"Forty thousand pounds," said Jimmy shortly. "Now, drop it." "Yes, Mr. Chames. Can I help youse wit' de duds?" "No, thanks. Spike; I'm through, now. You might just give me a brush down, though, if you don't mind. Not that. That's a hair brush. Try the big black one." "Dis is a dude suit for fair," observed Spike, pausing in his labors. "Glad you like it, Spike." "It's de limit. Excuse me. How much of de long green did youse pungle for it, Mr. Chames?" "I really can't remember," said Jimmy, with a laugh. "I could look up the bill and let you know. Seventy guineas, I fancy." "What's dat--guineas? Is dat more dan a pound?" "A shilling more. Why?" Spike resumed his brushing. "What a lot of dude suits youse could get," he observed meditatively, "if youse had dose jools." "Oh, _curse_ the jewels for the hundredth time!" snapped Jimmy. "Yes, Mr. Chames. But, say, dat must be a boid of a necklace, dat one. You'll be seeing it at de dinner, Mr. Chames." Whatever comment Jimmy might have made on this insidious statement was checked by a sudden bang on the door. Almost simultaneously the handle turned. "P'Chee!" cried Spike. "It's de cop!" Jimmy smiled pleasantly. "Come in, Mr. McEachern," he said, "come in. Journeys end in lovers meeting. You know my friend, Mr. Mullins, I think? Shut the door, and sit down and let's talk of many things." CHAPTER VIII. "It's a conspiracy!" thundered Mr. McEachern. He stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. It has been shown that the ex-policeman was somewhat prone to harbor suspicions of those round about him, and at the present moment his mind was aflame. Indeed, a more trusting man might have been excused for feeling a little doubtful as to the intentions of Jimmy and Spike. When McEachern had heard that his stepson had brought home a casual London acquaintance, he had suspected the existence of hidden motives on the part of the unknown. Spennie, he had told himself, was precisely the sort of youth to whom the professional bunko-steerer would attach himself with shouts of joy. Never, he had assured himself, had there been a softer proposition than his stepson since bunko-steering became a profession. When he found that the strange visitor was Jimmy Pitt, his suspicions had increased a thousandfold. 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.