girl whom he recognized. Her startled look told him that she, too, had recognized him.

      Not for the first time since he had set out from his flat that night in Spike's company, Jimmy was conscious of a sense of the unreality of things. It was all so exactly as it would have happened in a dream! He had gone to sleep thinking of this girl, and here she was. But a glance at the man with the revolver brought him back to earth. There was nothing of the dream-world about the police-captain.

      That gentleman, whose back was toward the door, had not observed the addition to the company. Molly had turned the handle quietly, and her slippered feet made no sound. It was the amazed expression on Jimmy's face that caused the captain to look toward the door.

      "Molly!"

      The girl smiled, though her face was white. Jimmy's evening clothes had reassured her. She did not understand how he came to be there, but evidently there was nothing wrong. She had interrupted a conversation, not a conflict.

      "I heard the noise and you going downstairs, and I sent the dogs down to help you, father," she said. "And, then, after a little, I came down to see if you were all right."

      Mr. McEachern was perplexed. Molly's arrival had put him in an awkward position. To denounce the visitor as a cracksman was now impossible, for he knew too much. The only real fear of the policeman's life was lest some word of his money-making methods might come to his daughter's ears.

      Quite a brilliant idea came to him.

      "A man broke in, my dear," he said. "This gentleman was passing, and saw him."

      "Distinctly," said Jimmy. "An ugly-looking customer!"

      "But he slipped out of the window, and got away," concluded the policeman.

      "He was very quick," said Jimmy. "I think he may have been a professional acrobat."

      "He didn't hurt you, father?"

      "No, no, my dear."

      "Perhaps I frightened him," said Jimmy, airily.

      Mr. McEachern scowled furtively at him.

      "We mustn't detain you, Mr.-"

      "Pitt," said Jimmy. "My name is Pitt." He turned to Molly. "I hope you enjoyed the voyage."

      The policeman started.

      "You know my daughter?"

      "By sight only, I'm afraid. We were fellow-passengers on the Lusitania. Unfortunately, I was in the second-cabin. I used to see your daughter walking the deck sometimes."

      Molly smiled.

      "I remember seeing you—sometimes."

      McEachern burst out.

      "Then, you—!"

      He stopped, and looked at Molly. The girl was bending over Rastus, tickling him under the ear.

      "Let me show you the way out, Mr. Pitt," said the policeman, shortly. His manner was abrupt, but when one is speaking to a man whom one would dearly love to throw out of the window, abruptness is almost unavoidable.

      "Perhaps I should be going," said Jimmy.

      "Good-night, Mr. Pitt," said Molly.

      "I hope we shall meet again," said Jimmy.

      "This way, Mr. Pitt," growled McEachern, holding the door.

      "Please don't trouble," said Jimmy. He went to the window, and, flinging his leg over the sill, dropped noiselessly to the ground.

      He turned and put his head in at the window again.

      "I did that rather well," he said, pleasantly. "I think I must take up this—sort of thing as a profession. Good-night."