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_ On the afternoon of the 24th of December Sir Jehoshaphat drove
home to Sneyd Castle from the principal of the three Dain
manufactories, and found Lady Dain superintending the work of
packing up trunks. He and she were to quit the castle that
afternoon in order to spend Christmas on the other side of the
Five Towns, under the roof of their eldest son, John, who had a
new house, a new wife, and a new baby (male). John was a
domineering person, and, being rather proud of his house and all
that was his, he had obstinately decided to have his own Christmas
at his own hearth. Grandpapa and Grandmamma, drawn by the
irresistible attraction of that novelty, a grandson (though Mrs
John HAD declined to have the little thing named Jehoshaphat), had
yielded to John's solicitations, and the family gathering, for the
first time in history, was not to occur round Sir Jee's mahogany.
Sir Jee, very characteristically, said nothing to Lady Dain
immediately. He allowed her to proceed with the packing of the
trunks, and then tea was served, and as the time was approaching
for the carriage to come round to take them to the station, at
last he suddenly remarked-
'I shan't be able to go with you to John's this afternoon.'
'Oh, Jee!' she exclaimed. 'Really, you are tiresome. Why couldn't
you tell me before?'
'I will come over tomorrow morning--perhaps in time for church,'
he proceeded, ignoring her demand for an explanation.
He always did ignore her demand for an explanation. Indeed, she
only asked for explanations in a mechanical and perfunctory
manner--she had long since ceased to expect them. Sir Jee had been
born like that--devious, mysterious, incalculable. And Lady Dain
accepted him as he was. She was somewhat surprised, therefore,
when he went on--
'I have some minutes of committee meetings that I really must go
carefully through and send off tonight, and you know as well as I
do that there'll be no chance of doing that at John's. I've
telegraphed to John.'
He was obviously nervous and self-conscious.
'There's no food in the house,' sighed Lady Dain. 'And the
servants are all going away except Callear, and HE can't cook your
dinner tonight. I think I'd better stay myself and look after
you.'
'You'll do no such thing,' said Sir Jee, decisively. 'As for my
dinner, anything will do for that. The servants have been promised
their holiday, to start from this evening, and they must have it.
I can manage.'
Here spoke the philanthropist with his unshakable sense of
justice.
So Lady Dain departed, anxious and worried, having previously
arranged something cold for Sir Jee in the dining-room, and
instructed Callear about boiling the water for Sir Jee's tea on
Christmas morning. Callear was the under-coachman and a useful odd
man. He it was who would drive Sir Jee to the station on Christmas
morning, and then guard the castle and the stables thereof during
the absence of the family and the other servants. Callear slept
over the stables.
And after Sir Jee had consumed his cold repast in the dining-room
the other servants went, and Sir Jee was alone in the castle,
facing the portrait.
He had managed the affair fairly well, he thought. Indeed, he had
a talent for chicane, and none knew it better than himself. It
would have been dangerous if the servants had been left in the
castle. They might have suffered from insomnia, and heard William
Smith, and interfered with the operations of William Smith. On the
other hand, Sir Jee had no intention whatever of leaving the
castle uninhabited to the mercies of William Smith. He felt that
he himself must be on the spot to see that everything went right
and that nothing went wrong. Thus, the previously-arranged scheme
for the servants' holiday fitted perfectly into his plans, and all
that he had had to do was to refuse to leave the castle till the
morrow. It was ideal.
Nevertheless, he was a little afraid of what he had done, and of
what he was going to permit William Smith to do. It was certainly
dangerous--certainly rather a wild scheme. However, the die was
cast. And within twelve hours he would be relieved of the
intolerable incubus of the portrait.
And when he thought of the humiliations which that portrait had
caused him; when he remembered the remarks of his sons concerning
it, especially John's remarks; when he recalled phrases about it
in London newspapers, he squirmed, and told himself that no scheme
for getting rid of it could be too wild and perilous. And, after
all, the burglary dodge was the only dodge, absolutely the only
conceivable practical method of disposing of the portrait--except
burning down the castle. And surely it was preferable to a
conflagration, to arson! Moreover, in case of fire at the castle
some blundering fool would be sure to cry; 'The portrait! The
portrait must be saved!' And the portrait would be saved.
He gazed at the repulsive, hateful thing. In the centre of the
lower part of the massive gold frame was the legend: 'Presented to
Sir Jehoshaphat Dain, Knight, as a mark of public esteem and
gratitude,' etc. He wondered if William Smith would steal the
frame. It was to be hoped that he would not steal the frame. In
fact, William Smith would find it very difficult to steal that
frame unless he had an accomplice or so.
'This is the last time I shall see YOU!' said Sir Jee to the
portrait.
Then he unfastened the catch of one of the windows in the dining-
room (as per contract with William Smith), turned out the electric
light, and went to bed in the deserted castle.
He went to bed, but not to sleep. It was no part of Sir Jee's
programme to sleep. He intended to listen, and he did listen.
And about two o'clock, precisely the hour which William Smith had
indicated, he fancied he heard muffled and discreet noises. Then
he was sure that he heard them. William Smith had kept his word.
Then the noises ceased for a period, and then they recommenced.
Sir Jee restrained his curiosity as long as he could, and when he
could restrain it no more he rose and silently opened his bedroom
window and put his head out into the nipping night air of
Christmas. And by good fortune he saw the vast oblong of the
picture, carefully enveloped in sheets, being passed by a couple
of dark figures through the dining-room window to the garden
outside. William Smith had a colleague, then, and he was taking
the frame as well as the canvas. Sir Jee watched the men disappear
down the avenue, and they did not reappear. Sir Jee returned to
bed.
Yes, he felt himself equal to facing it out with his family and
friends. He felt himself equal to pretending that he had no
knowledge of the burglary.
Having slept a few hours, he got up early and, half-dressed,
descended to the dining-room just to see what sort of a mess
William Smith had made.
The canvas of the portrait lay flat on the hearthrug, with the
following words written on it in chalk: 'This is no use to me.' It
was the massive gold frame that had gone.
Further, as was later discovered, all the silver had gone. Not a
spoon was left in the castle. _
Read next: PART IX - NEWS OF THE ENGAGEMENT: CHAPTER I
Read previous: PART VIII - THE BURGLARY: CHAPTER II
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