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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75307 ***
+
+
+The Crow's Inn Tragedy
+
+by Annie Haynes
+
+Copyright, 1927, by Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+The offices of Messrs. Bechcombe and Turner took up the whole of the
+first floor of the corner house of Crow's Inn Square. Bechcombe and
+Turner was one of the oldest legal firms in London. Their offices were
+dingy, not to say grimy-looking. The doors and windows had evidently
+not had a coat of paint for years. There were no lifts in Crow's Inn.
+Any such modern innovation would have been out of place in the tall,
+narrow-casemented houses that stood square round the grass—grass which
+was bound and crossed by stone flagged walks. The front door of the
+corner house stood open; the tessellated floor of the hall was dulled
+by the passing of numberless footsteps. The narrow, uncarpeted stairs
+went up just opposite the door.
+
+A tall, grey-haired clergyman, who was carefully scrutinizing the
+almost illegible doorplate, glanced round in some distaste as he went
+up the worn stairs. At the top he was faced by a door with the legend
+“Inquiries” written large upon it. After a moment's hesitation he
+knocked loudly. Instantly a panel in the middle of the door shot aside
+and a small, curiously wrinkled face looked out inquisitively.
+
+“Mr. Bechcombe?” the caller said inquiringly. “Please tell him that
+Mr. Collyer has called, but that he will wait.”
+
+The message was repeated by a boyish voice, the panel was pushed into
+its place again, a door by the side opened and Mr. Collyer was
+beckoned in. He found himself in a small ante-room; a door before him
+stood open and he could see into an office containing a row of desks
+on each side and several clerks apparently writing busily away. Nearer
+to him was another open door evidently leading into a waiting-room,
+furnished with a round centre-table and heavy leather chairs—all with
+the same indescribable air of gloom that seemed to pervade Messrs.
+Bechcombe and Turner's establishment.
+
+The boy who had admitted Mr. Collyer now stood aside for him to pass
+in, and then departed, vouchsafing the information that Mr. Bechcombe
+would be at leisure in a few minutes.
+
+With a sigh of relief the clergyman let himself down into one of the
+capacious arm-chairs, moving stiffly like a man afflicted with chronic
+rheumatism. Then he laid his head against the back of it as if
+thoroughly tired out. Seen thus in repose, the deep lines graven on
+his clean-shaven face were very noticeable, his mouth had a weary
+droop, and his kind, grey eyes with the tiny network of wrinkles round
+them were sad and worried.
+
+The minutes were very few indeed before a bell rang close at hand, a
+door sprang open as if by magic and the same boy beckoned him into a
+farther room.
+
+Luke Bechcombe was standing on the hearthrug with his back to the open
+fireplace. The head, and in fact the sole representative, of the firm
+of Bechcombe and Turner, since Turner had retired to a villa at
+Streatham, Luke Bechcombe was a small, spare man with grey hair
+already growing very thin near the temples and on the crown, and a
+small, neatly trimmed, grey beard. His keen, pale eyes were hidden
+from sight by a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. His general appearance
+was remarkably spick and span.
+
+He came forward with outstretched hand as the clergyman entered
+somewhat hesitatingly.
+
+“Why, Jim, this is an unexpected pleasure! What has brought you up to
+town?”
+
+The clergyman looked at him doubtfully as their hands met.
+
+“The usual thing—worry! I came up to consult you, to ask if you could
+help me.”
+
+The solicitor glanced at him keenly, then he turned to the revolving
+chair before his desk and motioned his visitor to the one opposite.
+
+“Tony again?” he questioned, as his visitor seated himself.
+
+The clergyman waited a minute, twirling his soft hat about in his
+hands as he held it between his knees.
+
+“Tony again!” he assented at last. “It isn't the lad's fault, Luke, I
+truly believe. He can't get a job that suits him. Those two years at
+the War played ruination with the young men just beginning life. Tony
+would make a good soldier. But he doesn't seem to fit in anywhere
+else.”
+
+“Then why doesn't he enlist?” Luke Bechcombe snapped out.
+
+“His mother,” Mr. Collyer said quietly. “She would never have a
+moment's peace.”
+
+Luke Bechcombe pushed back his glasses and stared at his
+brother-in-law for a moment. Then he nodded his head slowly. The Rev.
+James Collyer's statement was true enough he knew—none better. Mrs.
+Collyer was his sister; the terrible anxiety of those last dreadful
+days of the Great War, when her only son had been reported wounded and
+missing for months, had played havoc with her heart. Tony Collyer had
+had a hot time of it in one of the prisoners' camps in Germany; he had
+been gassed as well as badly wounded, and he had come back a shadow of
+his old self. His mother had nursed him back to health and sanity, but
+the price had been the invalid couch that had stood ever since in the
+Rectory morning-room. No. Tony Collyer could never enlist in his
+mother's lifetime. The same applied to emigration. Tony must get a job
+at home, and England, the home of heroes, had no use for her heroes
+now.
+
+There had been times when Tony envied those comrades of his whose
+graves lay in Flanders' soil. They, at any rate, had not lived to know
+that they were little better than nuisances in the land for which they
+had fought and died. He had had several jobs, but in every one of them
+he had been a square peg in a round hole. They had all been clerkships
+of one kind or another and Tony had hated them all. Nevertheless he
+had conscientiously done his best for some time. Latterly, however,
+Tony had taken to slacking. He had met with some of his old companions
+of the Great War and had spent more money than he could afford. Three
+times already his father had paid his debts, taxing his resources to
+the utmost to do so. Each time Tony had promised reformation and
+amendment, but each time the result had been the same. Small wonder
+that the rector's hair was rapidly whitening, that every day seemed to
+make new lines on his fresh-coloured, pleasant face.
+
+His brother-in-law glanced at him sympathetically now.
+
+“What is Tony doing just at present?”
+
+“Nothing, most of the time,” his father said bitterly. “But I hear
+this morning that he has been offered a post as bear leader to the
+younger brother of a friend of his. I gather the lad is a trifle
+defective.”
+
+“Must be, I should think. His friends too, I imagine,” Luke Bechcombe
+barked gruffly.
+
+The implication was unmistakable. The rector sighed uneasily.
+
+“I have faith, you know, Luke, that the boy will come right in the
+end. He is the child of many prayers.”
+
+“Umph!” Mr. Bechcombe sat drumming his fingers on the writing-pad
+before him. “Why don't you let him pay his debts out of his salary?”
+
+The clergyman stirred uneasily.
+
+“He couldn't. And there are things that must be met at once—debts of
+honour, he calls them. But that is enough, Luke. I mean to give the
+boy a clean start this time, and I think he will go straight. He has
+an inducement now that he has never had before.”
+
+“Good heavens! Not a girl?” Luke Bechcombe ejaculated.
+
+Mr. Collyer bent his head.
+
+“Yes, I hope so. A very charming girl too, I believe.”
+
+“Who is she?”
+
+“I do not suppose I shall be betraying confidence if I tell you,” the
+clergyman debated. “You will have to know soon, I expect. Her name is
+Cecily Hoyle.”
+
+“Good heavens!” The lawyer sat back and stared at him. “Do you mean my
+secretary?”
+
+“Your secretary,” Mr. Collyer acquiesced. “She is a nice girl, isn't
+she, Luke?”
+
+“Niceness doesn't matter in a secretary,” the lawyer said gruffly.
+“She types and takes shorthand notes very satisfactorily. As for looks
+she is nothing particular. Madeline took care of that—always does! In
+fact she engaged her for me. Still, she is a taking little thing. How
+the deuce did Tony get hold of her?”
+
+The clergyman shook his head.
+
+“I don't know. He only spoke of her the other day. But it will be good
+for the lad, Luke. I believe it is the genuine thing.”
+
+“Genuine thing! Good for the lad!” Luke Bechcombe repeated scornfully.
+“Tony can't keep himself. How is he going to keep my secretary?”
+
+“Tony can work if he likes,” his father maintained stoutly. “And if he
+has someone to work for I think he will.”
+
+“Girl won't take him. She has too much sense,” growled the lawyer.
+
+“Oh, I think she has given Tony some reason to hope.”
+
+“She is as big a fool as he is then,” Mr. Bechcombe said with
+asperity. “But Tony isn't the only one of the family on matrimony
+bent. What do you think of Aubrey Todmarsh?”
+
+“Aubrey Todmarsh!” repeated the rector of Wexbridge in amazed accents.
+“I should have thought matrimony would have been the last thing to
+enter his head. His whole life seems to be bound up in that community
+of his.”
+
+“Not so bound up but that he still has a very good eye to the main
+chance,” retorted Luke Bechcombe. “He is not thinking of a penniless
+secretary! He's after money, is Mr. Aubrey. What do you think of Mrs.
+Phillimore?”
+
+“Mrs. Phillimore! The rich American widow! She must be much too old
+for him.”
+
+“Old enough to be his mother, I dare say. She is pretty well made up,
+though, and that doesn't matter to Aubrey as long as she has got the
+money. She has been financing these wildcat schemes of his lately. But
+I suppose he thinks the whole would suit him better than part.”
+
+“But are they really engaged?”
+
+“Oh, nothing quite so definite yet. But I am expecting the
+announcement every day. Hello!”—as an intermittent clicking made
+itself heard—“there's your future daughter-in-law at work. That's the
+typewriter.”
+
+Mr. Collyer started.
+
+“You don't mean that she has been able to hear what we have been
+saying?”
+
+Mr. Bechcombe laughed.
+
+“Hardly! That would be delightful in a solicitor's office. She sits in
+that little room at the side, but there is no communicating door and
+of course she can't hear what goes on here. The door is in the top
+passage, past my private entrance. I didn't expect to hear her
+machine, but there is something particularly penetrating about a
+typewriter. However, it is really very faint and I have got quite used
+to it. Would you like to see her?”
+
+The clergyman looked undecided for a moment; then he shook his head.
+
+“No, I shouldn't care to do anything that might look like spying. Time
+enough for me to see her when there is anything decided.”
+
+“Please yourself!” Luke Bechcombe said gruffly. “Anyway if I had to
+choose between Tony and Aubrey Todmarsh I should take Tony.”
+
+“I wouldn't,” Tony's father said. “The lad is a good lad when he is
+away from these friends of his. But he is weak—terribly weak. Now
+Aubrey Todmarsh—though I haven't always approved of him—is doing
+wonderful work in that East End settlement of his. He is marvellously
+successful in dealing with a class of men that we clergy are seldom
+able to reach.”
+
+“Umph! Well, he is always out for money for something,” said the
+solicitor. “He invades this office sometimes almost demanding
+subscriptions. Will he expect his wife to go and live down at this
+Community house, I wonder? However, I believe the settlement is an
+attraction to some silly women, and to my mind he will want all the
+attraction he can get. I can't stand Aubrey myself. I have no use for
+conscientious objectors—never had!”
+
+“There I am with you,” assented the clergyman. “But I think Aubrey is
+hardly to be judged by ordinary standards. He is a visionary, an
+enthusiast. Of course I hold him to have been mistaken about the War,
+but honestly mistaken. With his dreams of reforming mankind I can
+understand——”
+
+Mr. Bechcombe snorted.
+
+“Can you? I can't! I am jolly glad your Tony didn't dream such dreams.
+Two conscientious objectors in the family would have been too much for
+me. I never could stand old Todmarsh. Aubrey is the very spit of him,
+as we used to say in Leicestershire.”
+
+“Oh, I don't see any resemblance between Aubrey and his father,” the
+rector dissented. “Old Aubrey Todmarsh was a thoroughly self-indulgent
+man. I don't believe he ever gave a thought to anyone else in the
+world. Now Aubrey with his visions and his dreams——”
+
+“Which he does his best to get other people to pay for,” the solicitor
+interposed. “No use. You won't get me to enthuse over Aubrey, James. I
+remember him too well as a boy—a selfish, self-seeking little beast.”
+
+“Yes, I was not fond of him as a child. But I believe it to be a case
+of genuine conversion. He spends himself and his little patrimony for
+others. Next week he goes to Geneva, he tells me, to attend a sitting
+of the League of Nations, to explain the workings of——”
+
+“Damn the League of Nations!” uttered the solicitor, banging his fist
+upon his writing-pad with an energy that rattled his inkstand. “I beg
+your pardon, James. Not but what it went out of fashion to apologize
+to parsons for swearing in the War. Most of them do it themselves
+nowadays—eh, what?” with a chuckle at his own wit that threatened to
+choke him.
+
+The rector did not smile.
+
+“I look upon the League of Nations as our great hope for the future.”
+
+“Do you? I don't,” contradicted his brother-in-law flatly. “I look to
+a largely augmented Air Force with plenty of practice in bomb-throwing
+as my hope for the future. It will be worth fifty of that rotten
+League of Nations. Aubrey Todmarsh addressing the League of Nations!
+It makes me sick. I suppose they will knight _him_ next. No, no more
+of that, please, James. When I think of the League of Nations I get
+excited and that is bad for my heart. But now to business. You say you
+want money for Tony—how do you propose to get it? I should say you
+have exhausted all ways of doing it by now.”
+
+“How about a further mortgage on my little farm at Halvers?”
+
+The solicitor shook his head.
+
+“No use thinking of it. Farm is mortgaged up to the hilt
+already—rather past it, in fact.”
+
+“And I can't raise any more on my life insurance.” Mr. Collyer sighed.
+“Well, it must be—there is nothing else—the emerald cross.”
+
+“Oh, but that would be a thousand pities—an heirloom with a history
+such as that. Oh, you can't part with it.”
+
+“What else am I to do?” questioned the clergyman. “You said yourself
+that I had exhausted all my resources. No. I had practically made up
+my mind to it when I came here. I had just a forlorn hope that you
+might be able to suggest something else, though as a matter of fact I
+want your assistance still. I am deplorably ignorant on such matters.
+How does one set about selling jewellery? Can you tell me a good place
+to go to?”
+
+“Um!” The solicitor pursed up his lips. “If you have really made up
+your mind, how would you like to put the matter in my hands? First, of
+course, I must have the emeralds valued—then I can see what offers we
+get, and you can decide which, if any, you care to accept. Not but
+what I think you are quite wrong, mind you!”
+
+“I shall be enormously obliged to you,” the clergyman said haltingly.
+“But do you know anything of selling jewellery yourself, Luke?”
+
+Mr. Bechcombe smiled. “A man in my position and profession has to know
+a bit of everything. As a matter of fact I have a job of this kind on
+hand just now, and I might work the two together. I will do my best if
+you like to entrust me with the emeralds.”
+
+The clergyman rose.
+
+“You are very good, Luke. All my life long you have been the one to
+help me out of any difficulty. Here are the emeralds,” fumbling in his
+breast pocket. “I brought them with me in case of any emergency such
+as this that has arisen.”
+
+“You surely don't mean that you have put them in your pocket?”
+exclaimed the solicitor.
+
+Mr. Collyer looked surprised.
+
+“They are quite safe. See, I button my coat when I am outside. No one
+could possibly take them from me.”
+
+Mr. Bechcombe coughed.
+
+“Oh, James, nothing will ever alter you! Don't you know that there
+have been as many jewels stolen in the past year in London as in
+twenty years previously? People say there is a regular gang at
+work—they call it the Yellow Gang, and the head of it goes by the name
+of the Yellow Dog. If it had been known you were carrying the emeralds
+in that careless fashion they would never have got here. However,
+all's well that ends well. You had better leave them in my safe.”
+
+The rector brought an ancient leather case out of his pocket.
+
+“Here it is.”
+
+Mr. Bechcombe held his hand out for the case.
+
+“So this is the Collyer cross! I haven't seen it for years.” He was
+opening the case as he spoke. Inside the cross lay on its satin bed,
+gleaming with baleful, green fire. As Mr. Bechcombe looked at it his
+expression changed. “Where have you kept the cross, James?”
+
+The rector blinked.
+
+“In the secret drawer in my writing-table. Why do you ask?”
+
+Mr. Bechcombe groaned.
+
+“A secret drawer that is no secret at all, since all the household,
+not to say the parish, knows it. As for why I asked, I know enough
+about precious stones to see”—he raised the cross and peered at it in
+a ray of sunlight that slanted in through the dust-dimmed window—“to
+fear that these so-called emeralds are only paste.”
+
+“What!” The rector stared at him. “The Collyer emeralds—paste! Why,
+they have been admired by experts!”
+
+“No. Not the Collyer emeralds,” Mr. Bechcombe contradicted. “The
+Collyer emeralds were magnificent gems. This worthless paste has been
+substituted.”
+
+“Impossible! Who would do such a thing?” Mr. Collyer asked.
+
+“Ah! That,” said Luke Bechcombe grimly, “we have got to find out.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+The Settlement of the Confraternity of St. Philip was situated in one
+of the most unsavoury districts in South London. It faced the river,
+but between it and the water lay a dreary waste of debatable land,
+strewn with the wreckage and rubbish thrown out by the small
+boat-building firms that existed on either side.
+
+Originally the Settlement had been two or three tenement houses that
+had remained as a relic of the days when some better class folk had
+lived there to be near the river, then one of London's great highways.
+At the back the Settlement had annexed a big barnlike building
+formerly used as a storehouse. It made a capital room for the meetings
+that Aubrey Todmarsh and his assistants were continually organizing.
+In the matter of cleanliness, even externally, the Settlement set an
+example to the neighbourhood. No dingy paint or glass there. The
+windows literally shone, the front was washed over as soon as there
+was the faintest suspicion of grime by some of Todmarsh's numerous
+protégés. The door plate, inscribed “South London Settlement of the
+Confraternity of St. Philip,” was as bright as polish and willing
+hands could make it.
+
+The Rev. James Collyer looked at it approvingly as he stood on the
+doorstep.
+
+“Just the sort of work I should have loved when I was young,” he
+soliloquized as he rang the door bell.
+
+It was answered at once by a man who wore the dark blue serge short
+coat and plus fours with blue bone buttons, which was the uniform of
+the Confraternity. In addition he had on the white overall which was
+_de rigueur_ for those members of the Community who did the housework.
+This was generally understood to be undertaken by all the members in
+turn.
+
+But Mr. Collyer did not feel much impressed with this particular
+member. He was a rather short man with coal-black hair contrasting
+oddly with his unhealthily white face, deep-set dark eyes that seemed
+to look away from the rector and yet to give him a quick, furtive
+glance every now and then from beneath his lowered lids. He was
+clean-shaven, showing an abnormally large chin, and he had a curious
+habit of opening and shutting his mouth silently in fish-like fashion.
+
+“Mr. Todmarsh?” the rector inquired.
+
+The man held the door wider open and stood aside. Interpreting this as
+an invitation to enter, Mr. Collyer walked in. The man closed the door
+and with a silent gesture invited the clergyman to follow him.
+
+The Community House of St. Philip was just as conspicuously clean
+inside as out. Mr. Collyer had time to note that the stone floor of
+the hall had just been cleaned, that the scanty furniture, consisting
+of a big oak chest under the window and a couple of Windsor chairs at
+the ends, was as clean as furniture polish and elbow-grease could make
+it. His guide opened a door at the side and motioned him in.
+
+A man who was writing at the long centre table got up quickly to meet
+him and came forward with outstretched hands.
+
+“My dear uncle, this is a pleasure!”
+
+“One to which I have long been looking forward,” Mr. Collyer responded
+warmly. “My dear Aubrey, the reports I have heard of the Settlement
+have been in no way exaggerated. And so far as I can see this is an
+ideal Community house.”
+
+Todmarsh held his uncle's hand for a minute in his firm clasp, looking
+the elder man squarely in the eyes the while.
+
+“There is nothing ideal about us, Uncle James. We are just a handful
+of very ordinary men, all trying to make our own bit of the world
+brighter and happier. It sounds very simple, but it isn't always easy
+to do things. Sometimes life is nothing but disappointments. But I
+know you realize just how it feels when one spends everything in
+striving to cleanse one's own bit of this great Augean mass that is
+called London—and fails.”
+
+His voice dropped as he spoke, and the bright look of enthusiasm faded
+from his face, leaving it prematurely old and tired. For it was above
+all things his enthusiasm, a sort of exalted look as of one who
+dreamed dreams and saw visions not vouchsafed to ordinary men, that
+made Aubrey Todmarsh's face attractive. Momentarily stripped of its
+bright expression it was merely a thin, rather overjowled face, with
+deep-set, dark eyes, noticeably low forehead, and thick dark hair
+brushed sleekly backwards, hair that was worn rather longer than most
+men's.
+
+The clergyman looked at him pityingly.
+
+“Oh, my dear Aubrey, this is only nerves, a very natural depression.
+We parsons know it only too well. It is especially liable to recur
+when we are beginning work. Later one learns that all one can do is to
+sow in faith, and then be content to wait the issue in patience,
+leaving everything to Him whose gracious powers can alone give the
+increase.”
+
+Todmarsh did not speak for a moment, then he drew a long breath and,
+laying his hand on the rector's shoulder, looked at him with the
+bright smile with which his friends were familiar.
+
+“You always give me comfort, Uncle James. Somehow you always know just
+what to say to heal when one has been stricken sorely. That idea of
+sowing and waiting—somehow one gets hold of that.”
+
+“It isn't original, dear Aubrey,” his uncle said modestly. “But for
+all Christian work I have found it most helpful. But you, my dear
+Aubrey, the founder of this—er—splendid effort—might rather have cause
+for—er—spiritual exaltation than depression.”
+
+“There is cause enough for depression sometimes, I assure you,” Aubrey
+returned gloomily. “Much of our work is done among the discharged
+prisoners, you know, Uncle James. Different members of our Community
+look after those bound over under the First Offenders' Act, and those
+undergoing short terms of imprisonment. With those who have had longer
+sentences and the habitual offenders I try to deal as much as possible
+myself with the valuable help of my second-in-command.”
+
+“I know. I have heard how you attend at police courts and meet the
+prisoners when they come out. I can hardly imagine a more saintly work
+or one more certain to carry with it a blessing.”
+
+“It doesn't seem to,” Todmarsh said, his face clouding over again.
+“There is this man, Michael Farmore, the case I was speaking of. He
+was convicted of burglary and served his five years. We got hold of
+him when he came out and brought him here. In time he became one of
+our most trusted members. If ever there was a case of genuine
+conversion I believed his to be one. Yet——”
+
+“Yes?” Mr. Collyer prompted as he paused.
+
+“Yet last night he was arrested attempting to break into General
+Craven's house in Mortimer Square.”
+
+Todmarsh blew his nose vigorously. His voice was distinctly shaky as
+he broke off. His uncle glanced at him sympathetically.
+
+“You must not take it too much to heart, my dear Aubrey. Think of your
+many successes, and even in this case that seems so terrible I feel
+sure that your labour has not really been wasted. You have cast your
+bread upon the waters, and you will assuredly find it again. You are
+fighting against the forces of the arch-enemy, remember.”
+
+“We are fighting against a gang of criminals,” Aubrey said shortly.
+“We hear of them every now and then in our work. The Yellow Gang they
+call them in the underworld—they form regular organizations of their
+own, working on a system, and appear to carry out the orders of one
+man. Sometimes I think he is the arch-fiend himself, for it seems
+impossible to circumvent him.”
+
+“But who is he?” the rector inquired innocently.
+
+Aubrey Todmarsh permitted himself a slight smile.
+
+“If we knew that, my dear uncle, it wouldn't be long before this wave
+of crime that is sweeping over the Metropolis was checked. But I have
+heard that even the rank and file of his own followers do not know who
+he is, though he is spoken of sometimes as the Yellow Dog. Anyway, he
+has a genius for organization. But now we must think of something more
+cheerful, Uncle James. I want you to see our refectory and the
+recreation rooms, and our little rooms, cells, kitchens. Through
+here”—throwing open a glass door—“we go to our playground as you see.”
+
+Mr. Collyer peered forth. In front of him was a wide, open space,
+partly grass, partly concrete. On the grass a game of cricket was
+proceeding, the players being youths apparently all under twenty. On
+the concrete older men were having a game at racquets. All round the
+open space at the foot of the high wall that surrounded the Community
+grounds there ran a flower border, just now gay with crocuses and
+great clumps of arabis—white and purple and gold. The walls themselves
+were covered with creepers that later on would blossom into sweetness.
+Here and there men were at work. It was a pleasant and a peaceful
+scene and the Rev. James Collyer's eyes rested on it approvingly.
+
+“There are always some of us at play,” Aubrey smiled. “These men have
+been on night work—porters, etc. You know we undertake all sorts of
+things and our record is such—we have never had a case of our trust
+being betrayed—that our men are in constant request.”
+
+“I do not wonder,” his uncle said cordially. “It is—I must say it
+again, Aubrey—wonderful work that you are carrying on. Now what have
+these men been before they came to you?”
+
+Todmarsh was leading the way to the other part of the house.
+
+“Wastrels; drunkards most of them,” he said shortly. “Discharged
+prisoners, sentenced for some minor offence. I told you that we meet
+prisoners on their release. Many of them are the wreckage—the
+aftermath of the War.”
+
+The rector sighed.
+
+“I know. It is deplorable. That terrible War—and yet, a most righteous
+War.”
+
+“No war is righteous,” Aubrey said quickly. Then his expression
+changed, the rapt look came back to his eyes. They looked right over
+his uncle's head. “No war can be anything but cruel and wicked. That
+is why we have made up our minds that war shall stop.”
+
+Mr. Collyer shook his head.
+
+“War will never stop, my boy, while men and women remain what they
+are—while human nature remains what it is, I should say.”
+
+Todmarsh's eyes looked right in front of him over the Community
+playing fields.
+
+“Yes, it will! Quarrelling there will be—must be while the world shall
+last. But all disputes shall be settled not by bloodshed and horrible
+carnage, but by arbitration. Every day the League of Nations' labours
+are being quietly and ceaselessly directed to this end, and I think
+very few people realize how enormously the world is progressing.”
+
+“Your Uncle Luke does not think so. He does not believe in the League
+of Nations,” Mr. Collyer dissented. “He, I regret to say, used a
+lamentably strong expression—‘damned rot,’ he called it!”
+
+“Oh, Uncle Luke is hopeless,” Aubrey returned, shrugging his
+shoulders. “The League of Nations means nothing to him. He is one of
+the regular fire-eating, jingo-shouting Britons that plunged us all
+into that horrible carnage of 1914. But his type is becoming scarcer
+every day as the world grows nearer the Christian ideal, thank
+Heaven!”
+
+“Sometimes it seems to me to be growing farther from the Christian
+ideal instead of nearer.” The clergyman sighed. “I am going through a
+terrible experience now, Aubrey. I must confess it is a great trial to
+my faith.”
+
+Instantly Todmarsh's face assumed its most sympathetic expression.
+
+“I am so sorry to hear it, Uncle James. Do tell me about it, if it
+would be any relief to you. Sit down”—as they entered the
+refectory—“what is it? Tony?”
+
+But the rector put aside the proffered chair.
+
+“No, no. I must see all I can of the Settlement. No, it has nothing to
+do with Tony, I am thankful to say. He is to the full as much
+bewildered as I am myself. It is the emeralds—the cross!”
+
+“The Collyer cross?” Aubrey exclaimed. “What of that?”
+
+“Well—er, circumstances arose that made it—er—desirable that I should
+ascertain its value. I took it to your Uncle Luke, thinking that he
+might be able to help me, and he discovered that the stones were
+paste.”
+
+“Impossible!” Aubrey stared at his uncle. “I cannot believe it. But,
+pardon me, Uncle James, I don't think that either you or Uncle Luke
+are very learned with regard to precious stones. I expect it is all a
+mistake. The Collyer emeralds are genuine enough!”
+
+“Oh, there is no mistake,” Mr. Collyer said positively. “I had them
+examined by a well-known expert this morning. They are paste—not
+particularly good paste, either. If I had known rather more about such
+things, I might have discovered the substitution sooner. Not that it
+would have made much difference! You are wrong about your Uncle Luke,
+though, Aubrey. He has an immense fund of information about precious
+stones. He told me that he was about to dispose of——”
+
+“Hush! Don't mention it!” Aubrey interrupted sharply. “I beg your
+pardon, Uncle James, but it is so much safer not to mention names,
+especially in a place like this. But what in the world can have become
+of the emeralds? One would have been inclined to think it was the work
+of the Yellow Gang. But they seem to confine their activities to
+London. And how could it have been effected in peaceful little
+Wexbridge? Now—what is that?” as a loud knock and ring resounded
+simultaneously through the house. “Tony, I declare!” as after a pause
+they heard voices in the hall outside.
+
+A moment later Hopkins opened the door and announced “Mr. Anthony
+Collyer.”
+
+“Hello, dad, I guessed I should find you here,” the new-comer began
+genially. “Aubrey, old chap, is the gentleman who announced me one of
+your hopefuls? Because if so I can't congratulate you on his phiz.
+Sort of thing the late Madame Tussaud would have loved for her Chamber
+of Horrors, don't you know!”
+
+“Hopkins is a most worthy fellow,” Aubrey returned impressively. “One
+of the most absolutely trustworthy men I have. There is nothing more
+unsafe than taking a prejudice at first sight, Tony. If you would
+only——”
+
+“Dare say there isn't,” Tony returned nonchalantly. “You needn't pull
+up your socks over the chap, Aubrey. I'll take your word for it that
+he possesses all the virtues under the sun. I only say, he don't look
+it! Come along, dad, I have ordered a morsel of lunch at a little pub
+I know of, and while you are eating it I will a scheme unfold that I
+know will meet with your approval.”
+
+The rector did not look as if he shared this conviction.
+
+“Well, my boy, I have been telling my troubles to Aubrey. The
+emeralds——”
+
+“Oh, bother the emeralds, dad! It is the business of the police to
+find them, not yours and mine or Aubrey's.”
+
+Anthony Collyer was just a very ordinary type of the young Englishman
+of to-day, well-groomed, well set up. There was little likeness to his
+father about his clear-cut features, his merry, blue eyes or his
+lithe, active form. The pity of it was that the last few years of
+idleness had blurred the clearness of his skin, had dulled his eyes
+and added just a suspicion of heaviness to the figure which ought to
+have been in the very pink of condition. Tony Collyer had let himself
+run to seed of late and looked it and knew it. To-day, however, there
+was a new look of purpose about his face. His mouth was set in fresh,
+strong lines, and his eyes met his father's firmly.
+
+“I hoped you would both lunch with me,” Aubrey interposed hastily. “I
+am sure if you could throw your trouble aside you would enjoy one of
+our Community meals, Uncle James. The fare is plain, but abundant, and
+the spirit that prevails seems to bless it all. You would find it
+truly interesting.”
+
+“I am sure I should, my boy. I really think, Tony——”
+
+“That is all very well, Aubrey,” Tony interrupted. “I'm jolly well
+sure your meals are interesting. But it isn't exactly the sort of
+feast I mean to set the Dad down to when he does get a few days off
+from his little old parish. No, I think we will stick to my pub—thank
+you all the same, Aubrey.”
+
+“Oh, well, if you put it that way——” Todmarsh shook hands with his
+visitors.
+
+The rector's expression was rather wistful as they went out. He would
+have liked to share the simple meal Aubrey had spoken of. But Tony
+wanted him and Tony came first.
+
+At the front door they paused a minute. Tony looked at his cousin with
+a wicked snigger.
+
+“I'm really taking the Dad away out of kindness, Aubrey. There is a
+car standing a little way down the road, and a certain bewitching
+widow is leaning out talking to a couple of interesting-looking
+gentlemen. Converts of yours, recent ones, I should say by the cut of
+them.”
+
+“Mrs. Phillimore!” Aubrey came to the door and looked out. “It is her
+day for visiting our laundry just down the road.”
+
+Mr. Collyer smiled.
+
+“Well, she is a good woman, Aubrey. We are dining with your Uncle Luke
+to-night. Shall we meet you there?”
+
+“Oh, dear, no! My time for dining out is strictly limited,” Aubrey
+responded. “Besides, I do not think that Uncle Luke and I are in much
+sympathy. It is months since I saw him.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+For a wonder the clerks in Messrs. Bechcombe and Turner's offices were
+all hard at work. The articled clerks were in a smaller office to the
+right of the large one with a partition partly glass between. Through
+it their heads could be seen bent over their work, their pens flying
+over their paper with commendable celerity.
+
+The managing clerk had left his desk and was standing in the gangway
+in the larger office opposite the door leading into the ante-room.
+Beyond that again was the door opening into the principal's particular
+sanctum. Most unusually his door stood open this morning. Through the
+doorway the principal could plainly be seen bending over his letters
+and papers on the writing-table, while a little farther back stood his
+secretary, apparently waiting his instructions. Presently he spoke a
+few words to her in an undertone, pushed his papers all away together
+and came into the outer office.
+
+“I find it is as I thought, Thompson. I have only two appointments
+this morning—Mr. Geary and Mr. Pound. The last is for 11.45. After Mr.
+Pound has been shown out you will admit no one until I ring, which
+will probably be about one o'clock. Then, hold yourself in readiness
+to accompany me to the Bank.”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+The managing clerk at Messrs. Bechcombe and Turner's glanced keenly at
+his chief as he spoke.
+
+“It is quite possible that a special messenger from the Bank may be
+sent here in the course of the morning,” Mr. Bechcombe pursued.
+“Unless he comes before twelve he will have to wait until one o'clock
+as no one—_no one_ is to disturb me until then. You understand this,
+Thompson?” He turned back sharply to his office.
+
+“Quite so, sir.”
+
+The managing clerk had a curious, puzzled look as he glanced after the
+principal. Amos Thompson had been many years with Messrs. Bechcombe
+and Turner, and it was said that he enjoyed Mr. Bechcombe's confidence
+to the fullest degree. Be that as it may, it was evident that he knew
+nothing of the special business of this morning. He was a thin man of
+middle height with a reddish-grey beard, sunken-looking, grey eyes,
+like those of his principal usually concealed by a pair of
+horn-rimmed, smoke-coloured glasses; his teeth were irregular—one or
+two in front were missing. He had the habitual stoop of a man whose
+life is spent bending over a desk, and his faintly grey hair was
+already thinning at the top. As he went back to his desk both
+communicating doors in turn banged loudly behind Mr. Bechcombe.
+Instantly a change passed over his clerks; as if moved by one spring
+all the heads were raised, the pens slackened, most of them were
+thrown hastily on the desk.
+
+Percy Johnson, one of the articled pupils, emitted a low whistle.
+
+“What is the governor up to, Mr. Thompson?” he questioned daringly.
+“Casting the glad eye on some fair lady; not to be disturbed for an
+hour will give them plenty of time for—er—endearments.”
+
+Thompson turned his severe eyes upon him.
+
+“This is neither the place nor the subject for such jokes, Mr.
+Johnson. May I trouble you to get on with your work? We are waiting
+for that deed.”
+
+Mr. Johnson applied himself to his labours afresh.
+
+“It is nice to know that one is really useful!”
+
+The morning wore on. The two clients mentioned by Mr. Bechcombe—Mr.
+Geary and Mr. Pound—duly arrived and were shown in to Mr. Bechcombe,
+in each case remaining only a short time. Then there came a few
+minutes' quiet. The eyes of the clerks wandered to the clock. At
+twelve o'clock the first batch of them would depart to luncheon.
+
+Amos Thompson's thoughts were busy with his chief. Some very important
+business must be about to be transacted in Mr. Bechcombe's private
+room, and the managing clerk, though usually fully cognizant of all
+the ins and outs of the affairs of the firm, had no notion what it
+might be. He would have been more or less than mortal if his
+speculations with regard to the mysterious visitor had not risen high.
+Just as the clock struck twelve there was a knock and ring at the
+outer door, and he heard a loud colloquy going on with the office boy.
+In a minute Tony Collyer came through into the clerks' office. It
+showed the upset to the general aspect of the managing clerk's ideas
+that he should go forward to meet him.
+
+“Good morning, Mr. Anthony. I am sorry that Mr. Bechcombe is engaged.”
+
+“So am I,” said Tony, shaking him heartily by the hand. “Because I
+want to see him particularly and my time is limited this morning. But
+I suppose I must wait a bit. Get me in as soon as you can, there's a
+good old chap!”
+
+Thompson shook his head.
+
+“It won't be any good your waiting this morning, Mr. Anthony. We have
+orders that no one is to disturb Mr. Bechcombe. It would be as much as
+my place is worth to knock at the door.”
+
+“And how much is your place worth, old boy?” Tony questioned with a
+laugh, at the same time bringing down his hand with friendly
+heartiness on the managing clerk's back. “Come, I tell you I must see
+my uncle—honour bright, it is important.”
+
+“It's no use, Mr. Anthony,” Thompson said firmly. “You can't see Mr.
+Bechcombe this morning. And, pardon me, but it may be as well in your
+own interests that you should wait until later in the day.”
+
+Anthony laughed.
+
+“What a quaint old bird you are, Thompson! Well, since my business is
+important, and I don't want you to lose your berth—wouldn't miss the
+chance of seeing your old phiz for anything—I shall go round and try
+what I can make of my uncle at his private door. I'll bet the old
+sport has some game on that he don't want you to know about, but he
+may be pleased to see his dear nephew.”
+
+“Mr. Anthony—you must not, indeed—I cannot allow——”
+
+Anthony put up his hand.
+
+“Hush—sh! You will know nothing about it! Keep your hair on,
+Thompson!” With a laughing nod round at the grinning clerks he
+vanished, pulling the door to behind him with a cheerful bang.
+
+A titter ran round the office. Anthony Collyer with his D.S.O. and his
+gay, irresponsible manners was somewhat of a hero to the younger
+clerks.
+
+Amos Thompson looked grave. He knew that Luke Bechcombe had been
+intensely proud of his nephew's prowess in the War, he guessed that
+his patience had been sorely tried of late, and he feared that the
+young man might be doing himself serious harm with his uncle this
+morning. But he was powerless. There was no holding Tony Collyer back
+in this mood. Presently Thompson, listening intently, caught the sound
+of a distant knocking at his chief's door, twice repeated, then there
+was silence.
+
+He shrugged his shoulders, imagining Mr. Bechcombe's wrath at the
+intrusion. After a smothered laugh or two the clerks applied
+themselves to their work again and silence reigned in the office. The
+managing clerk watched the clock anxiously. He could imagine Mr.
+Bechcombe's reception of his nephew, but, knowing Tony as he did, he
+felt surprised that he had not returned to report proceedings. Then
+just as the office clock was nearing the half-hour a messenger from
+the Bank arrived. The waiting-room was reserved for clients, so the
+Bank clerk was shown into a little office that Amos Thompson used
+sometimes when there was a press of work, and the managing clerk went
+to him there.
+
+“Is there anything I can do? Mr. Bechcombe is unfortunately engaged
+until one o'clock.”
+
+“No, thank you!” the young man returned. “I was charged most
+particularly to give my message to no one but Mr. Bechcombe himself. I
+suppose I must wait till one o'clock if you are sure I cannot see him
+before.”
+
+The managing clerk looked undecided. His eyes wandered from side to
+side beneath his horn-rimmed spectacles.
+
+“I will see what I can do,” he said at last.
+
+He went back to his own desk, selected a couple of papers, put them in
+his pocket, and went through the outer office. In the lobby he picked
+up his hat, then after one long backward glance he went towards the
+outer door.
+
+The time wore on. The first contingent of clerks returned from their
+luncheon. Their place was taken by a second band. The clock struck
+half-past one; and still there was no sign of either the principal or
+his managing clerk. The messenger from the Bank went away, came back,
+and waited.
+
+At last the senior clerks began to look uncomfortable. John Walls, the
+second in command, went over to one of his confrères.
+
+“I understood the governor said he was not to be disturbed, until one
+o'clock, Spencer, but it's a good bit after two now, and Mr. Thompson
+isn't here either. The waiting-room is full and here's this man from
+the Bank back again. What are we to do?”
+
+Mr. Spencer rubbed the side of his nose reflectively.
+
+“How would it be to knock at the governor's door, Walls? He couldn't
+be annoyed after all this time.”
+
+John Walls was of the opinion that he couldn't, either. Together they
+made up their minds to beard the lion in his den. They went through
+the ante-room and knocked gently at Mr. Bechcombe's door. There came
+no response.
+
+After a moment's pause Mr. Walls applied his knuckles more loudly,
+again without reply.
+
+He turned to his companion.
+
+“He must have gone out.”
+
+The fact seemed obvious, and yet Spencer hesitated.
+
+“You didn't hear any one moving about when you first knocked?”
+
+“No, I didn't,” responded John Walls, staring at him. “Did you?”
+
+“Well, I expect it was just fancy, because why shouldn't the governor
+answer if he was there? But I did think I heard a slight sound—a sort
+of stealthy movement just on the other side of the door,” Spencer said
+slowly.
+
+“I don't believe you could hear any movement except a pretty loud one
+through that door,” the other said unbelievingly. “But it is very
+awkward, Mr. Thompson going out too. I don't know what to do.”
+
+“The governor did say something about Mr. Thompson going to the Bank
+with him,” Spencer went on. “I wonder now if Mr. Bechcombe went out by
+the private door, and Mr. Thompson and he met in the passage and they
+went off to the Bank together.”
+
+“I don't know,” John Walls said slowly. “It is a funny sort of thing
+anyway. I tell you what, Spencer, I shall go round and knock at the
+private door.”
+
+“What's the good of that?” Spencer objected sensibly. “If he's out it
+will make no difference. And if he is in and won't answer at one door
+he won't at the other.”
+
+“Well, anyway, I shall try,” John Walls persisted. His rather florid
+face was several degrees paler than usual as he went through the
+clerks' office. Man and boy, all his working life had been spent in
+the Bechcombes' office, and he had become through long years of
+association personally attached to Luke Bechcombe. Within the last few
+minutes, though there seemed no tangible ground for it, he had become
+oppressed by a strange feeling, a prevision of some evil, a certainty
+that all was not well with his chief.
+
+The private door into Mr. Bechcombe's office opened into a passage at
+right angles with the door by which clients were admitted to the
+waiting-rooms and to the clerks' offices.
+
+John Walls knocked first tentatively, then louder, still without the
+slightest response.
+
+By this time he had been joined by Spencer, who seemed to have caught
+the infection of the elder man's pallor. He looked at the keyhole.
+
+“Of course the governor has gone out. But I wonder whether the key is
+in its place?”
+
+He stooped and somewhat gingerly applied his eye to the hole. Then he
+jerked his head up with an inaudible exclamation.
+
+“What—what do you see?” Walls questioned with unconscious impatience.
+Then as he gazed at the bent back of his junior that queer foreboding
+of his grew stronger.
+
+At last Spencer raised himself.
+
+“No, the key isn't in its hole,” he said slowly. “But I thought—I
+thought——”
+
+“Yes, yes; you thought what?”
+
+Both men's voices had instinctively sunk to a whisper.
+
+Spencer was shorter than his senior. As he looked up his eyes were
+dark with fear, his words came with an odd little stutter between
+them.
+
+“I—I expect I was mistaken—I must have been. You look yourself, Walls.
+But I thought I saw a queer-looking heap over there by the window.”
+
+“A queer-looking heap!” Without further ado the other man pushed him
+aside.
+
+As he knelt down Spencer went on:
+
+“It—there is something sticking out at the side—it looks like a leg—a
+leg in a grey trouser—do you see?”
+
+There was a moment's tense silence. Then Mr. Walls raised himself.
+
+“It is a leg. Suppose—suppose it is the governor's leg! Suppose that
+heap is the governor! He may have had a fit. We shall have to break
+into the room. Just see if Thompson has come back. If he hasn't get
+hold of two of the juniors quietly. Send another as fast as he can go
+to the nearest doctor, and get some brandy ready. It's a strong door,
+but together we ought to manage it.”
+
+There was no sign of Thompson in the office, but one of the articled
+pupils was a Rugby half back. Spencer returned with him and one of his
+fellows and the Rugby man attacked the door with a vigour that had
+brought him through many a scrum. It soon yielded to their combined
+efforts, and then with one accord all the men stood back. There was
+something at first sight about the everyday aspect of the room into
+which they gazed that seemed oddly at variance with their fears. Then
+slowly all their eyes turned from Mr. Bechcombe's writing-table with
+his own chair standing before it, just as they had seen it hundreds of
+times, to that ominous heap near the window.
+
+John Walls bent over it, then he looked up with shocked eyes.
+
+“He—I am afraid it is all over.”
+
+“Not dead!” Spencer ejaculated; but one look at that ghastly face upon
+the floor, at the staring eyes, and wide open mouth with the
+protruding tongue, drove every drop of colour from his face. He turned
+to Walls with chattering teeth. “It—it must have been a fit, Walls. He
+looks terrible.”
+
+“Is there anything wrong?”
+
+It was a woman's voice. With one consent the men moved nearer the
+private door so as to shut out the sight of that ghastly heap.
+
+“Is there anything wrong?” There was an undertone of fear about the
+voice now.
+
+John Walls turned.
+
+“Mr. Bechcombe has been taken ill, Miss Hoyle—very ill, I am afraid.”
+
+The sight of his white, stricken face was more eloquent than his
+words. Cecily Hoyle's own colour faded slowly.
+
+“What is it?” she questioned, looking from one to the other. She was a
+tall, thin slip of a girl with clear brown eyes, a nose that turned up
+and a mouth that was too wide, a reasonably fair complexion and a
+quantity of pretty, curly, nut-brown hair that waved all over her head
+and low down over her ears, and that somehow conveyed the impression
+of being bobbed when it wasn't. Ordinarily it was a winsome,
+attractive little face, but just now, catching the fear in Walls's
+voice, the brown eyes were full of dread and the mobile lips were
+twitching. “Can't I do anything?” she questioned. “It must be
+something very sudden. Mr. Bechcombe was quite well when I went out.”
+
+John Walls laid his hand on her shoulder.
+
+“You can't do anything, Miss Hoyle. We can none of us do anything. It
+is too late.”
+
+Cecily shrank from him with a cry.
+
+“No, no! He can't be—dead!”
+
+A strong hand put both her and John Walls aside.
+
+“Let me pass. I am a doctor. What is the matter here?”
+
+John Walls recognized the speaker as a medical man who had rooms close
+at hand.
+
+“I think Mr. Bechcombe has had a fit, sir. I am afraid it is all
+over.”
+
+“Stand aside, please. Let us have all the air we can.”
+
+The doctor bent over the man on the floor, but one look was
+sufficient. He touched the wrist, laid his hand over the heart. Then
+he stood up quickly.
+
+“There is nothing to be done here. He has been dead, I should say, an
+hour or more. We must ring up the police, at once. You will understand
+that nothing is to be moved until their arrival.”
+
+“Police!” echoed John Walls with shaking lips.
+
+“Yes, police!” the doctor said impatiently. “My good man, can't you
+see that this is no natural death? Mr. Bechcombe has been
+murdered—strangled!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+The first floor of 21 Crow's Inn was entirely in the hands of the
+police. Two plain-clothes men guarded the entrance of the corridor,
+others were stationed farther along. Both the big waiting-rooms were
+filled, one with indignant clients anxious to go home, the other with
+the clerks and employés of the firm.
+
+Two men came slowly down the passage. Inspector Furnival of Scotland
+Yard was a man of middle height with a keen, foxy-looking face, at
+present clean-shaven, and sharp grey eyes whose clearness of vision
+had earned him in the Force the sobriquet of “The Ferret.” His
+companion, Dr. Hackett, carried his occupation writ plain on his
+large-featured face and his strictly professional attire.
+
+Both men were looking grave and preoccupied as they entered the
+smaller office which had been little used since Mr. Bechcombe's
+partner retired. Inspector Furnival took the revolving chair and drew
+it up to the office table in the middle of the room. Then he produced
+a notebook.
+
+“Now, Dr. Hackett, will you give me the details of this affair as far
+as you know them?”
+
+“I can only tell you that I was summoned about two o'clock this
+afternoon by a clerk—Winter, I fancy his name is. He told me that his
+employer was locked up in his office, that they thought he had had a
+fit and were breaking the door open, and wanted me to be there in
+readiness as soon as they had forced their way in. I hastily put a few
+things that I thought might be wanted into my bag and hurried here. I
+arrived just as the door gave way and found matters as you know.”
+
+The inspector scratched the side of his nose reflectively with the
+handle of his fountain pen.
+
+“Mr. Bechcombe was quite dead?”
+
+“Quite dead. Had been dead at least two hours, I should say,” Dr.
+Hackett assented.
+
+“And the cause?” the inspector continued, suspending his pen over the
+paper.
+
+“You will understand that you will have to wait until after the
+post-mortem for a definitely full and detailed opinion. But, as far as
+I can tell you after the examination which was all I could make this
+afternoon, I feel no doubt that the cause of death was strangulation.”
+
+“It seems inconceivable that a man should be strangled in his own
+office, within earshot of his own clerks,” debated the inspector.
+“Still, it is quite evident even at a casual glance that it has been
+done here. But I cannot understand why Mr. Bechcombe apparently
+offered no resistance. His hand-bell, his speaking-tube, the
+telephone—all were close at hand. It looks as though he had recognized
+his assassin and had no fear of him.”
+
+“I think on the contrary that it was a sudden attack,” Dr. Hackett
+dissented. “Probably Mr. Bechcombe had no opportunity of recognizing
+his murderer. The assassin sprang forward and—did you notice a sweet
+sickly smell that seemed to emanate from the body?”
+
+The inspector nodded.
+
+“That was the first thing I noticed. Chloroform, I suppose?”
+
+“Yes,” said the doctor slowly. “I should say the assassin sprang
+forward with the chloroform, or perhaps approached his victim
+unobserved, and attempted to stupefy him, and then strangled him. That
+is how it looks to me. For anything more definite we must wait for the
+post-mortem.”
+
+The inspector made a few hieroglyphics in his notebook, then he looked
+up.
+
+“You say that death took place probably about two hours before you saw
+the body, doctor? and you were called in about two o'clock. Therefore,
+Mr. Bechcombe must have died about twelve o'clock. You are quite
+definite about this?”
+
+“I cannot be more exact as to the time,” Dr. Hackett said slowly. “I
+should say about twelve o'clock—certainly not much after. More
+probably a little before.”
+
+The inspector stroked his clean-shaven chin and glanced over his
+notes.
+
+“Just one more question, Dr. Hackett. Can you tell me just who was in
+the room when you got there?”
+
+Dr. Hackett hesitated a moment.
+
+“Well, there was Mr. Walls, who seems to be managing things in
+Thompson's absence, and three other men whose names I do not of course
+know, and the late Mr. Bechcombe's secretary, whose name I understand
+to be Hoyle—Miss Hoyle.”
+
+The inspector pricked up his ears.
+
+“I have not seen Miss Hoyle. What sort of a woman?”
+
+“Oh, just a girl,” the doctor said vaguely. “Just an ordinary-looking
+girl. I did not notice her much, except that I thought she looked
+white and shocked, as no doubt she was, poor girl!”
+
+“No doubt!” the inspector assented. “How was she dressed, doctor?”
+
+“Dressed?” the doctor echoed in some surprise. “Well, I don't take
+much notice of dress myself. Just a dark gown, I think.”
+
+“No hat?”
+
+“No, I don't think so. No, I am sure she hadn't.”
+
+“Do you know where she works?”
+
+“Didn't know such a person existed until this afternoon. I know
+nothing about her,” the doctor said, shaking his head.
+
+The inspector coughed.
+
+“Um! Well, that will be all for the present, doctor. It is probable
+that you may be wanted later, and of course possible that Mrs.
+Bechcombe may wish to see you.”
+
+“I suppose she has been told?”
+
+“Of course,” the inspector assented. “We phoned to the house at once,
+and I gather she was informed of the death, not of course of the
+cause, by a relative who was there—a Mr. Collyer, a clergyman. I shall
+go round to see her when I have finished here. I hear that she
+collapsed altogether on hearing of her loss.”
+
+“Poor thing! Poor thing!” the doctor murmured. “Well, inspector, I
+shall hold myself at your disposal.”
+
+Left alone, the inspector looked over his notes once more and then
+sounded the electric bell twice. One of his subordinates opened the
+door at once.
+
+“Tell Moore and Carter to take the names and addresses of all the
+clients. Verify them on the phone and then allow them to go home. If
+any of them are not capable of verification, have them shadowed. Now
+send John Walls to me.”
+
+The clerk did not keep Inspector Furnival waiting. He came in
+hesitatingly, dragging his feet like a man who has had a stroke. His
+face was colourless, his eyes were dark with fear.
+
+“You sent for me, inspector?” he said, his teeth chattering as if with
+ague.
+
+“Naturally!” the inspector assented, glancing at him keenly. “I want
+to hear all you know about Mr. Bechcombe's death. But, first, has Amos
+Thompson returned?”
+
+“N—o!” quavered Walls.
+
+“Can you account for his absence in any way?” the inspector questioned
+shortly.
+
+“No, I have no idea where he is,” Walls answered, gathering up his
+courage. “But then he is the managing clerk. I am not. I very seldom
+know anything of his work.”
+
+The inspector did not answer this. He drew his brows together.
+
+“When did you see him last?”
+
+“About half-past twelve, it would be. He went out of the office. I
+have not seen him since. But he did go out to lunch early sometimes.
+And he may have gone somewhere on business for Mr. Bechcombe.” Walls
+wiped the sweat from his brow as he spoke.
+
+The inspector looked at him.
+
+“I understand that Mr. Bechcombe was heard to tell him to be in
+readiness to go with him to the Bank at one o'clock?”
+
+“I—I believe Spencer said something about that,” Walls stammered. “But
+I did not hear what Mr. Bechcombe said myself. My desk is farther away
+than Spencer's and I was busy with my work. All I heard was that Mr.
+Bechcombe was not to be disturbed on any account. He slightly raised
+his voice when he said that.”
+
+“Did you gather that Mr. Bechcombe had business of an important nature
+with a mysterious client?”
+
+“I didn't gather anything,” said Walls with some warmth. “It wasn't my
+business to. If Mr. Bechcombe did have an important client he must
+have admitted him himself by the private door. The last one that went
+to him in an ordinary way came out in a very few minutes.”
+
+“Before twelve o'clock?” questioned the inspector sharply.
+
+“Oh, yes. Some minutes before the clock struck—about a quarter to, I
+should say. I noticed that.”
+
+“Because——” Inspector Furnival prompted.
+
+“Oh, well, because I heard it strike afterwards, I suppose,” Walls
+answered lamely. “There are days when I don't notice it.”
+
+“Um!” the inspector glanced at him. “Do you know the name of the last
+client who saw Mr. Bechcombe?”
+
+“Pounds—Mr. Pounds, of Gosforth and Pounds, the big haberdashers. He
+came about the lease of some fresh premises they are taking. I happen
+to know that.”
+
+“Ah, yes.” The inspector looked him full in the face. “But you don't
+happen to know why Mr. Anthony Collyer wanted to see his uncle,
+perhaps?”
+
+The sweat broke out afresh on Mr. Walls's forehead.
+
+“I don't know anything about it.”
+
+“You know that Mr. Collyer came,” the inspector said with some
+asperity. “Why did you not mention it?”
+
+Walls glanced at him doubtfully.
+
+“There wasn't anything to mention. Mr. Anthony wanted to see Mr.
+Bechcombe, and he couldn't, so he went away. He talked to Mr.
+Thompson, not to me.”
+
+“You did not hear what he said when he went away? Your desk seems to
+be most inconveniently placed, Mr. Walls.”
+
+“I heard him talking a lot of nonsense to Mr. Thompson.”
+
+“Such as——” The inspector paused.
+
+“Oh, well, he said he must see Mr. Bechcombe and he said he would, and
+Mr. Thompson——”
+
+“Be careful!” warned the inspector. “Don't make any mistakes, Mr.
+Walls, I want to know what Mr. Anthony Collyer said.”
+
+“He said—he said—if Mr. Thompson didn't let him in he would go round
+to Mr. Bechcombe's private door,” the man said, then hesitated. “But
+it—it was just nonsense.”
+
+“Did he try to get into the room through the private door?”
+
+“I don't know,” Walls said helplessly. “I didn't see him any more.”
+
+The inspector drew a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper from his
+breast pocket and, opening it, displayed to the clerk's astonished
+eyes a long, white _suède_ glove.
+
+“Have you ever seen this before?”
+
+John Walls peered at it.
+
+“No. I can't say that I have. It—it is a lady's glove, inspector.”
+
+“It _is_ a lady's glove,” the inspector assented. “Where do you
+imagine it was found, Mr. Walls?”
+
+“I'm sure I don't know,” Walls said, staring at him. “It—I think a
+good many ladies wear gloves like that nowadays, Mr. Furnival. I know
+Mrs. Walls——”
+
+“This particular glove,” the inspector went on, “I found beside Mr.
+Bechcombe's writing-table this afternoon.”
+
+“Did you?” Mr. Walls looked amazed. “Well, I don't know how it came
+there. All Mr. Bechcombe's clients were men that came to-day.”
+
+“Except perhaps the one that came to the private door,” suggested the
+inspector.
+
+“I don't know anything about that,” Walls said in a puzzled tone. “I
+never heard anything of a lady coming to-day.”
+
+The inspector folded the glove up and put it away again.
+
+“That will do for the present, Mr. Walls. I should like to see Mr.
+Thompson if he returns, and now please send Miss Hoyle to me.”
+
+Walls looked uncomfortably surprised.
+
+“Miss Hoyle?”
+
+“Yes, Miss Hoyle—Mr. Bechcombe's secretary!” the inspector said
+sharply. “I suppose you know her, Mr. Walls?”
+
+“Oh, yes,” Walls stammered. “At least, I couldn't say I know her. I
+have spoken to her once or twice. But she didn't make any friends
+among us. And her office was quite apart. She didn't come through our
+door, or anything. She is a lady—quite a lady, you understand, and her
+office is next to Mr. Bechcombe's own.”
+
+“Indeed!” For once the inspector looked really interested. “Well, I
+should like to see Miss Hoyle without delay, Mr. Walls.”
+
+“Very well. I will tell her at once.”
+
+Miss Hoyle did not keep the inspector waiting. He glanced at her
+keenly as he placed a chair for her.
+
+“Your name, please?”
+
+“Cecily Frances Hoyle.”
+
+“How long have you been with Mr. Bechcombe?”
+
+“Just over a month.”
+
+“Where were you previously?”
+
+“At school. Miss Arnold Watson's at Putney. I stayed there until I was
+nineteen as a governess-pupil. Then—I hadn't any real gift for
+teaching—I took a course in shorthand and typing. Mr. Bechcombe wanted
+a secretary and I was fortunate enough to get the job.”
+
+“Um!” The inspector turned over a new page in his notebook. “Now will
+you tell me all you know about Mr. Bechcombe's death?”
+
+Cecily stared at him.
+
+“But I don't know anything,” she said helplessly. “I never saw Mr.
+Bechcombe after he called me into his office about a quarter to
+twelve.”
+
+“At a quarter to twelve!” The inspector pricked up his ears. “You saw
+Mr. Bechcombe at a quarter to twelve?”
+
+“At a quarter to twelve,” she confirmed. “He sounded the electric bell
+which rings in my office, and I went in to him. He told me that he
+should have some important work for me later in the day, but that at
+present there was nothing and that I could go out to lunch when I
+liked. When I came back there were some letters to be attended to, and
+then he said I was to wait until he rang for me. That was all.”
+
+“You saw and heard nothing more of Mr. Bechcombe until you came on the
+scene when the door was broken open by the clerks?”
+
+“I did not see anything.”
+
+The slight emphasis on the verb did not escape the inspector.
+
+“Or hear anything?” he demanded sharply. “Be very careful please, Miss
+Hoyle.”
+
+“I heard him speak to some one outside very soon after I had gone back
+to my office, and I heard him moving about his room after I came from
+lunch,” Cecily said, her colour rising a little.
+
+The inspector looked at her searchingly. “To whom did you hear Mr.
+Bechcombe speak?”
+
+Cecily hesitated, the colour that was creeping back slowly into her
+cheeks deepening perceptibly.
+
+“Someone was knocking at the door,” she stammered. “I think Mr.
+Bechcombe spoke to him. I heard him say he was engaged.”
+
+“Who was he speaking to?”
+
+The girl twisted her hands together.
+
+“It was his nephew, Mr. Anthony Collyer.”
+
+“How do you know?” The inspector fired his questions at her rather as
+if they had been pistol shots.
+
+Cecily looked round her in an agony of confusion.
+
+“He came to my office—Mr. Anthony, I mean.”
+
+“Why should he come to your office?”
+
+“He asked me to go out to lunch with him,” Cecily faltered. Then
+seeing the look on the inspector's face, she gathered up her courage
+with both hands and faced him with sudden resolution. “We are
+engaged,” she said simply. “We—I mean it hasn't been announced yet,
+but his father knows; and we shall tell mine as soon as he comes
+home—he is abroad now—we are engaged, Anthony Collyer and I.”
+
+The inspector might have smiled but that the thing was too serious.
+
+“Did Mr. Bechcombe know?”
+
+The girl hesitated a moment.
+
+“I think he guessed. From the way he smiled when he mentioned Mr.
+Collyer in the morning.”
+
+The inspector looked over his notes. He was inclined to think that
+Cecily Hoyle's evidence, if it could be relied on, would put Anthony
+Collyer off his list of suspects. Still, he was not going to take any
+chances.
+
+“I see. So you went out with Mr. Anthony Collyer. Where did you
+lunch?”
+
+“I said he asked me,” Cecily corrected. “But I didn't say I would go.
+However, we were talking about it and walking down the passage
+together when Mr. Bechcombe called Tony back—‘I want to see you a
+minute, Tony,’ he said.”
+
+“Well?” the inspector prompted as she paused.
+
+“Tony did not want to go back,” the girl said slowly. “But I persuaded
+him. ‘I will wait for you in St. Philip's Field of Rest,’ I said. He
+ran back, promising not to keep me waiting for a minute.”
+
+“Field of Rest,” the inspector repeated. “What is a Field of Rest?”
+
+“At the back of St. Philip's Church—just over the way. It is the old
+graveyard really, you know,” Cecily explained. “But they have levelled
+the stones and put seats there, and it is a sort of quiet recreation
+ground. I often take sandwiches with me and eat them there.”
+
+The inspector nodded. There were many such places in London he knew.
+
+“And I suppose Mr. Anthony Collyer soon overtook you?”
+
+“No. He didn't. He—I had to wait in the Field of Rest.”
+
+“How long?”
+
+“I don't really know,” Cecily said uncertainly. “Perhaps it wasn't
+very long. But it seemed a long time to me.”
+
+The inspector looked at her.
+
+“This is important. Please think, Miss Hoyle. This is very important.
+How long approximately do you think it was before Mr. Anthony Collyer
+joined you in the Field of Rest?”
+
+“Twenty minutes perhaps—or it might have been half an hour.”
+
+The inspector looked surprised.
+
+“Half an hour! But that's a long time. What excuse did Mr. Collyer
+make for being so long?”
+
+“He said he couldn't find the Field of Rest. He hadn't been there
+before, you know.”
+
+The inspector made no rejoinder. He turned back to his notes.
+
+“What time did you come back to the office, Miss Hoyle?”
+
+“We were a little over an hour,” Cecily confessed. “After half-past
+one, it would be.”
+
+“Did Mr. Collyer go back with you?”
+
+Cecily shook her head.
+
+“Oh, no. He walked as far as Crow's Inn—up to the archway with me.”
+
+The inspector was drawing a small parcel from his pocket. Laying back
+the tissue paper he slowly shook out the white glove he had shown to
+John Walls.
+
+“Have you ever seen this before, Miss Hoyle?”
+
+The girl leaned forward and looked at it more closely.
+
+“No, I am sure I have not.”
+
+“It is not yours?”
+
+Cecily shook her head.
+
+“I could not afford anything like that. It is a very expensive
+glove—French I should say.”
+
+“That glove was found beside the writing-table in Mr. Bechcombe's
+private room this afternoon,” the inspector said impressively.
+
+Cecily looked amazed.
+
+“What an extraordinary thing! I don't believe it was there when I was
+in this morning. I wonder who could have dropped it?”
+
+“Possibly the murderer or murderess,” the inspector suggested dryly.
+
+Cecily shivered back in her chair with a little cry.
+
+“It cannot be true! Who would hurt Mr. Bechcombe? He must have had a
+fit!”
+
+“Miss Hoyle”—the inspector leaned forward—“it was no fit. Mr.
+Bechcombe was certainly murdered, and Dr. Hackett says that death must
+have overtaken him either a few minutes before twelve or a few minutes
+after.”
+
+“What!” Cecily's face became ghastly as the full significance of the
+words dawned upon her. “It couldn't——” she said, catching her breath
+in a sob. “He—he was quite well at twelve o'clock, and when I came
+back from my lunch I heard him moving about.”
+
+“Could you hear what went on in his room in yours?”
+
+“Oh, no. Absolutely nothing. But as I passed his door when I came back
+from lunch I distinctly heard him moving about. I was rather surprised
+at this, because I don't remember ever hearing any sound from Mr.
+Bechcombe's room before.”
+
+“What did you do after you went back?”
+
+“I finished some letters that had to be ready for Mr. Bechcombe's
+signature before he went home. I was still busy with them when I heard
+them breaking into Mr. Bechcombe's room.”
+
+“Now one more question, Miss Hoyle. Did you notice anything particular
+about Mr. Anthony Collyer's hands when you first saw him?”
+
+Cecily stared.
+
+“Certainly I did not. Why?”
+
+“He did not wear gloves?”
+
+“Oh, dear, no!” Cecily almost smiled. “I should certainly have noticed
+if he had. I have never seen Tony in gloves since I knew him.”
+
+The inspector's stylo was moving quickly in his notebook.
+
+“You are prepared to swear to all this, Miss Hoyle?”
+
+“Certainly I am!” Cecily said at once. “It is absolutely true.”
+
+“Your address, please.”
+
+“Hobart Residence, Windover Square. It is a club for girls,” she
+added.
+
+“But your permanent home address,” the detective went on.
+
+There was a pause. The girl's long eyelashes flickered.
+
+“I—really I haven't a settled home at present. My father is away on
+some business abroad; when he comes back we shall look for a cottage
+in the country.”
+
+“Oh!” The inspector asked no more questions, but there was a curious
+look in his eyes as he scrawled another entry in his book.
+
+“That is all for the present, then, Miss Hoyle. The inquest will be
+opened to-morrow, and you may be wanted. I cannot say.”
+
+He rose. Cecily got up at once and with a little farewell bow went out
+of the room.
+
+The inspector stood still for a minute or two, then he opened the door
+again.
+
+“Call Mr. William Spencer, please.”
+
+Ordinarily Mr. Spencer was a jaunty, self-satisfied young man, but
+to-day both the jauntiness and the self-satisfaction were gone and it
+was with a very white and subdued face that he came up to the
+inspector.
+
+“Well, Mr. Spencer, and what have you to tell me about this terrible
+affair?” the inspector began conversationally.
+
+“Nothing; except what you know. I heard the governor tell Mr. Thompson
+not to let anyone into his room, and I heard no more until Mr. Walls
+asked me to go round to the private door.”
+
+“You were the first to see the body, I understand.”
+
+“Well, looking through the keyhole, I saw a heap and I told Mr. Walls
+I thought it was the governor.”
+
+“Exactly!” The inspector looked at his notes. “You were right,
+unfortunately. Now, Mr. Spencer, have you ever seen this?” suddenly
+displaying the white glove he had previously shown.
+
+Mr. Spencer's eyes grew round.
+
+“I—I don't know.”
+
+“What do you mean by that?” the inspector questioned. “Have you any
+reason to suppose you have done so?”
+
+Spencer stared at it.
+
+“I met a lady with long gloves like that coming up the stairs when I
+went out to lunch.”
+
+“What time was that?”
+
+“About half-past twelve, it would be, or a little later, I think,”
+debated Spencer.
+
+“Ah!” the inspector made a note in his book. “What was she like—the
+woman you met?”
+
+“Well, she was tall with rather bright yellow hair and—and she had
+powder all over her face. The curious thing about her was,” Spencer
+went on meditatively, “that I had an odd feeling that in some way her
+face was familiar. Yet I couldn't remember having seen her before.”
+
+“Did you notice where she went?”
+
+“No, I couldn't. It was just where the stairs turn that I stood aside
+to let her pass, and you can't see much from there. But I thought I
+heard——”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“I did think at the time that I heard her stop on our landing and go
+along the passage——”
+
+“To Mr. Bechcombe's room?” said the inspector quickly.
+
+“Well, it would be to his room, of course,” Spencer said, his face
+paling again. “But I dare say I was wrong about her going down the
+passage. I didn't listen particularly.”
+
+“Do you know that I found this glove beside Mr. Bechcombe's
+writing-table when I went into the room?” questioned the inspector.
+
+Spencer shivered.
+
+“No. I didn't see it.”
+
+“Nevertheless it was there,” said the inspector. “Mr. Spencer, I think
+you will have to try to remember why that lady's face was familiar to
+you. Had you ever seen her here before?”
+
+“No, I don't think so. I seem to——” Spencer was beginning when there
+was an interruption, a loud knock at the door. Spencer turned to it
+eagerly. “Mr. Thompson has come back, I expect.”
+
+The inspector was before him, but it was not Amos Thompson who stood
+outside, or any messenger from the offices; it was a tall, thin
+clergyman with a white, shocked face—the rector of Wexbridge to wit.
+He stepped aside.
+
+“I must apologize for interrupting you, Mr. Inspector. But I represent
+my sister-in-law, Mrs. Luke Bechcombe. I had just called and was
+present when the sad news was broken to her. I came here to make
+inquiries and also to arrange for the removal of the body. And here I
+was met by these terrible tidings. Is it—can it be really true that my
+unfortunate brother-in-law has been murdered?”
+
+“Quite true,” the inspector confirmed in a matter-of-fact fashion in
+contrast with the clergyman's agitated tone.
+
+“But how and by whom?” Mr. Collyer demanded.
+
+“Mr. Bechcombe appears to have been attacked, possibly chloroformed,
+deliberately, and strangled. His body was found in his private
+office.”
+
+The rector subsided into the nearest chair.
+
+“I cannot believe it. Poor Luke had not an enemy in the world. What
+could have been the motive for so horrible a crime?”
+
+“That I am endeavouring to find out,” the inspector said quietly.
+
+“I can't understand it,” the clergyman said, raising his hand to his
+head. “Nobody would wilfully have hurt poor Luke, I am sure.”
+
+“It is tolerably evident that somebody did,” the inspector commented
+dryly.
+
+Mr. Collyer was silent for a minute; putting his elbow on the table,
+he rested his aching head upon his hand.
+
+“But who could have done it?” he questioned brokenly at last.
+
+The inspector coughed.
+
+“That also I am trying to discover, sir. When did you see Mr.
+Bechcombe last, Mr. Collyer?”
+
+“Last night. I dined with him at his house in Carlsford Square. Just a
+few hours ago, and poor Luke seemed so well and happy with us all,
+making jokes. And now—I can't believe it.”
+
+He blew his nose vigorously.
+
+“Was your son one of the dinner party?” the inspector questioned.
+
+Mr. Collyer looked surprised.
+
+“Oh, er—yes, of course Tony was there. He is a favourite with his
+uncle and aunt.”
+
+“Did you know that he was here this morning?”
+
+Mr. Collyer's astonishment appeared to increase.
+
+“Certainly I did not. I do not think he has been. I fancy you are
+making a mistake.”
+
+“I think not,” the inspector said firmly. “Your son was here this
+morning just before twelve o'clock. He appears to have caused quite a
+commotion, demanding to see his uncle and announcing his intention of
+going to the private door and knocking at it himself.”
+
+Mr. Collyer dropped his arm upon the table.
+
+“But—— Good—good heavens! Did he go?”
+
+“He did. He also saw his uncle,” said the inspector. “And now I am
+rather anxious to hear your son's account of that interview, Mr.
+Collyer.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+“It is the aftermath of the War,” said Aubrey Todmarsh, shaking his
+head. “You take a man away from his usual occupation and for four
+years you let him do nothing but kill other men and try to kill other
+men, and then you are surprised when he comes home and still goes on
+killing.”
+
+“Don't you think, Aubrey, that you had better say straight out that
+you believe I killed Uncle Luke?” Tony Collyer inquired very quietly,
+yet with a look in his eyes that his men had known well in the Great
+War, and had labelled dangerous.
+
+Instinctively Aubrey drew back. “My dear Tony,” he said, with what was
+meant to be an indulgent smile and only succeeded in looking
+distinctly scared, “why will you turn everything into personalities? I
+was speaking generally.”
+
+“Well, as I happen to be the only man who went to the War and who
+profits by my uncle's will, and who was at the office the day he was
+murdered, I will thank you not to speak generally in that fashion,”
+retorted Anthony.
+
+His father lifted up his hand.
+
+“Boys, boys! This terrible crime is no time for unseemly bickering,”
+he said, in much the same tone as he would have used to them twenty
+years ago at Wexbridge Rectory.
+
+The three were in the dining-room of Mr. Bechcombe's house in
+Carlsford Square. They had been brought there by an urgent summons
+from the widow of the dead man. Mrs. Bechcombe, prostrated at first by
+the news of her husband's death, had been roused by learning how that
+death had been brought about, and, in her determination that it should
+be immediately avenged, she had insisted on her husband's
+brother-in-law and his two nephews coming together to consult with her
+as to the best steps to be taken to discover the assassin.
+
+In appearance the last twenty-four hours had aged the rector by as
+many years. His shoulders were bent as he leaned forward in his
+chair—the very chair in which Luke Bechcombe had sat at the bottom of
+his table only the night before last. There were new lines that sorrow
+and horror had scored upon James Collyer's face, even his hair looked
+whiter. Glancing round the familiar room it seemed to him impossible
+that he could never see again the brother-in-law upon whose advice he
+had unconsciously leaned all his married life. He was just about to
+speak when the door opened and Mrs. Bechcombe entered. She was a tall,
+almost a regal-looking woman, with flashing dark eyes and regular,
+aquiline features. To-day her beautiful formed lips were closely
+compressed and there was a very sombre light in the dark eyes, and
+there were great blue marks under them.
+
+Mr. Collyer got up, raising himself slowly. “My dear Madeline, I wish
+I could help you,” he said, taking her hands in his, “but only Our
+Heavenly Father can do that, and since it is His Will——”
+
+“It was not His Will!” Mrs. Bechcombe contradicted passionately. She
+tore her hands from his. “My husband was murdered. He did not die by
+the Will of God, but by the wickedness of man.”
+
+“My dear aunt, nothing happens but by the Will of God——” Aubrey
+Todmarsh was beginning, when the door opened to admit a spare, short,
+altogether undistinguished-looking man of middle age.
+
+Mrs. Bechcombe turned to him eagerly.
+
+“This is my cousin, John Steadman. You have heard me speak of him, I
+know, James. He is a barrister, and, though he does not practise now,
+he is a great criminologist. And I know if anyone can help us it will
+be he.”
+
+“I hope so, I am sure,” Mr. Steadman said as he shook hands. “This is
+a most terrible and mysterious crime, but there are several valuable
+clues. I do not think it should remain undiscovered long.”
+
+“I hope not!” the rector sighed. “And yet we cannot bring poor Luke
+back, we can only punish his murderer.”
+
+“And that I mean to do!” Mrs. Bechcombe said passionately. “I have
+sworn to devote every penny of my money and every moment of my life to
+avenging my husband.”
+
+“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” murmured Aubrey Todmarsh.
+
+“Yes, I never professed to be of your way of thinking,” Mrs. Bechcombe
+returned with unveiled contempt. “I prefer to undertake the vengeance
+myself, thank you.”
+
+Mr. Steadman looked at Anthony. “I understand that you called at the
+office yesterday morning.”
+
+“Yes, I did,” returned Anthony defiantly. “And, when old Thompson told
+me I couldn't see Mr. Bechcombe, I was fool enough to say I would go
+round to the private door and get in to him that way.”
+
+“And did you?” questioned Mr. Steadman quietly.
+
+“Yes, I did, but I did not go in and murder my uncle,” returned
+Anthony in the same loud, passionate tone.
+
+“Did you see him?” Mr. Steadman inquired.
+
+“Yes. He came to the door and told me to go away. He was expecting an
+important client.”
+
+“Tony, you did not ask him for money?” his father said piteously.
+
+Anthony's face softened as he looked at him. “I was going to, but I
+didn't get the chance. He wouldn't listen to me. I went on to ask a
+friend of mine in the next room to come out to lunch with me. As we
+were passing my uncle's room he came to the door. ‘I want you, Tony,’
+he said sharply. My friend went on, telling me to follow to the Field
+of Rest. Uncle Luke kept me a few minutes talking. He told me that if
+I had a really good opening he would go into it, if it were really
+promising the lack of money should not stand in the way. He said I was
+to come and see him that night and talk things over. I meant to go, of
+course. But then I heard this——” and Anthony gulped down something in
+his throat.
+
+“Did you keep your friend waiting?” inquired Mr. Steadman.
+
+“Yes, I did!” Tony answered, staring at him. “Uncle Luke kept me a
+minute or two. But then I missed my way to the Field of Rest, and was
+wandering about the best part of half an hour. I suppose you don't
+call that a very satisfactory alibi,” he added truculently.
+
+“Oh, don't be silly, Tony!” Mrs. Bechcombe interposed fretfully. “Of
+course we are all sure that you would not have hurt your uncle. We
+want to know if you saw anyone—if you met this wicked woman——”
+
+Tony stared at her.
+
+“What wicked woman? What do you mean, Aunt Madeline?”
+
+“The woman who left her glove in his room, the woman who killed my
+husband,” Mrs. Bechcombe returned, her breath coming quickly and
+nervously, her hands clenching and unclenching themselves.
+
+“My dear Madeline,” Mr. Steadman interrupted her, “I do not think it
+possible that the crime could have been committed by a woman.”
+
+“And I am sure that it was,” she contradicted stormily. “Women are as
+powerful as men nowadays and Luke was not strong. He had a weak
+heart.” And with the last words she burst into a very tempest of
+tears.
+
+Her cousin looked at her pityingly.
+
+“Well, well, my dear girl! At any rate the police are searching
+everywhere for this woman. The finding her can only be a matter of a
+few days now. I am going to send your maid to you.” He signed to the
+other men and they followed him out of the room. “Do her all the good
+in the world to cry it out,” he remarked confidentially when he had
+closed the door. “I haven't seen her shed a tear yet. Now I am going
+to see Inspector Furnival before the inquest opens. That, of course,
+will be absolutely formal, at first. Can I give any of you a lift?”
+
+“I think not, thank you,” Mr. Collyer responded. “There must be
+some—er—arrangements to be made here and it is quite possible we may
+be of some real service.”
+
+Both young men looked inclined to dissent, but the barrister proffered
+no further invitation and a minute or two later they saw him drive
+off.
+
+He was shown in at once to Inspector Furnival, who was writing at his
+office table, briskly making notes in a large parchment-bound book. He
+got up as the door opened.
+
+Mr. Steadman shook hands. “You haven't forgotten me, I hope,
+inspector?”
+
+The inspector permitted himself a slight smile. “I haven't forgotten
+how you helped me to catch John Bassil.”
+
+“Um! Well, my cousin—Mrs. Bechcombe is my cousin, you know—has
+insisted on my coming to you this morning,” Mr. Steadman went on,
+taking the chair the inspector placed by the table. “This is a
+terrible business, inspector. It looks fairly plain sailing at first
+sight, but I don't know.”
+
+The inspector glanced at him. “You think it looks like plain sailing,
+sir? Well, it may be, but I confess I don't see it quite in that way
+myself.”
+
+Mr. Steadman met the detective's eyes with a curious look in his own.
+“What of Thompson's disappearance?”
+
+The inspector blotted the page in his ledger at which he had been
+writing and left the blotting-paper on.
+
+“Ay, as usual you have put your finger on the spot, Mr. Steadman. What
+has become of Thompson? He walked out of the office and apparently
+disappeared into space. For from that moment we have not been able to
+find anyone who has seen him.”
+
+“The inference being——?” Mr. Steadman raised his eyebrows.
+
+The inspector laid his hand on a parcel of papers lying on the table
+at his elbow.
+
+“There wasn't much about the case in the papers this morning,” he
+said, replying indirectly to the barrister's question, “but the one
+that comes out at ten o'clock—Racing Special they call it: selections
+on the back page, don't you know—in almost every case gives a large
+space on its front page to ‘The Murder of a Solicitor in his Office,’
+and every one of them mentions the disappearance of his managing
+clerk. The inference, though the paragraphs are naturally guarded in
+the extreme, is unmistakable.”
+
+Mr. Steadman reached over for one of the papers.
+
+“Don't take any notice of these things myself; they have to write up
+the sensation. Um! Yes! No doubt what they're hinting at, but they're
+generally wrong. What should Thompson want to kill his employer for,
+unless——”
+
+“Ay, exactly; unless——” the inspector said dryly. “That was one of my
+first thoughts, sir. John Walls is going through the books with an
+auditor this morning. And Mr. Turner, who was in the firm until last
+year, is going over the contents of the safe. When we get their
+reports we shall know more.”
+
+The barrister nodded. “Thompson had been with the firm for many
+years.”
+
+“Eighteen, I believe,” assented the inspector. “He seems to have been
+a great favourite with Mr. Bechcombe, but it is astonishing how little
+his fellow-clerks know of him. Only two of them have ever seen him out
+of the office, and none of them appear to have the least idea where he
+lives.”
+
+Mr. Steadman did not speak for a moment, then he said slowly:
+
+“The fact that so little is known seems in itself curious. Is there no
+way of ascertaining his address?”
+
+“One would imagine that there must be a note of it somewhere at the
+office,” the inspector remarked, “but so far we have not been able to
+find it.”
+
+“How about the woman visitor?” the barrister inquired, changing the
+subject suddenly.
+
+“We haven't been able to identify her at present.” The inspector
+opened the top drawer at his right hand, and took the white glove that
+had been found by the murdered man's desk from its wrapping of tissue
+paper. The most cursory glance showed that it was an expensive glove,
+even if the maker's name had not been known as one of the most famous
+in London and Paris. About it there still clung the vague elusive
+scent that always seems to linger about the belongings of a woman who
+is attracted by and attractive to the other sex.
+
+Mr. Steadman handled it carefully and inspected it thoroughly through
+his eyeglasses. “Yes. We ought to be able to find the mysterious woman
+with the aid of this.”
+
+“Ah, yes. We shall find the wearer,” the inspector said confidently.
+“But will that be very much help in solving the mystery of Luke
+Bechcombe's death?”
+
+The barrister looked at him.
+
+“I don't know that it will. Still, why doesn't she come forward and
+say, ‘I saw Mr. Bechcombe the morning he was murdered. My business
+with him was urgent and I saw him by special appointment.’ She is much
+more likely to be suspected of the crime if she refuses to come
+forward. Mrs. Bechcombe seems certain of her guilt, and women do have
+intuitions.”
+
+“I'm not much of a believer in them myself,” remarked Inspector
+Furnival, shrugging his shoulders. “I would rather have a penn'orth of
+direct evidence than a pound's worth of intuition. And I don't believe
+that Mr. Bechcombe was murdered by a woman. A woman doesn't spring at
+a man and strangle him. She may stab him or shoot him, the weapons
+being to hand, but strangle him with her hands—no. Besides, this was a
+premeditated crime. There was an unmistakable smell of chloroform
+about the body, faint, I grant you, but unmistakable. No, no! It
+wasn't a woman. As to why she doesn't speak—well, there may be a dozen
+reasons. In the first place she may not have heard of the murder at
+all. It doesn't occupy a very conspicuous place in the morning's
+papers. It will be a different matter to-night. Then, she might not
+want her business known. And, above all, many a woman—and man
+too—hates to be mixed up in a murder case, and won't speak out till
+she is driven to it.”
+
+“Quite so!”
+
+The barrister sat silent for a minute or two, his eyes staring
+straight in front of him at nothing in particular. Inspector Furnival
+took another glance at his notes.
+
+“Spencer, the only person we have been able to trace so far who has
+seen this mysterious woman, fancies that her face is familiar to him,
+but does not know in what connexion. I have suggested to him that she
+is possibly an actress, and he is inclined to think that it may be so.
+I have sent him up a quantity of photographs to see if he can identify
+any of them. But don't you see, Mr. Steadman, Mr. Spencer's evidence
+tends rather to exonerate Thompson. Spencer went out after Thompson
+and met this woman on the stairs. It therefore appears probable that
+Thompson was off the premises before the woman came on.”
+
+Mr. Steadman shook his head.
+
+“It isn't safe to assume anything in a case of this kind. We do not
+know that Thompson went off the premises. We do not know where he went
+or where he is.”
+
+“Very true! I wish we did,” asserted the inspector. “At the same
+time——”
+
+The telephone bell was ringing sharply over his desk. He took up the
+receiver.
+
+“That you, Jones? Yes, what is it? Inspector Furnival speaking.”
+
+“Thompson's address has been found in one of Mr. Bechcombe's books.
+There are several other of the clerks' addresses there all entered in
+Mr. Bechcombe's writing, and all the others we have verified.”
+
+“What is it?”
+
+“Number 10 Brooklyn Terrace, North Kensington.”
+
+“Um! I will see to it at once.” And the inspector rang off sharply.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+“Can't hear of Brooklyn Terrace anywhere, sir.” The speaker was Mr.
+Steadman's chauffeur.
+
+He had been going slowly the last few minutes, making ineffectual
+inquiries of the passers-by. Inside the car Mr. Steadman had Inspector
+Furnival seated beside him.
+
+“Better drive to the nearest post-office and ask there. They will be
+sure to know.”
+
+“Call this North Kensington, do they?” the barrister grumbled, as the
+car started again. “Seems to me in my young days it used to be called
+Notting Hill.”
+
+The inspector laughed. “Think North Kensington sounds a bit more
+classy, I expect. Not but what there are some very decent old houses
+hereabouts. Oh, by Jove! Is this Brooklyn Terrace?” as the car turned
+into a side street that had apparently fallen on evil days. Each house
+evidently contained several tenants. In some cases slatternly women
+stood on the doorsteps, shouting remarks to their neighbours, while
+grubby-faced children played about in the gutter or crawled about on
+the doorsteps of their different establishments. It scarcely seemed
+the place in which would be found the missing managing clerk of
+Messrs. Bechcombe and Turner's establishment.
+
+No. 10 was a little tidier than its neighbours, that is to say the
+door was shut and there were no children on the doorstep.
+
+The chauffeur pulled up.
+
+“This is it, sir.”
+
+Mr. Steadman eyed it doubtfully.
+
+“Well, inspector, I expect this really is the place.”
+
+“It is the address in Mr. Bechcombe's book right enough, sir. As to
+whether Mr. Amos Thompson lives here—well, we shall soon see.”
+
+He got out first and knocked at the door, the barrister following
+meekly. The car waiting at the side was the object of enormous
+interest to the denizens of the street. There was no response to the
+knock for some time. At last a small child in the next area called
+out:
+
+“You'll have to go down, they don't never come to that there door!”
+
+Mr. Steadman put up his glass and peered over the palings. A
+slatternly-looking woman was just looking out of the back door.
+
+“Can you let us in, my good woman?” the barrister called out. “We want
+Mr. Thompson.”
+
+The woman muttered something, probably scenting a tip, and presently
+they heard her clattering along the passage.
+
+“Mr. Thompson, is it?” she said as she admitted them. “His room is up
+at the top.”
+
+“Is he at home?” Inspector Furnival questioned.
+
+The woman stared at him. “I don't know. If you just like to walk up
+you will find out.”
+
+The stairs were wide, for the house had seen better days, but
+indescribably dirty. Up at the very top it was a little cleaner. There
+were several doors on the landing but nothing to show which, if any,
+was Thompson's. As they stood there, wondering which it could be, an
+old man came up behind them.
+
+“Were you looking for anyone, gentlemen?” he asked, in a weak,
+quavering voice that told that, like the house, he had fallen on evil
+times.
+
+The inspector turned to him. “I want Mr. Amos Thompson.”
+
+The old man pointed to the door just in front of them.
+
+“That is his door, but I doubt if you will find him in. I haven't seen
+him since yesterday morning. I don't think he slept here.”
+
+“Do you often see him?” the inspector questioned as he applied his
+knuckles to the door.
+
+The old man looked surprised at the question. “Why, yes, sir, I have
+only been here a month, but I have found Mr. Thompson a remarkably
+pleasant gentleman. He always passes the time of day with me and often
+stops for a word over the day's news. An uncommonly nice man is Mr.
+Thompson. It has often crossed my mind to wonder why he stayed here,
+where there is no comfort to speak of for the likes of him.”
+
+The inspector and Mr. Steadman wondered too, as they waited there,
+while no answer came to the former's repeated knocking.
+
+A room in No. 10 Brooklyn Terrace certainly seemed no fitting home for
+Amos Thompson with his handsome salary.
+
+“We must get in somehow,” the inspector said to Mr. Steadman. Then he
+turned to the old man opposite who was watching them with frightened
+eyes. “Has anyone else a key to these rooms, a charwoman or anybody?”
+
+The man shook his head.
+
+“We all do for ourselves, here, sir. We don't afford charwomen and
+such-like. As for getting in—well, I expect the landlord has keys. He
+is on the first floor. But I do not think he would open Mr. Thompson's
+door without——”
+
+“Is this landlord likely to be at home now?” the inspector
+interrupted.
+
+“He is at home, sir. I saw him as I came upstairs.”
+
+The inspector took out his card. “Will you show him this and say that
+Mr. Thompson cannot be found. He disappeared under peculiar
+circumstances yesterday and, since he is not here, we must enter his
+room to see whether we can find any clue to his whereabouts.”
+
+The man visibly paled as he read the name on the card. Then he rapidly
+disappeared down the stairs. Mr. Steadman looked across at the
+inspector.
+
+“Queer affair this! What the deuce does the fellow mean by putting up
+at a place like this?”
+
+“Well, he isn't extravagant in the living line!” the inspector said
+with a grin.
+
+John Steadman raised his eyebrows. “Not here!”
+
+At this moment the landlord arrived with the keys. Quite evidently his
+curiosity had been excited by the advent of the visitors to his
+lodger. Probably he had been expecting his summons. He held Inspector
+Furnival's card in his hand.
+
+“I understand I have no choice, gentlemen.”
+
+“None!” the inspector said grimly.
+
+The landlord made no further demur, but unlocking the door he flung it
+open and stood back. The others waited for a minute in the doorway and
+looked round. At first sight nothing could have been less likely to
+give away the occupier's secrets than this room. It was quite a good
+size with a couple of windows, and a small bed in a recess with a
+curtain hung over it; an oil lamp stood before the fireplace. The
+floor was covered with linoleum, there was no carpet, not even a rug.
+A solid square oak table stood in the middle of the room and there
+were three equally solid-looking chairs. The only other piece of
+furniture in the room was a movable corner cupboard standing at the
+side of the window. The inspector went over and threw the door open.
+Inside there was a cup and saucer, a teapot and tea-caddy, a bottle of
+ink, and a book upon which the inspector immediately pounced. He went
+through it from end to end, he shook it, he banged it on the table; a
+post card fell from it; the inspector stared at it, then with a
+puzzled frown he handed it to Mr. Steadman. The barrister glanced at
+it curiously. On the back was a portrait of a girl—evidently the work
+of an amateur.
+
+“Do you know who that is?” questioned the inspector.
+
+Mr. Steadman shook his head. “It is no one that I have ever seen
+before. Do you mean that you do?”
+
+“That is a likeness—very badly taken, I grant you—but an unmistakable
+likeness of Miss Hoyle, the late Mr. Bechcombe's secretary.”
+
+Mr. Steadman was startled for once. “Good Lord! Do you mean that he
+was in love with her too?”
+
+“Oh, I don't know,” said the inspector, taking possession of the post
+card once more. “Elderly men take queer fancies sometimes, but I
+haven't had any hint of this hitherto. However, I will make a few
+inquiries with a view to ascertaining whether Mr. Tony Collyer has a
+rival.”
+
+“Poor Tony!” said the barrister indulgently.
+
+He took up the book which the inspector had thrown down. It was a
+detective novel of the lightest and most lurid kind, and it bore the
+label of a big and fashionable library. He made a note of it at once.
+The inspector went on with his survey. Beside the bedstead, behind the
+curtain, there stood a small tripod washing-stand with the usual
+apparatus. The bed in itself was enough to arouse their curiosity.
+Upon the chain mattress lay one of hard flock with one hard pillow,
+and an eiderdown quilt rolled up at the bottom. Of other bedclothing
+there was not a vestige, neither was there any sign of any clothing
+found about the room, with the exception of a pair of very old
+slippers originally worked in cross stitch, the pattern of which was
+now indecipherable. The inspector peered round everywhere. He turned
+over the top mattress, he felt it all over. He moved the wash-stand
+and the corner cupboard, he looked in the open fireplace which
+apparently had not been used for years, but not so much as the very
+tiniest scrap of paper rewarded him. At last he turned to the
+barrister.
+
+“Nothing more to be done here, I think, sir.” He took up the book and
+the slippers and moved to the door.
+
+John Steadman followed him silently. His strong face bore a very
+worried, harassed expression.
+
+Outside the landlord stopped them.
+
+“Gentlemen, I hope it is understood that I have no responsibility with
+regard to this raid on Mr. Thompson's property?”
+
+“Quite, quite!” assented the inspector. “Refer Mr. Thompson to me if
+you should see him again.”
+
+“Which I hope I shall,” the landlord pursued, following them down the
+stairs. “For a better tenant I never had; punctual with his rent, and
+always quiet and quite the gentleman.”
+
+Inspector Furnival stopped short. “How long has he lived with you?”
+
+The man scratched his head. “A matter of four years or more, and
+always brought the rent to me, I never had to ask for it. I wish there
+were more like him.”
+
+“Did you see much of him?”
+
+“Only passing the time of day on the stairs, and when he came to pay
+his rent which he did regularly every Saturday morning.”
+
+“That room does not look as if it had been slept in or eaten in,” John
+Steadman said abruptly.
+
+The landlord stared at him.
+
+“Well, we don't bother about our neighbour's business in Brooklyn
+Terrace, sir. But, if he didn't want the room to sleep in or live in,
+why did he rent it?”
+
+“Oh,” said the barrister warily, “that is just what we should like to
+know.”
+
+With a nod of farewell the two men went on. They got into the waiting
+car in silence. With a glance at the inspector John Steadman gave the
+address of the library from which Thompson's book had been procured.
+Then as the car started and he threw himself back on his seat he
+observed:
+
+“Admirably stage-managed!”
+
+The inspector raised his eyebrows. “As how?”
+
+“Do you imagine those people know no more than they say of Thompson?”
+
+“They may. On the other hand it is quite possible they do not,” the
+inspector answered doubtfully.
+
+“That room had been arranged for some such emergency as has arisen,”
+Steadman went on. “Thompson has never lived there. But he came there
+for letters or something. He has some place of concealment very likely
+quite near. I have no doubt that either of those men could have told
+us more. I expect they will give the show away if a reward is
+offered.”
+
+“If——” the inspector repeated. “I don't quite agree with you, Mr.
+Steadman. I think those men were speaking the truth, and I doubt
+whether they knew any more of Thompson than they said. The man, who as
+you say, has so admirably stage-managed that room would hardly be
+likely to give himself away by making unnecessary confidants. But now
+I wonder for whose benefit this scene was originally staged?”
+
+The barrister drew in his lips. “Don't you think Luke Bechcombe's
+murder answers your question?”
+
+“No, I don't!” said the inspector bluntly. “Thompson was a wrong 'un,
+but at present I do not see any connexion with the murder at all! They
+are at it now, full swing!” For as they neared Notting Hill Gate they
+could hear the voices of the newsboys calling out their papers—“Murder
+of a well-known Solicitor. Missing Clerk!” Up by the station the
+newsboys exhibited lurid headlines.
+
+They bought a handful of papers and unfolded them as they bowled
+swiftly across to the library. In most cases the murder of the
+solicitor occupied the greater part of the front page. The
+disappearance of the managing clerk was made the most of. But in
+several there were hints of the mysterious visitor, veiled surmises as
+to her business and identity. Altogether the Crow's Inn Tragedy, as
+the papers were beginning to call it, seemed to contain all the
+materials for a modern sensational drama.
+
+At the library they both got out. The section devoted to T's was at
+the farther end. A pleasant-looking girl was handing out books.
+Seizing his opportunity the inspector went forward and held out the
+volume.
+
+“I have found this book under rather peculiar circumstances. Can you
+tell me by whom it was borrowed?”
+
+For a moment the girl seemed undecided; then, murmuring a few
+unintelligible words, she went round to the manager's desk. That
+functionary came back with her.
+
+“I hear you want to know who borrowed this book, but it is not our
+custom to give particulars——”
+
+“I know it is not.” The inspector held out his card. “But I think you
+will have to make an exception in my case.”
+
+The manager put up his pince-nez and glanced at the card, and then at
+the inspector. Then he signed to an assistant to bring him the book in
+which subscribers' names were entered, and spoke to her in a low tone.
+She looked frightened as she glanced at the inspector.
+
+“It was borrowed by a Mr. Thompson, sir, address 10 Brooklyn Terrace,
+North Kensington. He is an old subscriber.”
+
+“Did he come for the books himself?” the inspector questioned. “Can
+you describe him?”
+
+“There—there wasn't much to describe,” the girl faltered. “He had a
+brown beard and some of his front teeth were missing, and he nearly
+always wore those big, horn-rimmed glasses.”
+
+“Height?” questioned the inspector sharply.
+
+“Well, he wasn't very tall nor very short,” was the unsatisfactory
+reply.
+
+“Thin or stout?”
+
+“Not much of either!” The girl twisted her hands about, evidently
+wishing herself far away.
+
+The inspector deserted the topic of Mr. Thompson's appearance. He held
+up the book.
+
+“When was this taken out?”
+
+The manager glanced at a list of volumes opposite the subscribers'
+names.
+
+“Last Thursday. I may say that Mr. Thompson always wanted books of
+this class—detective fiction, and he literally devoured them. He
+always expected a new one to be ready for him, and he was inclined to
+be unpleasant if he had for the time being exhausted the supply. He
+generally called here every day. This is an unusually long interval if
+he has not called since Thursday.”
+
+“Um!” The inspector glanced at Mr. Steadman. Then he turned back to
+the manager. “I am obliged by your courtesy, sir. Would you add to it,
+should Mr. Thompson call or send again, by ringing me up at Scotland
+Yard? The book we will leave with you.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+“Extensive defalcations. A system of fraud that must have been carried
+on for many years,” repeated Aubrey Todmarsh. “Well, that pretty well
+settles the matter as far as Thompson is concerned.”
+
+“I don't see it,” contradicted Tony Collyer. “Thompson is a defaulter.
+That doesn't prove he is a murderer. I don't believe he is. Old chap
+didn't look like a murderer.”
+
+“My dear Tony, don't be childish!” responded Todmarsh. “A man that
+commits a murder never does look like a murderer. He wouldn't be so
+successful if he did.”
+
+“Anyway, if Thompson is guilty, it pretty well knocks the stuffing out
+of your pet theory,” retorted Tony. “Thompson didn't go to the War.”
+
+“No, but the lust for killing spread over the entire country,”
+Todmarsh went on, his face assuming a rapt expression as he gazed over
+Anthony's head at the little clouds scudding across the patch of sky
+which he could see through the windows above. “Besides, there were
+murders before the War, and there will be murders when, if ever, it is
+forgotten. But I do maintain that there have been many more brutal
+crimes since the War than ever before in the history of the country.
+Teach a man through all the most impressionable years of his life that
+there is nothing worth doing but killing his fellow-creatures and
+trying to kill them, and he will——”
+
+“Oh, stow that—we have heard it all before,” Tony interrupted
+irritably. “According to your own showing the murder might just as
+well have been committed by one of your own dear conchies as anyone
+else. Anyway, I don't believe Thompson killed Uncle Luke. Why should
+he? He had got the money. He had only to make off with it. Why should
+he kill the old chap?”
+
+“Well, Uncle Luke may have taxed him with his shortcomings and
+threatened to prosecute him, perhaps he tried to phone or something of
+that sort. And Thompson may have sprung at him and throttled him.”
+
+“Don't believe it!” Tony said obstinately.
+
+Todmarsh's eyes narrowed.
+
+“I wouldn't proclaim my faith in Thompson's innocence quite so loudly
+if I were you, Tony. I imagine you have no idea who the world is
+saying must be guilty if Thompson is innocent.”
+
+“I imagine I have,” Tony returned, his tone growing violent. “I am
+quite aware that the world”—laying stress on the noun—“is saying that,
+if Thompson didn't murder Uncle Luke, I did, to gain the money my
+uncle left. But I am not going to try to hang Thompson to save my own
+neck. By the way, I come into some more money when Aunt Madeline dies.
+You will be expecting me to murder her next! You had something left
+you too. You may have done it to get that!”
+
+Aubrey Todmarsh shook his head.
+
+“My legacy is a mere flea-bite compared with yours. And I trust that
+my life and aims are sufficiently well known——”
+
+Tony turned his back on him deliberately.
+
+“Bosh! Don't trouble to put it on for me, Aubrey. I have known your
+life and aims fairly well for a good while. Take care of your own
+skin, and let everything else go to the wall. That's your aim.”
+
+His cousin's dark eyes held no spark of resentment.
+
+“You do not think that, I know, Tony. But, if the world should
+misjudge my motives, I cannot help it.”
+
+The cousins were standing in the smaller of the two adjoining
+waiting-rooms in the late Luke Bechcombe's flat offices. The inquest
+had been held that morning and the auditors' report on the books that
+had been in Thompson's charge and the contents of the safe had been
+taken. Their statement that there had been a system of fraud carried
+on probably for years had not come as a surprise. The public had from
+the first decided that Thompson's disappearance could only be
+accounted for as a flight from the charge of embezzlement that was
+hanging over him. Ever logical, rumour did not trouble to account for
+the chloroform and the covered finger-prints or the lady with the
+white gloves.
+
+The auditors' report had brought both Aubrey Todmarsh and Tony to the
+office this afternoon, and as usual the cousins could not meet without
+contradicting one another or quarrelling. Inspector Furnival and Mr.
+Steadman had also given their account of their visit to Thompson's
+room and the mystery mongers were more than ever intrigued thereby.
+There could be no doubt that, whatever might be their opinion of his
+guilt, Thompson's disappearance was becoming more and more of an
+enigma to the police. Not the faintest trace of him could be
+discovered. When he left the clerks' office in Crow's Inn, he
+apparently disappeared from the face of the earth; no one had met him
+on the stairs, no one had seen him in the vicinity of the square.
+After an enormous amount of inquiry the police had at last discovered
+a small restaurant where he generally lunched, but he had neither been
+there on the day of the murder nor since, and the railway stations had
+been watched so far without success. In fact, Inspector Furnival had
+been heard to state that but that they could not find the body he
+would have thought that Thompson had been murdered as well as his
+chief.
+
+Thompson was described at the restaurant as always taking his meals by
+himself and speaking to no one, and always at the same table. Then the
+waitress who had waited on him for the last two years had never heard
+him say more than good morning, or good afternoon. He always lunched
+_à la carte_, so that there was no ordering to be done. Still with the
+precautions taken, with his description circulated through the
+country, it seemed that his capture could only be a matter of time.
+
+But the inspector was frankly puzzled. At every point he was baffled
+in his attempt to discover anything of the real man. The very mystery
+about him was in itself suspicious.
+
+The inspector and Mr. Steadman were in Mr. Bechcombe's private room
+this afternoon. Everything remained just as it had been when the
+murder was discovered, except that the body had been removed to the
+nearest mortuary now that the inquest had been adjourned, and the
+funeral was to take place at once.
+
+The inspector had been over the room already with the most meticulous
+care. To-day he was trying to reconstruct the crime. The dead man's
+writing-table was opposite the door into the ante-room, which opened
+into the clerks' room. The door into the passage opened upon Mr.
+Bechcombe's usual seat. Supposing that to have been unlocked, it
+seemed to the inspector that, when Mr. Bechcombe had received his
+expected visitor, he might have been thinking over some communication
+that had been made to him, and the assassin might have entered the
+room silently from behind, and strangled him before he was aware of
+his danger. But there seemed no motive for such a crime, and the
+inspector was frankly puzzled. There was no view from the window, the
+lower panes being of frosted glass, the upper looking straight across
+to a blank wall. The safe was locked again now as it had been in Mr.
+Bechcombe's lifetime. Mr. Turner had finished his examination. But,
+try as the inspector would to reconstruct the crime, he could not
+build up any hypothesis which could not be instantly demolished, or so
+it seemed to him. Mr. Steadman stood on the hearthrug with his back to
+the ashes of Luke Bechcombe's last fire. For the lawyer had been
+old-fashioned—he had disliked central heating and gas and electric
+contrivances. In spite of strikes and increasing prices he had adhered
+to coal fires.
+
+At last the silence was broken by Mr. Steadman:
+
+“You have the experts' opinion of the fingerprints, I presume?”
+
+The inspector bent his head.
+
+“It came this morning. It was not put in at the inquest, for it is
+just as well not to take all the world into our confidence at first,
+you know, Mr. Steadman.”
+
+“Quite so,” the barrister assented. “Do you mean that you were able to
+identify them?”
+
+“No,” growled the inspector. “They will never be identified. The
+murderer wore those thin rubber gloves that some of the first-class
+crooks have taken to of late.”
+
+“Phew!” Mr. Steadman gave a low whistle. “That—that puts a very
+different complexion on the matter.”
+
+The inspector raised his eyebrows. “As how?”
+
+“Well, for one thing it settles the question of premeditation.”
+
+The inspector coughed.
+
+“I have never believed Mr. Bechcombe's murder to have been
+unpremeditated. Neither have you, I think, sir.”
+
+“Well, no,” the other conceded. “The crime has always looked to me
+like a carefully planned and skilfully executed murder. And yet—I
+don't know.”
+
+“It is the most absolutely baffling affair I have come across for
+years,” Inspector Furnival observed slowly. “It is the question of
+motive that is so puzzling. Once we have discovered that I do not
+think the identity of the murderer will remain a secret long.”
+
+“The public seems to have made up its mind that Thompson is guilty.”
+
+“I know.” Inspector Furnival stroked his clean-shaven chin
+thoughtfully. “But why should Thompson, having robbed his master
+systematically for years, suddenly make up his mind to murder him? For
+he didn't have the rubber gloves and the chloroform by accident you
+know, sir.”
+
+“Obviously not.” Mr. Steadman studied his finger nails in silence for
+a minute, then he looked up suddenly. “Inspector, to my mind absolute
+frankness is always best. Now, we do not know that Thompson went to
+Mr. Bechcombe's room at all on the morning of the murder. But there is
+another whose name is being freely canvassed who certainly did go to
+the room.”
+
+“Ay, Mr. Tony Collyer,” the inspector said, frowning as he looked over
+his notes again. “The obvious suspect. Motive and opportunity—neither
+lacking. But here the question of premeditation comes in again. Young
+Collyer would not have known he would have the excellent opportunity
+that really did occur. Would he have come on chance provided with
+chloroform and rubber gloves? Would he not have fixed up an
+opportunity when he could have been certain of finding Mr. Bechcombe
+in? And also when his fiancée, Miss Cecily Hoyle, was out of the way?
+Then, when he did put his rubber gloves on is a question. According to
+Miss Hoyle's testimony he had not got them on when she left him. He
+could hardly bring them out while Mr. Bechcombe was talking to him.
+No, so far as I can see nothing conclusive with regard to either of
+these two is to be found, Mr. Steadman. What do you think yourself?”
+
+“Personally I shall find it always a very difficult matter to believe
+Tony Collyer guilty, strong though the evidence seems against him,”
+Mr. Steadman said frankly. “Thompson, I must confess, seems a very
+different proposition. Then we must remember the third person in the
+case, the lady of the white gloves.”
+
+“The owner of the white glove did not strangle Mr. Bechcombe,”
+Inspector Furnival said positively. “Though she may have been an
+accomplice. The experts' evidence decided that the fingers of the hand
+that killed Mr. Bechcombe were considerably too large to have gone
+into that white glove.”
+
+“So that's that!” said the barrister. “Well, it is a curious case. It
+seemed bristling with clues at first. And yet they all seem to lead
+nowhere.”
+
+“One of them will in time, though,” the inspector remarked
+confidently. “The thread is in our hands right enough, Mr. Steadman.
+We shall find the other end before long.”
+
+“You don't mean——” the barrister was beginning when there was an
+interruption.
+
+There was a knock at the door. Mr. Steadman put up his pince-nez as
+the inspector opened the door. To their surprise Aubrey Todmarsh stood
+in the passage. He stepped inside, his face paling as he glanced round
+the room in which his uncle had met his death.
+
+“Ugh!” He shivered. “There is a terrible atmosphere about this room,
+inspector. Even if one did not know it, I think one would
+unconsciously sense the fact that some horrible crime had been
+committed here.”
+
+“Um, I am not much of a believer in that sort of thing,” Mr. Steadman
+answered. “It is easy enough to sense crime, as you call it, when you
+know that it has been committed.”
+
+Aubrey shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“Well, I don't know. You may be right, but I shall stick to my
+convictions. There are subtler emotions that cannot be shared by
+anyone. But I am here on business to-day. One of my men, my most
+trusted men—Hopkins by name—has been doing some work in the East End
+up by the docks. He met with a man whom he believes to have been
+Thompson.”
+
+“When?” Mr. Steadman questioned sharply.
+
+“Two days ago.”
+
+“Then why didn't he speak out sooner?”
+
+“He did not see any description of Thompson until this morning. Then
+he saw one outside a police-station and he remembered.”
+
+“Remembered what?”
+
+“This man,” Aubrey responded impatiently. “A man that answered to
+Thompson's description. He came down to the docks and tried to get a
+job on some distant cargo boat. Said he could do anything; but Hopkins
+noticed that his hands were smooth and carefully manicured. Like a
+gentleman's hands, Hopkins described them.”
+
+“Did he get his job on the cargo boat?”
+
+“Hopkins thinks that he did, or, at any rate, if not that he managed
+to get taken as a passenger. He went off somewhere.”
+
+“Where was the cargo boat bound for?” Mr. Steadman seemed more
+interested than the inspector who was making notes in a desultory
+fashion.
+
+Aubrey shook his head.
+
+“Hopkins doesn't know. You see he had no particular reason to notice
+anything about the man. He would not have done so at all but for the
+hands, I think.”
+
+“You said just now that Hopkins recognized him from the description
+when he saw it,” Mr. Steadman pursued. “I must say I thought it
+delightfully vague. A study in negatives, I should call it.”
+
+“It wasn't very definite, of course. And Hopkins may have been
+entirely mistaken. But he said he particularly noticed the short brown
+beard and the defective teeth.”
+
+“Um!” Mr. Steadman stuck his hands in his pockets. “I am inclined to
+think Hopkins' identification a flight of the imagination. The
+police-station description tells what Thompson was like when he left
+here. I should look out for a clean-shaven man with regular teeth
+now.”
+
+Todmarsh did not look pleased.
+
+“I suppose I am particularly stupid, but I really fail to understand
+why the police should circulate a description when they want something
+entirely opposite.”
+
+“My dear man, you don't imagine that a man who could hide his traces
+as Thompson did would be foolish enough to leave his personal
+appearance unprovided for? No. We must have every cargo boat that left
+the docks overhauled at its first stopping-place, but I don't fancy we
+shall find Thompson on any of them.”
+
+“Well, he has managed to get away somehow, and I thought you might be
+glad to hear of something that is a possible clue,” Todmarsh said
+sulkily.
+
+At this moment the telephone bell, Mr. Luke Bechcombe's own telephone
+bell, rang sharply. Todmarsh stopped and started violently, staring at
+the telephone as if he expected to see his uncle answer it.
+
+The inspector took up the receiver; the other men watched him
+breathlessly.
+
+“Yes, yes, Inspector Furnival speaking,” they heard him say. “Yes, I
+will be with you as soon as it is possible. Detain her at all hazards
+until I come.”
+
+He rang off and turned.
+
+“What do you think that was?”
+
+“Thompson caught at the docks,” Aubrey Todmarsh suggested.
+
+Mr. Steadman said nothing, but a faint smile crossed his lips as he
+glanced at the inspector.
+
+“The message is that a lady is at Scotland Yard asking to see the
+official who is in charge of the Bechcombe case,” Inspector Furnival
+said, glancing from one to the other of his auditors as if to note the
+effect of his words on them. “A lady, who refused to give her name,
+but who says that she saw the late Mr. Luke Bechcombe on the day of
+his death.”
+
+His words had the force of a bombshell thrown between the others.
+
+Aubrey Todmarsh did not speak, but his face turned visibly whiter. He
+moistened his lips with his tongue. Even the impassive Mr. Steadman
+started violently.
+
+“The lady of the glove!” he exclaimed.
+
+The inspector caught up his hat.
+
+“I don't know. I must ascertain without delay, Mr. Steadman.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+Dismissing his taxi at the Archway, Inspector Furnival made the best
+of his way to his office. Outside a man was standing. He touched his
+forehead respectfully.
+
+“Glad to see you, sir. The lady has just been to the door to say she
+can't wait more than five minutes longer.”
+
+The inspector paused.
+
+“What is her name, Jones?”
+
+The man shook his head.
+
+“She wouldn't give one, sir. She said her business was with the
+detective in charge of the Bechcombe case, and with him alone. I was
+on tenterhooks all the time, sir, fearing that she would be gone
+before you came.”
+
+The inspector nodded and went on.
+
+He turned the handle of his door quietly and entered the room as
+quickly and noiselessly as possible. If he had hoped to surprise his
+visitor, however, he found himself disappointed.
+
+She was standing immediately opposite the door with her back to the
+window. She did not wait for him to speak.
+
+“Are you in charge of the Bechcombe case?” she demanded, and he
+noticed that her voice was powerful and rather hard in tone.
+
+The inspector glanced keenly at her as he walked to the chair behind
+his office table. Standing thus with her back to the light he could
+see little of his visitor's face, which was also concealed by the hat
+which was crushed down upon her forehead and overshadowed by an
+uncurled feather mount. But he could tell that she was fashionably
+gowned, that the furs she had thrown back from her shoulders were
+costly.
+
+He answered her question and asked another.
+
+“I am Inspector Furnival, and I am inquiring into the circumstances of
+Mr. Bechcombe's death. May I ask why you want to know?”
+
+His interlocutor took a few steps forward, clasping her hands
+nervously together.
+
+“You know that a white glove was found by Mr. Bechcombe's desk?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“It was my glove. I left it there!”
+
+The inspector did not speak for a minute. He unlocked a drawer and
+took out an official-looking notebook.
+
+“Your name and address, madam?”
+
+“Is that necessary?” There was a quiver in the clear tones. “I have
+told you that I was there—that the glove is mine. Is not that enough?”
+
+“Scarcely, madam. But”—waiving the subject of the name for a
+moment—“why have you not spoken before?”
+
+“I didn't hear at first.” She hesitated a moment, her foot tapping the
+floor impatiently.
+
+And now she was nearer to him he could see that her make-up was
+extensive, that complexion and eyes owed much of their brilliancy to
+art, and that the red-gold hair probably came off entirely. But it was
+a handsome face, though not that of a woman in her first youth. The
+features, though large, were well formed, and the big blue eyes would
+have been more beautiful without the black lines with which they were
+embellished.
+
+“I don't read the papers much, at least only the society news and
+about the theatres—never murders or horrors of that kind, and it was
+not until I heard some people talking about it, and they mentioned Mr.
+Bechcombe's name, that I knew what had happened. I did not realize
+at first that it—the murder had taken place on the very day which
+I had been to the office, and that it was my glove that had been
+found beside the desk. Even then I made up my mind not to speak out
+if I could help it. Mr. Bechcombe was alive and well when I saw
+him. I couldn't tell you anything about the murder. And I couldn't
+have my name mixed up in a murder trial, or let the papers, or
+certain—er—people get to know what I had been doing at Mr. Bechcombe's
+office.”
+
+“Then why have you come to us now?”
+
+“Because I thought, if I didn't tell you, you would be sure to find
+out,” was the candid reply. “And—and if I came myself I thought you
+might call me Madame X, or something like that. They do, you know, and
+then perhaps—er—people might never know.”
+
+The inspector smiled.
+
+“I am afraid you are too well known and the illustrated papers are too
+ubiquitous for that, Mrs. Carnthwacke.”
+
+She emitted a slight scream.
+
+“Oh! How did you know?”
+
+The inspector's smile became more apparent.
+
+“I was a great admirer of Miss Bella Laymond on the Variety stage. I
+had the pleasure of ‘assisting’ at her marriage with the American
+millionaire, Cyril B. Carnthwacke—that is to say, I was passing a
+fashionable church, saw a large waiting crowd, and was lucky enough to
+get in the first rank and obtain a good view of the beautiful bride. I
+could not help remembering a face like that, Mrs. Carnthwacke. And now
+I want you to forget that I am a detective, and just think that I am a
+friend who is anxious to help you, and tell me all the story of your
+visit to Mr. Bechcombe.”
+
+He pushed forward a chair as he spoke.
+
+She looked from it to him undecidedly for a minute. Then, as if coming
+to a sudden resolution, she sat down and pulled the chair nearer to
+his desk.
+
+“You promise not to tell my—husband what I am going to tell you?”
+
+“I promise,” the inspector said reassuringly. “Now, first please, why
+did you come to Luke Bechcombe's office on the day of his death?”
+
+“Well, I dare say you know my husband is very rich?”
+
+The inspector nodded. Cyril B. Carnthwacke's name and his millions
+were well known to the man in the street.
+
+“When we were married he gave the most gorgeous jewels,” Mrs.
+Carnthwacke went on. “And he made me an enormous allowance. Americans
+are always generous—bless you, I thought I was going to have the time
+of my life. But I—I had never been rich. Even when I got on on the
+stage and had a big salary I was always in debt. I suppose I am
+extravagant by nature. Anyway, when I was married it seemed to me that
+I had an inexhaustible store to fall back upon. I spent money like
+water with the result that after a time I had to go for more to my
+husband. He gave it to me, but I could see that he was astonished and
+displeased. Still, I could not change my nature. I gambled at cards,
+on the racecourse, on the Stock Exchange, and I staked high to give
+myself a new excitement. Sometimes I won, but more often I lost and my
+husband helped me again and again. But more and more I could see I was
+disappointing him. At last he told me that he would pay no more for
+me; he hated and mistrusted all gambling and I must make my huge
+allowance do. I couldn't—I mean I couldn't give up gambling. It was in
+my blood. And just as I was in a horrible hole the worst happened. A—a
+man who had been my lover years ago began to blackmail me. I gave him
+all I could but nothing satisfied him.” She stopped and passed a tiny
+lace-trimmed handkerchief over her lips.
+
+“Why did you not tell your husband?” the inspector inquired. “I guess
+Mr. Carnthwacke would have settled him pretty soon.”
+
+“I—I daren't,” she confessed. “And I have been an awful ass. He—this
+man—had letters. They were silly enough, goodness knows, and they
+might have been read to mean more than they did, and my husband is
+jealous—terribly, wickedly jealous of my past. At last he—the man—said
+that if I would pay him a large, an enormous sum, he would go abroad
+and I should never hear of him again. If I did not he swore he would
+send the letters to my husband in such a fashion that the worst
+construction would be placed upon them. What was I to do? I hadn't any
+money. I dared not tell my husband. I made several attempts to pull
+off a grand _coup_, and only got worse in the mire. I made up my mind
+to sell my diamonds and substitute paste. A friend of mine had done so
+and apparently had never been suspected. But I couldn't take them to
+the shop myself—we were too well known in London. And, when I was at
+my wit's end to know what to do with them, I happened to hear a woman
+saying how she had disposed of hers quite legitimately and openly
+through a solicitor, Mr. Luke Bechcombe. I thought perhaps he might do
+something for me, and I rang him up.”
+
+“Well?” the detective said interrogatively; his face was as
+expressionless as ever, but there was a veiled eagerness in his
+deep-set eyes as they watched Mrs. Carnthwacke's every movement.
+
+“I told him what I wanted. And he said it would be necessary to have
+them valued. We talked it over and made an appointment for two days
+later, the very day he was murdered. I was to take them to him myself.
+And he told me to go down the passage to his private door so that none
+of his clients should see me, because I explained that it must be kept
+a real dead secret.”
+
+“What time was your appointment for?” the inspector asked.
+
+“A quarter past twelve,” Mrs. Carnthwacke answered. “But I was late—it
+must have been quite half-past when I got there. He looked at the
+diamonds and said that they were very fine and he would have them
+valued at once and get them disposed of for me if I approved of the
+price. He was to ring me up at twelve o'clock the next day. But of
+course he didn't, and I couldn't think what had happened, until I saw
+this dreadful thing in the papers. Oh, you will keep my name out of
+it, won't you?”
+
+She broke off and looked appealingly at the inspector. He did not
+answer. For once in his long experience he was thoroughly taken aback.
+The woman had told her story calmly and convincingly enough, but—and
+as the inspector looked at her he wondered if she had no idea of the
+horrible danger in which she stood.
+
+“I will do my best for you in every way,” he said at last. “But you
+must first answer all my questions straightforwardly. You have at
+least done the right thing in coming to us now, though it might have
+been better if you had come earlier. Now first will you tell me
+exactly what time you reached Mr. Bechcombe's office?”
+
+“Well, as I say, I ought to have been there at a quarter past twelve,
+but I dare say it was half-past, or it might have been a quarter to
+one.”
+
+The inspector kept his keen eyes upon her face; not one change in her
+expression could escape him.
+
+“Mrs. Carnthwacke, do you know that the doctors have stated that Mr.
+Bechcombe died about twelve o'clock—sooner rather than later?”
+
+“Twelve o'clock!” Her face turned almost livid in spite of its
+make-up, but her blue eyes met the inspector's steadily. “It's no use,
+inspector. I suppose doctors make mistakes like other folks sometimes.
+Luke Bechcombe was alive, very much alive, when I went in about
+half-past twelve.”
+
+The inspector did not argue the question, but his eyes did not relax
+their watchful gaze for one second as he went on.
+
+“How did Mr. Bechcombe seem when you saw him? Did you notice anything
+peculiar about his manner?”
+
+“Well, I had never seen him before, so I couldn't notice any
+difference. He just seemed an ordinary, pleasant sort of man. He
+admired my diamonds very much and said we ought to get a high price
+for them. He was to have had them valued the next day. Now—now I am in
+pressing need of money and I want to have them valued myself if you
+will give them back to me.”
+
+For once Inspector Furnival was shaken out of his usual passivity.
+
+“You—do you mean that you left the diamonds there?”
+
+“Well, of course! Haven't I been telling you so all this time?” Mrs.
+Carnthwacke said impatiently. “Mr. Bechcombe gave me a receipt for
+them, and locked them up in his safe—like that one!”
+
+She pointed to the wall where a large cupboard was built into it.
+
+“The—the executors will give them to me, won't they?”
+
+The inspector went over and stood near the door.
+
+“Mrs. Carnthwacke, when the door of the safe was opened in the
+presence of Mr. Bechcombe's executors and of the police, there were no
+diamonds there.”
+
+“What! You do not—you cannot mean that my diamonds are lost!” Mrs.
+Carnthwacke started to her feet. “Mr. Bechcombe put them in the safe
+himself, I tell you.”
+
+“That was not a safe. It is just an ordinary cupboard in which papers
+and documents of no particular importance were kept. And when the safe
+was opened there was no sign of diamonds there,” the inspector said
+positively. “It may be possible that Mr. Bechcombe moved them before,
+otherwise——”
+
+“Otherwise what?” she demanded. “Heavens, man, speak out! My diamonds
+are worth thousands of pounds. Otherwise what?”
+
+“Otherwise they may have provided a motive for the crime,” the
+inspector said slowly. “But no—that is impossible, if you saw him lock
+them up.”
+
+“Of course I did, you may bet I watched that.” Mrs. Carnthwacke calmed
+down a little. “Besides, I have got the receipt. That makes him, or
+his executors liable for the diamonds, doesn't it?”
+
+“Have you the receipt here?” the inspector asked quickly.
+
+“Of course. I thought it might be wanted to get back my diamonds. The
+fact that your firm might deny having them never entered my head.”
+
+She opened the vanity bag which hung at her side and took out a piece
+of paper crushed with much folding.
+
+“There! You can't get away from that!”
+
+The inspector read it.
+
+“Mrs. Carnthwacke has entrusted her diamonds to me for valuation and I
+have deposited them in my safe. Signed—Luke Francis Bechcombe,” he
+read.
+
+The paper on which it was written was Luke Bechcombe's. There was no
+doubt of that. The inspector had seen its counterpart in Mr.
+Bechcombe's private room. But his face altered curiously as he looked
+at it.
+
+“Certainly, if this receipt was given you by Mr. Bechcombe, the estate
+is liable for the value of the diamonds,” he finished up.
+
+“Well, Mr. Bechcombe gave it me, safe enough,” Mrs. Carnthwacke
+declared. “I put it in this same little bag and went off, little
+thinking what was going to happen. It struck one as I came out.”
+
+“One o'clock!” The inspector was looking puzzled. If Mrs.
+Carnthwacke's story was true it was in direct contradiction to the
+doctors'. “Did you meet anyone on the stairs?”
+
+Mrs. Carnthwacke looked undecided.
+
+“I don't remember. Yes, I think I did—some young man or another. I
+didn't notice him much.”
+
+“And you didn't notice anything peculiar in Mr. Bechcombe's manner?”
+
+“Nothing much,” Mrs. Carnthwacke said, holding out her hand for the
+receipt. “I'll have that back, please. You bet I don't part with it
+till I have got my diamonds back. The only thing I thought was that
+Mr. Bechcombe seemed in rather a hurry—sort of wanted me to quit.”
+
+The inspector felt inclined to smile. Half an hour in the busiest time
+of the day seemed a fairly liberal allowance even for a millionaire's
+wife.
+
+“Now, can you tell me how many people know that you were bringing the
+diamonds to Mr. Bechcombe?”
+
+“Not one. What do you take me for? A first-class idiot?” Mrs.
+Carnthwacke demanded indignantly. “Nobody knew that I had the diamonds
+at all—not even my maid. I kept them in a little safe in my
+bedroom—one my husband had specially made for me. Great Scott, I was a
+bit too anxious to keep the whole business quiet to go talking about
+it.”
+
+“Not even to the friend that told you that Mr. Bechcombe had helped
+her out of a similar difficulty?”
+
+“No, not a word! I didn't think of asking Mr. Bechcombe while she was
+with me, and the next day she went off to Cannes and I haven't seen
+her since. The receipt, please?”
+
+The inspector did not relax his hold.
+
+“You will understand that this is a most valuable piece of evidence,
+madam. You will have to entrust it to me. I will of course give you a
+written acknowledgment that I have it.”
+
+The colour flashed into Mrs. Carnthwacke's face.
+
+“Do you mean that you will not let me have it back?”
+
+“I am afraid I cannot, madam.”
+
+She sprang forward with outstretched hands—just missed it by half an
+inch. The inspector quietly put it in his notebook and, snapping the
+elastic round it, returned it to his pocket.
+
+“You may rely upon me to do my best for you, madam. I shall make every
+possible search for the diamonds and will communicate with the
+executors, who will of course recognize their responsibility if the
+jewels are not found. And now will you let me give you one piece of
+advice?”
+
+“I don't know. I guess I am not a good person to give advice to.”
+
+Evidently Mrs. Carnthwacke was not to be placated. Her eyes flashed,
+and one foot beat an impatient tattoo on the floor.
+
+The inspector was unruffled.
+
+“Nevertheless, I think I will venture upon it. Tell your husband
+yourself what has happened. He will help you more efficiently than
+anyone else in the whole world can. And Mr. Carnthwacke's advice is
+worth having.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+“Good morning, Miss Hoyle.” Inspector Furnival rose and placed a chair
+for the girl, scrutinizing her pale face keenly as he did so.
+
+Cecily sat down.
+
+“You sent for me,” she said nervously.
+
+The inspector took the chair at the top of the table that had been
+Luke Bechcombe's favourite seat.
+
+His interview with Cecily Hoyle was taking place by special
+arrangement in the library of the murdered man's private house, where,
+by special desire of Mrs. Bechcombe, Cecily was now installed as
+secretary to her late employer's widow.
+
+The canny inspector had taken care to place the girl's chair so that
+the light from the near window fell full upon her face. As he drew his
+papers towards him and opened a capacious notebook he was thinking how
+white and worn the girl was looking, and there was a frightened glance
+in her brown eyes as she sat down that did not escape him.
+
+The door opened to admit John Steadman. After a slight bow to Cecily
+he sat down at the inspector's right.
+
+“Yes,” the inspector said, glancing across at Cecily, “I want to ask
+you a few questions, Miss Hoyle. It may make matters easier for you at
+the adjourned inquest if you answer them now.”
+
+“I will do my best,” Cecily said, looking at him with big, alarmed
+eyes. “But, really, I have told you everything I know.”
+
+John Steadman watched her from his lowered eyes. She would be a good
+witness with the jury, he thought, this slim, pale girl, with her
+great appealing eyes and her pathetic, trembling lips.
+
+“A few curious sidelights have arisen in connexion with Mr.
+Bechcombe's death,” the inspector pursued. “And I think you may be
+able to help me more than you realize. First, you recognize this, of
+course?” He took from its envelope of tissue paper the picture post
+card he had found in Amos Thompson's room in Brooklyn Terrace and
+handed it to her.
+
+Cecily gazed at it in growing amazement.
+
+“It—it looks like me! It _is_ me, I believe,” she said
+ungrammatically. “But how in the world did you get it?”
+
+“I found it,” the inspector said slowly, watching every change in her
+mobile face as he spoke, “in Amos Thompson's room in Brooklyn
+Terrace.”
+
+Cecily stared at him.
+
+“Impossible! You couldn't have! Why should Mr. Thompson have my
+photograph? And where was this taken, anyway?”
+
+“That is what I am hoping you may tell us.”
+
+“But I can't! I don't know!” Cecily said, still gazing in a species of
+stupefaction at her presentment. “It—it is a snapshot, of course, but
+I never saw it before, I never knew when it was taken.”
+
+“You did not give it to Amos Thompson, then?” the inspector
+questioned.
+
+“Good heavens, no! I knew nothing about Mr. Thompson. I have just seen
+him at a distance in the office. But I have never spoken to him in my
+life. I should not have known him had I met him in the street.”
+
+“You can give no explanation of his treasuring your photograph then?”
+
+Cecily shook her head. “I can't indeed. I should have thought it a
+most unlikely thing to happen. I cannot bring myself to believe that
+it did. This thing”—flicking the card with her forefinger—“must have
+got into his room by accident.”
+
+The inspector permitted himself a slight smile.
+
+“I really do not think so.”
+
+Cecily shrugged her shoulders. “Well, I give it up. Unless—unless”—an
+accent of fear creeping into her voice—“he wanted to implicate me, to
+make you think that I had been helping him to rob Mr. Bechcombe.”
+
+“In that case he would surely have thought of some rather more sure
+plan than leaving your photograph about in his room,” said the
+inspector. “You do not think it likely that seeing you so much in the
+office, he has taken a fancy to you—fallen in love with you, in fact,
+as people say.”
+
+“I do not, indeed!” Cecily said impatiently. “As I tell you, I know
+nothing of Mr. Thompson, and he did not see much of me in the office.
+I never went in to Mr. Bechcombe's room through the clerks' office. I
+never had occasion to go there at all. My business concerned Mr.
+Bechcombe, and Mr. Bechcombe only, and by his wish I always went to
+him by the private door.”
+
+“I see.” The inspector studied the photograph in silence. “You know
+where this was taken?” he said at last.
+
+Cecily looked at it again.
+
+“It looks—I believe I am sitting in my favourite seat in the Field of
+Rest. I suppose I must have been snapshotted without my knowing it—by
+some amateur probably.”
+
+“Mr. Thompson?” the inspector suggested.
+
+“I do not know!” Cecily tip-tilted her chin scornfully. “It was a mean
+thing to do, anyway.”
+
+The inspector wrapped the photograph in its paper.
+
+“No use bothering about that any more,” he said somewhat
+contradictorily putting it away carefully in his pocket as he did so.
+“Now, Miss Hoyle, once more, you adhere to your statement that you
+heard someone moving about in Mr. Bechcombe's room when you passed the
+door on your return from lunch—that return being some little time
+after one o'clock.”
+
+“Half-past one, I dare say,” Cecily corrected. “As I came down the
+passage I heard the door into Mr. Bechcombe's room close rather
+softly, as I have heard Mr. Bechcombe close it heaps of times. Then
+just as I passed I heard someone move inside the room distinctly. It
+was a sound like a chair being moved and catching against something
+hard—table leg or something of that sort.”
+
+“And you are aware that the doctors say that Mr. Bechcombe's death
+must have occurred about twelve o'clock?”
+
+“I have heard so. You told me so,” Cecily murmured, then gathering up
+her courage, “but doctors make mistakes very often.”
+
+“Scarcely over a thing of this kind,” the inspector remarked. “I
+suppose you realize the inference that will be drawn from your
+testimony?” he went on.
+
+A little frown came between Cecily's straight eyebrows.
+
+“Inference? No, I don't!” she said bluntly.
+
+“If Mr. Bechcombe died at twelve o'clock, and you heard someone moving
+about when you came back about half-past one o'clock,” the inspector
+said very slowly, giving due weight to each word, “the inference is
+that the person you heard moving about when you came back was the
+murderer.”
+
+Cecily shivered as she stared at him.
+
+“Oh, no, no, surely it could not have been! I do not believe it
+could!”
+
+The inspector made no rejoinder. He glanced at his notebook again.
+
+“Most probably you will be among the first witnesses called at the
+adjourned inquest on Friday, Miss Hoyle. I think that is all for
+to-day. Your name and address, please.”
+
+“Cecily Frances Hoyle, Hobart Residence, Windover Square.”
+
+The detective wrote it down.
+
+“I think that is only a temporary address, though, you said, Miss
+Hoyle. Will you let me have your permanent one, please?”
+
+Cecily hesitated in obvious confusion.
+
+“I—I—that is my only address—the only one I have at present. I came to
+Mr. Bechcombe straight from school.”
+
+The inspector scratched the side of his nose with his pencil.
+
+“That is rather awkward. It will be necessary that we should be in
+touch with you for some time. And you might leave Hobart Residence at
+any moment.”
+
+“Then I could let you know,” Cecily suggested.
+
+“That would not quite do,” the inspector said mildly. “No. Just give
+me some address from which letters could be forwarded to you. Some
+relatives, perhaps!”
+
+“I don't know any of my relatives—yet,” Cecily faltered, a streak of
+red coming in her pale cheeks. “But Miss Cochrane, Morley House,
+Beesford, Meadshire, would always forward letters.”
+
+The inspector wrote the address down without further comment.
+
+Cecily got up. “If that is all, I think Mrs. Bechcombe wants me,
+inspector.”
+
+“Yes, thank you.” The inspector and Mr. Steadman rose too. John
+Steadman moved to the door.
+
+“I must introduce myself, Miss Hoyle,” he said courteously. “I am the
+late Mr. Bechcombe's cousin and, as your post with Mrs. Bechcombe is
+of course only temporary, it has struck me that you might possibly be
+looking out for another engagement. Now, a friend of mine is in urgent
+need of a secretary, and we thought you might like the post.”
+
+The red streak in Cecily's cheeks deepened to crimson.
+
+“I—I don't mean to do anything else at present, thank you.”
+
+John Steadman looked disappointed.
+
+“Oh, well! Then there is no more to be said. Should you change your
+mind perhaps you will let us know,” he said politely.
+
+When he had closed the door behind Cecily he looked across at the
+inspector.
+
+“Well, you were right.”
+
+“I was pretty sure of my ground,” returned the inspector. “What do you
+think of young Mr. Collyer's choice, Mr. Steadman?”
+
+“Well, she looks a nice girl enough,” the barrister returned somewhat
+dubiously.
+
+“It is easier to look nice than to be nice nowadays,” the inspector
+returned enigmatically. “What do you make of this, Mr. Steadman?”
+throwing a torn telegram form on the table. “And this, and this,”
+placing several odd pieces of writing paper beside it.
+
+The barrister bent over them. The used telegraph form had been torn
+across and crumpled, but as the inspector smoothed it out the writing
+was perfectly legible.
+
+“Do not mention home address. Father.”
+
+“Um!” John Steadman drew in his lips. “Handed in at Edgware Road
+Post-Office at 12.30, March 4th,” he said. “Well!”
+
+He turned to the scraps of paper. The inspector leaned forward and
+pieced them together. The whole made part of a letter.
+
+“Will see you as soon as possible. In the meantime be very careful. A
+chance word of yours may do untold harm. Say as little as possible—all
+will be explained later. Further instructions will reach you soon.”
+Then came a piece that was torn away, and it ended in the corner—“5
+o'clock, Physical Energy.”
+
+John Steadman's face was very stern as he looked up.
+
+“It is obvious the girl knows—something. How did you get these scraps
+of paper, inspector?”
+
+“One of our most trustworthy women agents has been doing casual work
+in Hobart Residence,” said Inspector Furnival with a quiet smile.
+“These were found in Miss Cecily Hoyle's room there, in the
+waste-paper-basket.”
+
+“Have you taken any steps in the matter?”
+
+“Not yet! Of course we have had ‘Physical Energy’—the statue in
+Kensington Gardens, you know—watched since yesterday morning, but so
+far there has been no sign of Miss Cecily Hoyle, or of anyone who
+could be identified as the writer of that letter.”
+
+“Have you any idea who that is likely to be?”
+
+“Well, ideas are not much use, are they, sir? It is not young Mr.
+Collyer's writing, so much is certain, I think.”
+
+Was the inspector's reply evasive? Used to weighing evidence, John
+Steadman decided that it was. He made no comment, however, but bent
+his brows over the paper once more.
+
+“Of course the temporary help has been chatting with the regular staff
+at Hobart Residence,” the inspector pursued. “But there is little
+enough to be learned of Miss Hoyle there. Hobart Residence is a sort
+of hostel, you know, sir; all the inmates are supposed to be ladies in
+some sort of a job. They have a bedroom varying in price according to
+its position, and there is a general dining-room in which meals are
+served at a very reasonable price. Miss Hoyle usually took her
+breakfast and dinner there and was very seldom absent from either
+meal. She was looked upon as a very quiet, well-conducted girl, but
+she made no friends—and nothing was known of her private life. It was
+impossible to get at her home address there. Then I rang up Miss
+Watson, her old schoolmistress, but found that Cecily Hoyle's father
+had always paid her school bills in advance. He is an artist and has
+never given any settled address; sometimes he took his daughter away
+in the vacation. If he did not Miss Watson was asked to arrange a
+seaside or country holiday for her. Miss Watson only knew the Hobart
+Residence address.”
+
+“Extraordinary! I should have thought Cecily Hoyle one of the last
+girls about whom there would be any mystery,” was the barrister's
+comment.
+
+“Well, having drawn both those coverts blank, yesterday I made an
+exhaustive search of her room at Mr. Bechcombe's offices,” the
+inspector proceeded. “For a long time I thought I was going to have no
+better luck there. There were no letters; no private papers of any
+kind. Then just at the last I had a bit of luck. Right down at the
+bottom of the drawer in Miss Hoyle's desk I found a time-table. I ran
+through it, not expecting to discover anything there when I noticed
+that one leaf was turned down. It was a London and South Western
+Railway Guide, I may mention, and it was one of the ‘B’ pages that was
+turned down. I ran down it and saw in a minute that some one had been
+doing so with a lead pencil—there were several marks down the page—and
+one name, that of Burford in the New Forest, was underlined.”
+
+“Burford, Burford!” John Steadman repeated reflectively. “Why, of
+course I have been there for golf. There are some very decent links.
+My friend, Captain Horbsham, rented a house in the neighbourhood, and
+I have been over the course with him.”
+
+“Many burglaries down there?” the inspector said abruptly.
+
+The barrister emitted a short laugh. “None that I ever heard of. Why,
+do you suspect Miss Hoyle——?”
+
+“I don't suspect anybody,” the inspector returned. “It isn't my place
+to, you know, sir. But I am going down to Burford to-morrow morning.
+Do you feel inclined to come with me?”
+
+“I don't mind if I do,” said the barrister cheerfully. “I can always
+do with a day in the country. We will drive down in the car, and I
+might take my clubs.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+“Just one o'clock. We have come down in very decent time. Tidy old
+bus, isn't it?” John Steadman replaced his watch and looked round with
+interest as his car slowed down before the “Royal Arms” at Burford.
+Rather a dilapidated “Royal Arms” to judge by the signboard swaying in
+the breeze, but quite a picturesque-looking village inn for all that.
+There was no station within five miles of Burford, which so far had
+preserved it from trippers. Of late, however, two or three of the
+ubiquitous chars-à-bancs had strayed through the village and there
+appeared every prospect of its being eventually opened up. This, with
+other scraps of information, was imparted by the garrulous landlord to
+Mr. Steadman and his companion, Inspector Furnival. But, though he
+talked much of the village and its inhabitants, the inspector did not
+catch the name for which he was listening. At last he spoke.
+
+“I used to know a man named Hoyle who lived somewhere in this part. I
+wonder if he is still here?”
+
+“Oh, I should think that would be Mr. Hoyle of Rose Cottage,” the
+landlord said at once. “A very nice gentleman. He has been here some
+years. He is an artist, as no doubt you know, sir. And I have heard
+that some of his paintings have been exhibited in London in the Royal
+Academy. Oh, we are very proud of Mr. Hoyle down here.”
+
+“He is a good deal away on his sketching expeditions, though, isn't
+he?” the inspector ventured.
+
+“Well, naturally he is,” the landlord agreed. “Sometimes he's away
+weeks at a time. But he is generally here on a Sunday to take the
+collection in church. He is a sidesman and takes a great interest in
+parish matters. I did hear that he was far away the biggest subscriber
+to the new parish hall that our vicar is having built. Oh, a very nice
+gentleman is Mr. Hoyle. Mrs. Wye, his housekeeper, can't say so often
+enough.”
+
+“I think that must be the man I used to know,” said the inspector
+mendaciously. “I think we must drive up and pay him a visit, Mr.
+Steadman. It isn't far, you said, I think, landlord?”
+
+“Get there in ten minutes in the car, sir. Rose Cottage, straight up
+by the church. You can't miss it. But, there, I doubt if you will find
+Mr. Hoyle at home. I was at church on Sunday morning and I noticed he
+wasn't. He usually is when he is at home. I can't always say the same
+myself!” And the landlord shook his fat sides at his own pleasantry.
+
+“Well, I think we will try anyway,” the inspector concluded. “Perhaps
+Miss Hoyle may be at home if he isn't.”
+
+“Miss Hoyle?” The landlord looked puzzled for a moment then his face
+cleared. “Oh, Mr. Hoyle's daughter you mean, sir. No. She is away at
+school, though Mr. Hoyle did say she would be coming home ‘for keeps’
+this year.”
+
+“Anyhow I shall leave a message and Mr. Hoyle will know I have looked
+him up,” said the inspector pleasantly. “I expect he would think me a
+good deal altered, for we haven't met for something like twelve years,
+and we none of us grow younger, you know, landlord.”
+
+“We don't, sir, that's a fact. Not but what Mr. Hoyle is as little
+changed as anybody I know. Just the same pleasant-looking gentleman he
+is as he was the first time I saw him. A nice cheerful gentleman is
+Mr. Hoyle—always ready with his joke.”
+
+The inspector nodded.
+
+“Oh, ay. Just the same, I see. Well, well, we will be off. As likely
+as not we shall come in here on our way back. Anyhow, I shall not
+forget your Stilton in a hurry, landlord. I haven't had a cut from a
+cheese like that since I was a boy in Leicestershire. By the way, what
+was that I heard of a burglary down this way last week?”
+
+The landlord scratched his head.
+
+“It is funny you should ask that, sir. I haven't heard of anything
+lately. I was talking to a couple of gents this morning about a
+robbery there was about this time a year ago—a couple of robberies I
+might say. Squire Morpeth over at the Park, and Sir John Lington at
+Lillinghurst were both broken into and hundreds of pounds' worth of
+goods—silver and what not—taken. Nobody was ever brought to account
+for it either, though there were big rewards offered.”
+
+“Dear, dear! One doesn't expect to hear of such things in a quiet
+little place like Burford,” the inspector observed contradictorily.
+“Well, so long, landlord. See you again later.”
+
+It did not take long, following the landlord's instruction, to run the
+car up to Rose Cottage, but just as they were nearing it John Steadman
+looked at his companion.
+
+“I think you're running off on a side track, you know, inspector.”
+
+“I'm sure I am!” the other returned cheerfully. “But, when the
+straight track takes you nowhere, one is inclined to make a little
+excursion down a side path, right or wrong.”
+
+Rose Cottage looked quite an ideal dwelling for an artist. It was a
+black and white timbered cottage standing back from the road, its
+garden for the most part surrounded by a high hedge. Over the walls
+creepers were running riot. Later on there would be a wealth of
+colour, but to-day only the pyrus japonica was putting forth
+adventurous rosy blossoms. A wicket gate gave access to the gravelled
+path running up to the rustic porch between borders gay with
+crocuses—purple and white and gold.
+
+“Evidently cars are not expected here,” John Steadman remarked as he
+and the inspector alighted and walked up to the front door.
+
+There was apparently no bell, but there was a shining brass knocker.
+Inspector Furnival applied himself to it with great energy.
+
+The door was opened by a pleasant-looking woman, who was hastily
+donning a white apron.
+
+“Mr. Hoyle?” the inspector queried.
+
+“Not at home,” the woman said at once.
+
+The inspector hesitated. “Can you tell me when he will be at home?”
+
+The woman shook her head. “I cannot indeed. He is away on a sketching
+expedition, and one never knows when he will be back. It may be a week
+or a month or longer.”
+
+“Oh, dear!” The inspector looked at Mr. Steadman. “This is most
+unfortunate! I was particularly anxious to see him to-day. However, I
+suppose I must write. I wonder if you would let me just scribble a
+line here? I should esteem it a great favour if you would.”
+
+For a moment the woman looked doubtful, then after a keen glance at
+the two men she led the way to a sitting-room that apparently ran from
+back to front of the house. She indicated a writing-table.
+
+“You will find pens and ink there, sir.”
+
+The inspector sat down. “A very pretty room this,” he began
+conversationally. “I wonder if I am right in thinking that you are
+Mrs. Hoyle?”
+
+“Oh, dear, no, sir.” The woman laughed. “I am only Mr. Hoyle's
+housekeeper. I have lived with him ever since he came to Burford.”
+
+“And that must be a dozen years or more ago now. And I haven't seen
+him a dozen times, I should say,” the inspector went on. “Dear, dear,
+how time flies! His daughter must be grown up, I suppose,” he went on,
+examining the pens before him with meticulous care.
+
+“Miss Cecily? Oh, yes; a fine-looking young lady too. She will be here
+for good very soon.”
+
+Meanwhile John Steadman, standing near the door, was glancing
+appraisingly round the room. It was essentially a man's room. The
+chairs, square solid table, sideboard and writing-table were all of
+oak, very strong, the few easy chairs were leather covered and
+capacious, there was nothing unnecessary in the room. Near the French
+window looking on to the garden at the back of the house there stood
+an easel with an untidy pile of sketches piled one on top of the other
+upon it. A table close at hand held more sketches, tubes of paint, a
+palette and various paint brushes. Steadman walked across and took one
+of the water-colours from the easel.
+
+“I like this,” he said, holding it from him at arm's length. “It is a
+charming little view of one of the forest glades near here, taken at
+sunset. Is there any possibility of this being for sale?”
+
+“Well, I don't rightly know, sir,” the housekeeper said, coming over
+to him. “Mr. Hoyle do sell some of his pictures, I know. But it is
+always in London. I have never known him do it down here.”
+
+John Steadman smiled.
+
+“Well, I shouldn't think there would be many customers down here. But
+I could do with a couple. This one—and another to make a pair with
+it.”
+
+“Well, sir, perhaps you will write to Mr. Hoyle about it,” the
+housekeeper suggested. “I couldn't say anything about it.”
+
+“Of course not,” the barrister assented. He looked very closely at the
+picture for a minute, and then put it back on the easel. “Well, I must
+leave it at that; and hope to persuade Mr. Hoyle to part with it when
+he comes back.”
+
+As he spoke there came a loud knock at the door. He looked at the
+housekeeper.
+
+“It's all right, sir,” she said composedly. “It is only the baker's
+man for orders, and my niece will go to the door. She always comes up
+twice a week to give me a hand with the work. Me not being so young as
+I might be.”
+
+“We none of us are, ma'am,” the inspector said with a chuckle as he
+sealed his letter and placed it in a conspicuous place on the
+writing-table. “Not that you have much to complain about,” he added
+gallantly as he rose.
+
+The housekeeper smiled complacently as she saw them off to the little
+garden. The inspector was in an expansive mood and stopped to admire
+the crocuses as they passed.
+
+“Well?” Mr. Steadman said as they seated themselves in the car before
+starting.
+
+The inspector waited until they had started before he replied, then he
+said quietly:
+
+“Well, Mr. Steadman, sir?”
+
+“Well?” the barrister echoed. “I hope you have found what you
+expected, inspector.”
+
+“I hardly know what I did expect,” the inspector said candidly.
+“Except that, if matters are as I suspect, Hoyle is certainly not the
+man to give himself away.”
+
+The barrister coughed.
+
+“And yet I noticed one small thing that may help you, inspector. You
+saw that water-colour sketch?”
+
+“The one you are going to buy,” the inspector assented with a grin.
+“Ay. I should like to have had a good look round at those drawings.
+But that blessed housekeeper wasn't giving us any chances.”
+
+“Not that she knew of,” John Steadman said quietly. “Did you notice
+the big ‘Christopher Hoyle’ in the left-hand corner of the painting,
+inspector?”
+
+“I saw it,” said the inspector, “but it didn't tell me much.”
+
+“No. That alone did not,” John Steadman went on. “But I looked at that
+and I looked at several of the others. And I am as sure as I can be
+without subjecting them to a test that in each case that big
+flourishing Christopher Hoyle has been scrawled with a paint brush on
+the top of another signature. One, moreover, that from the little I
+could see of it bore no sort of resemblance to Christopher Hoyle. What
+do you make of that, inspector?”
+
+“Is Mr. Christopher Hoyle a man with two names?” the inspector
+questioned. “Or has he some reason to wish to appear to be an artist
+in simple Burford society when in reality he is nothing of the kind?”
+
+“The latter, I imagine,” John Steadman said after a pause. “Because—I
+don't know whether you know anything of painting, inspector?”
+
+“Bless you, not a thing!” the inspector said energetically. “If I have
+to do with a picture case, I have to call in experts! But you mean——”
+
+“Judging from the three or four sketches I was able to examine I
+should say that none of them—no two of them were done by the same
+hand. There is as much difference in painting as in handwriting, you
+know, inspector.”
+
+“I see!” The detective sat silent for a minute, his eyes scanning the
+flying landscape. “Well, it is pretty much what I expected to hear,”
+he said at last. “It strengthens my suspicions so far——”
+
+“I can't understand your suspicions,” John Steadman said impatiently.
+“This man Hoyle is a bit of a humbug, evidently, but what connexion
+can there be between him and Luke Bechcombe's murder?”
+
+“His daughter?” the inspector suggested without looking round.
+
+The barrister shrugged his shoulders. “That girl is no murderess.”
+
+“No,” agreed the inspector. “But she is helping the guilty to escape.”
+
+John Steadman raised his eyebrows. “Who is the guilty?”
+
+For answer Inspector Furnival's keen, ferret eyes looked back at him,
+focused themselves on the barrister's face as though they would wring
+some truth from it.
+
+But John Steadman's face would never give him away. In his day he had
+been one of the keenest cross examiners at the bar. His eyes had never
+been more blandly expressionless than now as they met the inspector's
+inquiringly.
+
+Defeated, the detective sank back in his corner of the car with a deep
+breath, whether of relief or disappointment John Steadman could not
+tell.
+
+They were just entering Burford again. Before the car stopped the
+inspector said quietly:
+
+“Don't you know, sir?”
+
+“I do not!” said John Steadman, looking him squarely in the face.
+
+“Don't you guess?”
+
+“Guessing,” said the barrister sententiously, “is a most unprofitable
+employment. One I never indulge in.”
+
+“Ah, well!” said the inspector as the car stopped before the door of
+the inn. “I don't know, sir. And you don't guess. We will leave it at
+that. Well, landlord”—as that worthy came to the door rubbing his
+hands—“we are back upon your hands for tea. Mr. Hoyle was out.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+Anthony Collyer got out of his bus at Lancaster Gate Tube. He looked
+round, but there was no sign of the figure he was hoping to see. He
+crossed the road and entered Kensington Gardens, stopping at the gate
+to buy some chocolates of the kind that Cecily particularly affected.
+
+Near the little sweet-stall a small ragged figure was skulking. In his
+preoccupation Anthony did not even see him. Inside the Gardens he
+turned into a sheltered walk on the right flanked on either side by
+clumps of evergreens. There was a touch of chill in the wind, but the
+sun was shining brightly and through the short grass the daffodils
+were already adventurously poking their gay yellow heads. The urchin
+who had been lurking by the palings followed slowly. He got over on
+the grass in a leisurely fashion and ensconced himself out of sight in
+the shadow of the evergreens.
+
+Anthony had time to glance at his watch more than once and even to
+grow a little impatient before Cecily appeared.
+
+Then one glance was enough to show him that there was something amiss
+with the girl. There were big blue half-circles beneath her eyes, and
+the eyes themselves were dim and sunken. All her pretty colouring
+looked blurred as she gave her hand to Anthony, and he saw that it was
+trembling and felt that it was cold even through her glove. He held it
+in both of his and chafed it.
+
+“You are cold, dear,” he said solicitously. “Are your furs warm
+enough? The wind is treacherous to-day.”
+
+“Oh, I don't know. Yes, of course I am warm enough—I mean it does not
+matter,” Cecily said incoherently. “I—I wrote to you—you know—because
+I wanted to see you.”
+
+Tony looked round. No one was in sight. He drew her to a seat beside
+the path, knowing nothing of the unseen watcher hidden in the
+rhododendrons.
+
+“I hoped you did. I always want to see you, Cecily,” he said simply.
+
+Cecily shivered away from him. “You—you must not.”
+
+Anthony stared at her.
+
+“Must not—what?” he said blankly. “Want to see you, do you mean?”
+
+Cecily nodded.
+
+“Oh, but it is no use telling me not to do that,” Anthony said
+quaintly, “I shall want to see you every day as long as I live.”
+
+“You will not be able to,” Cecily said desperately. “Because
+now—to-day—I am going right out of your life—you will never see me
+again.”
+
+“Oh!” For a time Anthony said no more. His clasp of her hand relaxed.
+Very quietly he returned to her the possession of it. “I see,” he said
+at last. “You are giving me the chuck, are you not?”
+
+The girl looked at him with frightened, miserable eyes.
+
+“Tony, I can't help it.”
+
+“Naturally you can't,” Tony assented moodily. “You couldn't be
+expected to. I never was anything but a wretched match at the best of
+times—even with the money Uncle Luke left me—but now, now that every
+damned rag of a paper in the country is saying out as plainly as they
+dare that I am a murderer, it settles the matter, of course.”
+
+Cecily interrupted him with a little cry.
+
+“Tony! You know it isn't that!”
+
+A gleam of hope brightened Anthony Collyer's eyes.
+
+“Not that? Is it just that you are sick of me then? Heaven knows I
+wouldn't blame you for that. I was always a dull sort of chap. But I
+love you, Cecily.”
+
+The girl's big tragic eyes looked at his bent head with a sudden wave
+of tenderness in their brown depths. “And I love you, Tony,” she said
+beneath her breath. “But that does not matter.”
+
+“Doesn't it?” A sudden fire leaped into Anthony's deep-set eyes. “Why,
+that is just the one thing that matters—the only thing that does
+matter. If you love me, I shall never go out of your life, Cecily.”
+
+“Oh, yes, you will,” the girl said, putting his warm outstretched hand
+back determinedly. “And it doesn't matter that we love one another,
+not one bit. Because I am not going to marry anyone.”
+
+“Of course you are!” said Anthony, staring at her. “You are going to
+marry me. Do you really think I am going to let you back out of it
+now?”
+
+“You can't help yourself,” Cecily said, still with that miserable note
+of finality in her voice. “It is no use, Tony. You have just got to
+forget me.”
+
+“Forget you!” Anthony said scornfully. “That is so likely, isn't it?
+Now, dear, what is this bogy that you have conjured up that is going
+to separate us? You say it has nothing to do with me?”
+
+“No, no! Of course it hasn't!”
+
+“And you haven't fallen in love with anyone else?”
+
+“Don't be silly, Tony!” There was a momentary irritation in the clear
+tones. But something in the accent, even in the homely words
+themselves roused fresh hopes in Anthony's heart.
+
+“Then it is something someone else has said,” he hazarded, “or done.”
+
+For a moment Cecily did not answer. She pressed her lips very closely
+together. At last she said slowly:
+
+“That is all that I can tell you, Tony. I just wanted to say that
+and—good-bye.”
+
+“Good-bye!” Tony repeated scoffingly. “Nonsense, dear! You say that
+this mysterious something has nothing to do with you or with me
+personally. And for the rest of the world what does it matter? Nothing
+counts but just you and me, sweetheart.”
+
+“Oh, but it does!” Cecily contradicted firmly. “We—we can't think only
+of ourselves. It—it is no use, Tony. My mind is made up.”
+
+“Then I am going to unmake it,” Tony said with equal decision. “And,
+if you won't tell me what you fancy is going to separate us, I am
+going to find out for myself.”
+
+Then for the first time Cecily's self-possession really deserted her.
+
+“No, no! You must not!” she cried feverishly. “Tony, you must not—you
+do not know what harm—what terrible harm you might do if you did.
+Promise me—promise me you will not!” She caught at his arm with
+trembling hands, as though to stop his threatened action by actual
+physical force. If ever fear had looked out of human eyes, stark,
+tragic fear, Anthony saw it then as he met her terrified gaze.
+
+Some shadow of it communicated itself to him. He felt suddenly cold,
+his face turned a sickly grey beneath its tan. In that moment he
+realized fully that he was up against some very real and tangible
+obstacle that stood definitely between Cecily and himself.
+
+“Cecily!” he said hoarsely. “Cecily!”
+
+The girl looked at him a moment, her lips twitching; then, as if
+coming to some sudden resolution, she bent forward and whispered a few
+words in his ear.
+
+As he heard them he started back.
+
+“What do you say, Cecily? That you—that you know—— But you are
+mad—mad!”
+
+“Hush!” the girl looked round fearfully. “No, I am not mad, Anthony,”
+she said beneath her breath. “God knows I often wish I were.”
+
+Then Anthony looked at her.
+
+“Cecily! I can't believe it. You didn't——”
+
+“Did you never suspect—that?” she questioned beneath her breath.
+
+“Never! Before Heaven, never! How should I? It is inconceivable! But
+the horrible danger——” His eyes voiced the dread he dared not put into
+words, and with a stifled cry the girl turned from him.
+
+Tony took off his hat and wiped away the sweat that was standing in
+great drops on his forehead.
+
+“It—it isn't possible! Cecily!” he murmured hoarsely. “It—it is a
+lie!”
+
+“I—I wish it was!” the girl said beneath her breath. “Oh, Tony, Tony,
+I wish it was all a dream—a dreadful horrible dream. Last night I woke
+and thought it was, and then I remembered. Oh, Tony, Tony!” She
+shivered from head to foot. “I wish I were dead—oh, I wish I were
+dead!”
+
+Anthony mopped his forehead again. “In God's name what are we to do?”
+
+Cecily's mouth twisted in something like a wry smile.
+
+“It is not ‘we’ Tony. It never will be ‘we’ again. And I—I cannot tell
+what I shall do yet. I must stay at the Residence of course until the
+police——” She stopped, her throat working. “Until I am free to go
+away,” she finished forlornly. “Then—then God knows what will become
+of me! I—I expect I shall live out of England if—if I can.”
+
+“Yes,” said Anthony slowly. “Yes. But that will not be for ever. We
+are both young, and we can wait. And some day I will come and fetch
+you home again.”
+
+“No, no!” The horror in the girl's eyes deepened. “Won't you
+understand, Tony? I shall never come back. I shall never be safe. From
+to-day I shall be dead to you! But—but wait, Tony. Sometimes I do not
+think that I shall get away—that I shall escape. For everywhere they
+follow me. Always I know that I am being watched. They will never let
+me go away. It is like a cat playing with a mouse. Just when the poor
+little mouse thinks at last it is safe, the blow falls. Even
+to-day—to-day—— Oh, Tony, look!” As she spoke, she sprang to her feet.
+
+Anthony turned. At first sight there seemed nothing to account for her
+agitation—just a very ordinary-looking man coming towards them from
+the direction of the Broad Walk.
+
+But as Tony looked he caught his breath sharply.
+
+Cecily did not wait for him to speak.
+
+“Stop him! Stop him!” she cried feverishly. “Don't let him come after
+me. Keep him here until I have got away!”
+
+She sped down the path towards Lancaster Gate.
+
+Anthony went forward to meet the new-comer.
+
+“Good morning, Mr. Steadman,” he said, endeavouring to make his voice
+sound as natural as possible.
+
+“Good morning, Tony.” John Steadman shook hands with him warmly, his
+keen eyes taking in all the tokens of disturbance on the young man's
+face. “I am afraid my appearance is rather inopportune,” he went on.
+“Isn't that your young woman beating a hasty retreat down there?” In
+the distance Cecily's scurrying figure could plainly be seen.
+
+“Yes, she is in a hurry,” Anthony said lamely.
+
+“Obviously!” The barrister smiled. “But I am glad to have this
+opportunity of seeing you, Tony. I have been hoping to meet you.”
+
+Mindful of Cecily's parting injunction Tony turned to the seat behind.
+
+“Have a cigarette, sir?”
+
+The barrister shook his head as he glanced at the open cigarette case.
+
+“De Reszke! No, thanks! You are a bit too extravagant for me, young
+man! I always smoke gaspers myself.” He sat down and took out his own
+case. “You of course don't condescend to Gold Flake,” he went on. “I
+am rather glad of this opportunity of having a chat with you, Tony.”
+
+Tony lighted his cigarette and threw the match away before he spoke,
+then he turned and looked John Steadman squarely in the face.
+
+“I dare say you are, Mr. Steadman. So is your friend, Inspector
+Furnival, whenever I meet him, I notice.”
+
+The barrister paused in the act of lighting his match.
+
+“You mean——?”
+
+“I mean that, if folks think I murdered my uncle, I would just as soon
+they said so straight out, as come poking around asking questions and
+trying to trap me,” Anthony retorted bitterly.
+
+John Steadman finished lighting his cigarette and blew a couple of
+spirals in the clear air before he spoke, then he said slowly:
+
+“The thought that you murdered your Uncle Luke is about the last that
+would enter my head, Tony. No. What I wanted to ask you was, does that
+job of yours stand—bear-leader to the young brother of a friend of
+yours, I mean. The last time I saw you, you spoke as if it were off.”
+
+“So it is!” Anthony returned moodily. “People don't want a man who is
+as good as accused of murdering his own uncle to look after their
+children. I might strangle the kid if he got tiresome.”
+
+The barrister paid no attention to this outburst.
+
+“Then I think I heard of something yesterday that may suit you. A
+friend of mine has a son who was frightfully injured in the War. Both
+his legs have been amputated and one wrist is practically helpless.
+Now he wants some one to act as his secretary, for he has taken to
+writing novels, passes the time for him, you know, and folks need not
+read them if they don't want to.”
+
+“It is very good of you to think of me,” Anthony said gratefully. “But
+I don't know that I should make much hand at secretarial work. And
+probably he wouldn't look at me if he knew.”
+
+“He does know,” contradicted John Steadman. “And he is quite anxious
+to have you. It won't be all secretarial work, though you will be
+called a secretary. But you will be wanted to motor with him, to go
+with him to race meetings; he is a great motoring enthusiast—keeps two
+touring cars. Before the War he was one of our finest amateur jockeys,
+and they say he never misses a meeting under N.H. rules now. I believe
+he even has a couple of hurdlers at one of the big trainers. You will
+have to go with him wherever he wants you. How does it strike you?”
+
+“The question is, how shall I strike him?” Tony countered. “Will he
+think he is safe with me?”
+
+“Tony, my lad, you must not get morbid,” reproved the barrister. “My
+friends know all about your connexion with the Bechcombes, and are
+quite prepared to take you on my recommendation. You would not be
+required to live in, and there is a nice little cottage on the estate
+near the house that will be placed at your disposal. Your salary will
+be good, and with what your uncle left you will make matrimony quite
+possible. Now what do you say?”
+
+“Say? What can I say but take it and be thankful,” Tony responded,
+trying to make his tones sound as grateful as he could. “Would it be
+far from town—this cottage?”
+
+“Oh, not far!” the barrister said at once. “At Bramley Hall, near
+Burford, in the New Forest. It is young Bramley, Sir John's eldest
+son, you are wanted for.”
+
+“Bramley Hall,” Tony repeated musingly. “I seem to know the name.
+Wasn't there a burglary there a little while ago?”
+
+“About eighteen months ago,” the barrister assented. “The house was
+practically cleared of valuables in one night. Even Sir John's safe,
+which he had deemed impregnable, was rifled. Oh, yes, it made quite a
+stir. It was said to be the work of this Yellow Gang that folks are
+always talking about, you know.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+“I guess you are Inspector Furnival, sir.”
+
+The inspector, with Mr. Steadman, was just about to enter New Scotland
+Yard. He glanced keenly at his interlocutor. He saw a tall,
+lantern-jawed, lean-shanked man who seemed in some indescribable way
+to carry Yankee writ large all over him.
+
+The detective's face cleared.
+
+“Why, certainly, I am William Furnival, sir.”
+
+“And you are in charge of the Bechcombe case?”
+
+“Well, I may say I am,” the inspector agreed. “And I think you are Mr.
+Cyril B. Carnthwacke.”
+
+“Sure thing! And no reason to be ashamed of my name either,” the other
+said truculently, rather as if he expected the inspector to challenge
+his statement.
+
+The inspector, however, was looking his blandest.
+
+“The name of Cyril B. Carnthwacke is one to conjure with not only in
+your own country but in ours,” he said politely. “Did you wish to
+speak to me, sir?”
+
+“I did, very particularly,” responded Mr. Carnthwacke. “But”—with a
+glance at Mr. Steadman—“this gentleman——?”
+
+“Mr. Steadman, sir, the late Mr. Bechcombe's cousin, and at one time
+one of the best-known criminal lawyers practising at the bar. He has
+been kind enough to place his experience at our disposal in this most
+perplexing case. Will you come into my office, Mr. Carnthwacke?”
+
+“Of course, we can't stand out in the street,” responded the
+millionaire.
+
+The inspector led the way to his private room and then clearing a lot
+of papers from the nearest chair set it forward.
+
+Mr. Carnthwacke sat down with a word of thanks. John Steadman took up
+his position with his back to the fireplace, the inspector dropped
+into his revolving chair and looked at his visitor.
+
+“I am at your service, sir.”
+
+Carnthwacke settled himself in his chair and looked back.
+
+“I guess you two gentlemen know pretty well what has brought me here.
+Mrs. Carnthwacke is at home laid up in bed with the worry of the past
+few days. I calculate she isn't exactly the stuff criminals are made
+of. So here I have come in her place for a straight talk face to face.
+She has told me all about her doings on the day Mr. Bechcombe was
+murdered. And she told me that she had been to you on the same
+subject. So I guess you fairly well know what I have come to talk
+about.”
+
+“Yes, Mrs. Carnthwacke did come to us,” the inspector assented. “It
+would have been wiser to have come earlier.”
+
+“It would,” agreed Mr. Carnthwacke. “But women ain't the wisest of
+creatures, even if they are not scared out of their wits as Mrs.
+Carnthwacke was when she realized that she was the ‘lady of the
+glove,’ that every newspaper in the kingdom was making such a clamour
+about.”
+
+“Perhaps it was a good thing for her that she was,” remarked the
+inspector enigmatically.
+
+Cyril B. Carnthwacke stared at him.
+
+“I don't comprehend. I wasn't aware you dealt in conundrums,
+inspector.”
+
+“No,” the inspector said as he opened a drawer and began to rummage in
+it. “Ah, here we are! This is the report of the expert in
+finger-prints and it shows that it was impossible for the fingers that
+fitted into this glove to have made the prints on Mr. Bechcombe's
+throat. They were much too small.”
+
+“I grasp your meaning.” Mr. Carnthwacke sat back in his chair and put
+his elbows on the arms, joining the tips of his fingers together and
+surveying them with much interest. “But I reckon I didn't need this
+corroboration. My wife's word is the goods for me. I guess you
+gentlemen have tumbled to it that it is to make some inquiries about
+the diamonds that I have come butting in this morning.”
+
+The inspector bowed. “I thought it quite likely.”
+
+“Now, I have made certain that by your laws as well as ours the late
+Mr. Bechcombe's estate is liable for the value of Mrs. Carnthwacke's
+jewels since he gave my wife a receipt for them, which I believe is
+held by you gentlemen now,” the American said, speaking with a strong
+nasal accent.
+
+Again the inspector nodded his assent.
+
+“Certainly it is. What do you suppose to be the value of the diamonds,
+Mr. Carnthwacke?”
+
+“Well, I couldn't figure it off in a minute,” the millionaire said in
+a considering tone. “But a good many thousands of dollars anyway. I
+did not buy them all at once, but picked up a few good ones when I got
+a chance. Thought to myself diamonds were always an investment. The
+gem of the whole lot was the necklace; it was part of the Russian
+crown jewels and had been worn by the ill-fated Czarina herself. But
+anyhow I guess my wife's diamonds were pretty well known in London and
+they were valuable enough to excite the cupidity of this gang of
+criminals that have been so busy about London of late. You see, I
+suppose, that it was in order to get them that they broke in to Mr.
+Bechcombe's office and strangled him.”
+
+John Steadman raised his eyebrows as he looked across at the
+inspector. That worthy coughed.
+
+“You are rather jumping to conclusions, it seems to me, Mr.
+Carnthwacke. In the first place Mr. Bechcombe's office was not broken
+into. The murderer, whoever he might have been, entered in the usual
+fashion and apparently in no way alarmed Mr. Bechcombe. In fact all
+the indications go to prove that the assassin was some one known to
+Mr. Bechcombe.”
+
+“I don't figure that out.” Carnthwacke hunched his shoulders and
+looked obstinate. “I will take what odds you like that my wife was
+followed and that, unable to get what he wanted without, the thief
+strangled Mr. Bechcombe and walked off with the diamonds.”
+
+“The diamonds certainly provide a very adequate motive,” John Steadman
+said slowly, taking part in the conversation for the first time. “But
+there are some very weak points in your story, Mr. Carnthwacke. You
+must remember that the rubber gloves worn by the assassin as well as
+the chloroform used seem to prove conclusively that the murder was
+planned beforehand.”
+
+There was a pause.
+
+“That may be, but I don't see that it precludes the motive being the
+theft of my wife's diamonds,” said Carnthwacke truculently.
+
+“You spoke of Mrs. Carnthwacke's being followed, and of the ‘follower’
+assaulting Mr. Bechcombe and strangling him in the struggle. That
+rather suggests an accidental discovery of Mrs. Carnthwacke's errand
+to me,” John Steadman hazarded mildly.
+
+“It doesn't suggest anything of the kind to me,” the American
+contradicted obstinately. “Of course somebody had discovered my wife's
+errand, what it was and what time she was to be there, and followed
+her there for the express purpose of getting them.”
+
+“I should have thought it would have been easier to snatch them from
+Mrs. Carnthwacke than to get them from Mr. Bechcombe,” John Steadman
+went on, his eyes watching every change of expression in the other's
+face.
+
+“You wouldn't have if you had heard the strength of Mrs. Carnthwacke's
+lungs,” Mr. Carnthwacke contradicted. “It would have been devilish
+difficult to get the diamonds from her. She only left the car at the
+archway, too, and she carried the jewels concealed beneath her coat.
+It would have been a bold thief who would have attacked her, crossing
+that bit of a square in front or coming up the steps to the office.
+No. It was a wiser plan to wait and take them from Mr. Bechcombe.”
+
+“I don't think so, and I think you are wrong,” John Steadman
+dissented. “The most probable thing would have been for Mr. Bechcombe
+to have deposited the diamonds in the safe while Mrs. Carnthwacke was
+there. That he did not do so is one of the minor puzzles of the case.
+I cannot understand why he should put them in the cupboard pointed out
+by Mrs. Carnthwacke, and why he should call it his safe I cannot
+imagine. He might almost have intended to make things easy for the
+thief.”
+
+“I wonder whether he did,” Carnthwacke said very deliberately.
+
+His words had all the force of a bombshell. The other two men stared
+at him in amazement.
+
+“I do not understand you,” John Steadman said at last, his tone
+haughty in its repressive surprise.
+
+But Cyril B. Carnthwacke was not to be easily repressed.
+
+“Weel, I reckoned I might as well mention the idea—which is an idea
+that has occurred to more than me. But then I didn't want to put up
+the dander of you two gentlemen, and you in particular”—with a polite
+inclination in the direction of Mr. Steadman—“being a cousin of the
+late Mr. Bechcombe. But I was at a man's dinner last night, and it was
+pretty freely canvassed. It is hinted that Mr. Bechcombe might have
+been in difficulties in his accounts—I understand that there are
+pretty considerable deficiencies in his balance. And though they are
+all put down by the police to that clerk that can't be found—well,
+doesn't it pretty well jump to your eye that the late Mr. Bechcombe
+himself knew all about them, and that it might have suited his book to
+have my wife's jewels stolen, perhaps by a confederate—the clerk
+Thompson or another——”
+
+“And arranged to get himself murdered to get suspicion thrown off
+himself?” Mr. Steadman inquired satirically as the other paused for
+breath.
+
+“No, not that exactly, though I guess he was pretty slick,” returned
+Carnthwacke equably. “But I am inclined to size it up that the two had
+a quarrel and that the other one killed Mr. Bechcombe.”
+
+“Are you indeed?” questioned John Steadman, a glitter in his eye that
+would have warned his juniors that the old man was going to be nasty.
+But the K.C. had rarely lost his temper so completely as to-day. “I
+can tell you at once that your idea is nothing but a lie—a lie,
+moreover, that has its foundation in your own foul imagination!” he
+said very deliberately. “Luke Bechcombe was the soul of honour. I
+would answer for him as I would for myself.”
+
+“That is vurry satisfactory,” drawled Carnthwacke. “Most satisfactory,
+I am sure. Weel, since that question is settled I will ask another.
+Was Mr. Bechcombe's face injured at all?”
+
+The other two looked surprised at this question.
+
+“Why, no,” the inspector answered. “There was not even a scratch upon
+it. Why do you ask?”
+
+“Another idea!” responded Mr. Carnthwacke cheerfully. “Another idea.
+But my last wasn't a success. I guess I will keep this to myself for a
+time.”
+
+“One cannot help seeing that the rubber gloves and the chloroform
+pretty well dispose of your idea, as they have disposed of a good many
+others,” the inspector remarked. “No, I believe the murder to have
+been deliberately planned, but I don't think it was the work of one
+man alone. There have been more jewel robberies in London in the past
+year than I ever remember and I am inclined to believe that most of
+them may be set down to the same gang.”
+
+“The Yellow Gang!” interjected the millionaire. “I have heard of it.”
+
+“The Yellow Gang, if you like to call it so,” acquiesced the
+inspector. “But then there comes up the question, how should they know
+that Mrs. Carnthwacke was taking her jewels to Mr. Bechcombe that
+morning?”
+
+“And why does that puzzle you?” Mr. Carnthwacke inquired blandly.
+
+The inspector glanced at him keenly.
+
+“Mrs. Carnthwacke informed me that no one at all knew that she was
+thinking of parting with her jewels, and that her visit to Mr.
+Bechcombe that morning had been kept a profound secret.”
+
+Mr. Carnthwacke threw himself back in his chair and gave vent to a
+short, sharp laugh.
+
+“I guess you are not a married man, inspector, or you would talk in a
+different fashion to that! Is there a woman alive who could keep a
+secret? If there is, it isn't Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke. Nobody knew.
+Bless your life, I knew well enough she was in debt and had made up
+her mind to sell her jewels to Bechcombe. I didn't know the exact time
+certainly. But that was because I didn't take the trouble to find out.
+Bless your life, there are no flies on Cyril B. Carnthwacke. When she
+brought the empty cases to me to put away in the safe after she'd worn
+her diamonds the other day, she saw me lock them up in the safe and
+was quite contented, bless her heart. But I guess I was slick enough
+to look in the cases afterwards, and when I found them empty I pretty
+well guessed what was up. Then I took the liberty of listening one day
+when she was talking on the telephone and after that she hadn't many
+secrets from me. As for nobody else knowing”—with another of those dry
+laughs—“it would take a cleverer woman than Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke
+to keep it from her maid.”
+
+“That may be,” the inspector said, smiling in his turn. “But to be as
+frank with you as you have been with us, Mr. Carnthwacke, we have
+taken steps to find out what the maid knows, with the result that we
+are inclined to think Mrs. Carnthwacke's statement practically
+correct.”
+
+“Is that so?” Mr. Carnthwacke inquired with a satiric emphasis that
+made John Steadman look at him more closely. “Weel, I came out on the
+open and tackled Mrs. Carnthwacke myself this morning; we had a lot of
+trouble, but the upshot of it all was that I got it out of her at last
+that she had told nobody, but that she had just mentioned it to
+Fédora.”
+
+“Fédora, the fortune teller!” Steadman exclaimed.
+
+“The Soothsayer—the Modern Witch,” Mr. Carnthwacke explained. “All
+these Society women are just crazed about her of late. They consult
+her about everything. And I feel real ashamed to say Mrs. Carnthwacke
+is as silly as anyone. I taxed her with it and made her own up. ‘You'd
+ask that fortune-telling woman's advice I know,’ I said. And at last
+she burst out crying and the game was up. She swore she didn't mention
+names. But there, it is my opinion she don't know whether she did or
+not. Anyhow, gentlemen, I have given you something to go upon. You
+look up Madame Fédora and her clients. It's there you will find the
+clue to Luke Bechcombe's death if it took place as you think.” He got
+up leisurely. “If there is nothing more I can do for you gentlemen——”
+
+The inspector rose too.
+
+“I am much obliged for your frankness. If all the witnesses in this
+most unhappy tangle were Mr. Carnthwackes, we should soon find
+ourselves out in the open, I fancy.”
+
+The millionaire looked pleased at this compliment.
+
+“I know one can't do better than lay all one's cards on the table when
+one is dealing with the English police,” he remarked. “Well, so long,
+gentlemen. Later on I want to take Mrs. Carnthwacke for a cruise to
+get over all this worry and trouble. But I guess we will have to stop
+here awhile in case you want her as a witness. And so if you want
+either of us any time,—I reckon you know my number—you can ring us up
+or come round.”
+
+With a curiously ungraceful bow he turned to the door. A minute or two
+later they saw him drive off in his limousine.
+
+John Steadman drew a long breath.
+
+“Well, inspector?”
+
+For answer the inspector handed him his notebook. The last entry was:
+“Inquire into C.B.C.'s movements on the day.”
+
+John Steadman glanced curiously at the inspector as he handed it back.
+
+“Do you think he did not realize? Or is he trying to screen some one?”
+
+“I don't know,” the inspector said slowly. “With regard to your second
+question, that is to say. With regard to your first, to use his own
+phraseology, I don't think there are any flies on Cyril B.
+Carnthwacke.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+“Twelve minutes to one.” Anthony Collyer turned into the Tube station.
+He was lunching with Mrs. Luke Bechcombe and the Tube would get him
+there in time and be cheaper than a taxi. Anthony was inclined to be
+economical these days. He paused at the bookstall to buy a paper.
+
+The tragic death of a London solicitor was beginning to be crowded
+out. A foreign potentate was ill. There were daily bulletins in the
+paper. There were rumours of a royal engagement. A great race meeting
+was impending, the man in the street was much occupied in trying to
+spot the winners. Altogether the general public was a great deal too
+busy to have time to spare for speculations as to the identity of Luke
+Bechcombe's assassin. Still, every few days there would be a paragraph
+stating that the police were in possession of fresh evidence, and that
+an arrest was hourly expected; so far, however, there had been no
+result. Still, the very mention of the Crow's Inn Tragedy held a
+morbid fascination for Anthony Collyer. The heading caught his eye now
+and he paused to turn the paper over.
+
+Standing thus by the bookstall he was hidden from the sight of the
+passers-by. For his part he was thinking of nothing but his paper,
+when two sentences caught his ear.
+
+“I tell you, you will have to go to Burford.”
+
+“Suppose I am followed?”
+
+Both voices—a man's and a woman's—sounded familiar to Anthony Collyer.
+The former he could not place at the moment, the latter—the blood ran
+rapidly to his head, as he gazed after the retreating couple who were
+now walking quickly in the direction of the ticket office—surely, he
+said to himself, it was Cecily Hoyle's voice!
+
+Cecily Hoyle it undoubtedly was. He recognized her tall, slim figure
+and her big grey coat with its square squirrel collar. Her companion
+was a man at whom Tony could only get a glance; of medium height
+wearing rather shabby-looking clothes, and with grey hair worn much
+longer than usual, his face, as he turned it to his companion, was
+clean-shaven and rosy as of a man who lived out of doors.
+
+Anthony had not seen Cecily since their meeting in Kensington Gardens
+now more than a week ago. It was evident that she intended to abide by
+her words; she had not answered any of Tony's impassioned letters, she
+had refused to see him when he had called at Hobart Residence, he had
+asked for her when visiting Mrs. Bechcombe. Now it seemed to him that
+Fate had put in his hands the clue to the tangled mass of
+contradictions that Cecily had become.
+
+Hastily thrusting his paper in his pocket he hurried after the couple.
+But, short as the time was since they passed him, already a queue had
+formed before the ticket office. As he reached it Cecily and her
+companion turned away and walked through the barrier. It was hopeless
+to think of going after them without a ticket. Anthony chafed
+impatiently as he waited. When at last he was free to follow them they
+were out of sight and he ran up to the lift just in time to hear the
+door close and to see the lift itself vanish slowly out of sight. For
+a moment he felt inclined to run down the steps and then he realized
+that there was nothing to be gained by such a proceeding and nothing
+for him to do but wait for the next lift with what patience he could.
+It seemed to him that he had never had to wait so long before; when at
+last it did come and he had raced along the passage and down the few
+remaining steps to the platform, it was only to find the gate slammed
+before him. Standing there, he had the satisfaction of seeing Cecily's
+face at the window of the train gliding out of the station while
+beside her he caught a vision of the silvery locks of her companion.
+
+As he stood there realizing the utter futility of endeavouring to
+overtake Cecily now, a voice only too well known of late sounded in
+his ear.
+
+“Good morning, Mr. Collyer. Too late, like myself.”
+
+He turned to find Inspector Furnival beside him. A spasm of fear shot
+through Tony. Was this man ubiquitous? And what was he doing here?
+
+“Going to Mrs. Luke Bechcombe's, sir?” the inspector went on. “Mr.
+Steadman has just left me to go on there in his car. A family party to
+celebrate Mr. Aubrey Todmarsh's engagement.”
+
+“Yes, to Mrs. Phillimore,” Tony assented.
+
+The gate was thrust aside now, the inspector and Tony found themselves
+pushed along by the people behind. They went on the platform together,
+the inspector keeping closely by Tony's side.
+
+“Wonderful man, Mr. Todmarsh,” he began conversationally. “We in the
+police see a lot of his work. Mrs. Phillimore too, supports
+practically every philanthropic work in the East End. Yes, this
+engagement will be good news to many a poor outcast, Mr. Anthony.”
+
+Tony mechanically acquiesced. As a matter of fact mention of Aubrey
+Todmarsh's good works left him cold. He had no great liking for Mrs.
+Phillimore either, though the rich American had rather gone out of her
+way to be amiable to him. This morning, however, he was too much
+occupied in wondering what was the ulterior motive for the inspector's
+friendliness to have any thought to spare for his cousin's engagement.
+He was anxious to ascertain whether the inspector, like himself, had
+caught sight of Cecily Hoyle and followed her, though he could not
+form any idea as to the inspector's object in doing so. Still one
+never knew where the clues spoken of by the papers might lead the
+police. Thinking of Cecily as the inspector's possible objective a
+cold sweat broke out on Anthony's brow.
+
+When the train came in the inspector stood aside for Anthony to enter
+and followed him in. The carriage was full. Anthony had an
+uncomfortable feeling that people were looking at him. Possibly, he
+thought, they were pointing him out to one another as Luke Bechcombe's
+nephew, the one who stood to benefit largely by the murdered man's
+death, and still more largely at the death of the widow, were
+wondering possibly what he was doing in that half-hour on the day of
+the murder which he could only account for by saying he was wandering
+about looking for the Field of Rest. That the general public had at
+first looked upon him as suspect on this account Anthony knew, but he
+knew also that the discovery of the clerk Thompson's dishonesty and
+later on of the loss of Mrs. Carnthwacke's diamonds had been taken as
+clearing him to a great extent. Until the mystery surrounding the
+death of Luke Bechcombe had been solved, however, he recognized that
+he would remain a potential murderer in the eyes of at least a section
+of the public. Possibly, he reflected grimly, seeing him with the
+inspector this morning they thought he was in custody.
+
+“Going far, inspector?” he asked at the first stopping-place.
+
+“Same station as yourself, sir,” the inspector returned affably.
+“Matter of fact I am going to the same house too. A message came along
+for Mr. Steadman just after he had started, and as it seemed to be of
+some importance I thought I would come after him with it myself. I am
+hoping to be in time to have a word with him before luncheon. Perhaps
+you could help me, sir.”
+
+“Well, if I can,” Anthony said doubtfully. “There won't be much time
+to spare, though.”
+
+“Well, if I am too late I am too late,” the inspector remarked
+philosophically. “It was just a chance. We don't seem to hear of
+Thompson, sir.”
+
+“We don't,” Anthony assented. “And I expect he is taking care we
+shouldn't. You'll forgive me, inspector, but the way Thompson has
+managed to disappear doesn't seem to me to reflect much credit on the
+police.”
+
+“Ah, I know that is the sort of thing folks are saying,” the inspector
+commented with apparent placidity. “And it is a great deal easier to
+say it about the police methods than to improve upon them. However,
+like some others, Thompson may find himself caught in time. One of our
+great difficulties is that so little is known about him, his friends,
+habits, etc. Even you don't seem able to help us there, Mr. Anthony.”
+The inspector shot a lightning glance at the young man's unconscious
+face.
+
+Anthony shook his head.
+
+“Always was a decent sort of chap, old Thompson, or he seemed so—I
+always had a bit of a rag with him when I went to the office. Known
+him there years, of course. But, if you come to ask me about his
+friends, I never saw the old chap in mufti, as you might say, in my
+life. Still, I don't think Thompson had any hand in murdering Uncle
+Luke.”
+
+“I know. You have said so all along,” the inspector remarked. “But, if
+you don't think he had anything to do with the murder, what do you
+think of his disappearance?”
+
+“Suppose the old chap had been helping himself to what wasn't his, and
+got frightened and bolted.”
+
+“Um, yes!” The inspector stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Do you think
+you would recognize Thompson in the street, Mr. Anthony?”
+
+“Should think I was a blithering idiot if I didn't,” Anthony
+responded. “Never saw him with a hat on certainly, but a hat don't
+matter—it can't alter a man beyond recognition.”
+
+“Not much of a disguise, certainly,” the inspector admitted, looking
+round him consideringly as they entered Carlsford Square. “Still, I
+wonder——”
+
+Anthony came to a standstill.
+
+“Now _I_ wonder what you are getting at. Do you think I have seen
+Thompson anywhere?”
+
+The inspector did not answer for a minute, then he said slowly:
+
+“I shouldn't be surprised if a good many of us had seen him, Mr.
+Anthony.”
+
+Anthony stared. “Then we must be a set of fools.”
+
+“A good many of us are fools,” Inspector Furnival acquiesced as they
+came to a standstill.
+
+Anthony applied himself to the knocker on the door of the Bechcombes'
+house. There were a couple of cars in the street, one John Steadman's,
+the other a luxurious Daimler evidently fitted with the latest
+improvements.
+
+“You will have time for your talk, old chap,” said Anthony, looking at
+his watch as the door opened.
+
+Somewhat to his surprise Steadman came out. The barrister for once was
+not looking as immaculately neat as usual. His coat was dusty and he
+was carrying his right arm stiffly. He held out a note to his
+chauffeur.
+
+“There. It's quite close to Stepney Causeway. Get the woman to the
+hospital as soon as possible. Hello, inspector—a word with you.”
+
+He was turning with the inspector when Tony interrupted.
+
+“You look as if you had been in the wars, sir. Have you had an
+accident?”
+
+“No,” responded the barrister curtly. Then with a jerk of his head in
+the direction of the other car. “That fellow, Mrs. Phillimore's man,
+isn't fit to drive a donkey cart. Nearly ran over a child just now.
+All we could do to get her out alive save with a broken arm. I took
+her to the Middlesex Hospital and now I'm sending for her mother. Mrs.
+Phillimore doesn't seem very helpful except in the matter of weeping.
+Well, so long, my boy—see you again in a minute or two.”
+
+He turned off with the inspector. Anthony went through the hall to the
+drawing-room where he found his father talking to Mrs. Bechcombe and a
+small, fair, handsomely dressed woman with brilliant blue eyes—his
+cousin's American fiancée, Mrs. Phillimore.
+
+Anthony was no stranger to her. He had met her on several occasions
+and while admitting her undoubted charm he was conscious that somehow
+or other he did not quite like Mrs. Phillimore, the Butterfly, as he
+had named her. Apparently the feeling was not mutual, for Mrs.
+Phillimore always seemed to go out of the way to be gracious to her
+fiancé's cousin.
+
+To-day, however, he did not receive his usual smile, and he saw that
+in spite of her make-up she was looking pale and worried.
+
+“Where is Aubrey?” he inquired, as he shook hands. “Got a holiday from
+his blessed Community to-day, I suppose?”
+
+“Oh, yes,” she returned. “He was to have brought me here, but he was
+sent for, I couldn't quite understand by whom. But he said he should
+not be long after me.”
+
+“Nor has he,” interposed Mrs. Bechcombe at this juncture. “He is
+coming up the steps now with John Steadman.”
+
+Mrs. Phillimore's relief was apparent in her countenance. Anthony felt
+a touch of momentary wonder as to why his cousin's temporary absence
+should cause her so much apparent anxiety.
+
+Aubrey was talking to Mr. Steadman in a quick, nervous fashion as they
+entered the room together.
+
+The first glance was enough to show every one that something had
+seriously disturbed Aubrey Todmarsh. His face was white, his eyes were
+bloodshot, he was biting his lips nervously. Altogether he looked
+strangely unlike the enthusiastic young head of the Community of St.
+Philip.
+
+Mr. Collyer was the first to speak.
+
+“Aubrey, my dear boy, is anything the matter?”
+
+Apparently Todmarsh only brought himself to speak with difficulty.
+Twice he opened his lips, but no words came. At last he said hoarsely:
+
+“Hopkins!”
+
+The name conveyed nothing to the majority of his hearers, only the
+rector of Wexbridge twisted up his face into a curious resemblance to
+a note of interrogation, and Mrs. Phillimore uttered a sharp little
+cry.
+
+“Hopkins! Oh, Aubrey!”
+
+“Hopkins!” he repeated. “He—he is my right hand, you know, Uncle
+James. I—I would have staked my life on Hopkins.”
+
+The clergyman pushed a chair up to his nephew.
+
+“Sit down, my dear boy. What is this about Hopkins? I remember him
+well. Has he——?”
+
+“He has been away for a few days' holiday. He said his sister
+was ill and he must go to see her. In the early hours of this
+morning”—Todmarsh's voice grew increasingly husky—“he was arrested
+with two other men breaking into Sir Thomas Wreford's house, Whistone
+Hall in the New Forest. I—I can't believe it!” His head fell forward
+on his hands.
+
+Mrs. Phillimore drew a long breath, and for a moment nobody spoke.
+Then the rector said slowly:
+
+“My dear boy, I can hardly believe this is true. Is there no
+possibility of a mistake? A false report or something of that kind?”
+
+Aubrey shook his head.
+
+“No. The telegram came from Wreford Hall Post Office—Hopkins sent it
+himself to me at the Community House and it was brought to me here.”
+
+“Dear, dear! I wish I could help you. But you must remember, my dear
+Aubrey, that we workers for others must be prepared to meet trouble
+and disappointment, ay, even in those of whom we have felt most sure.”
+The rector laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. “Pull yourself
+together, my dear Aubrey. Remember the many signal causes of
+thankfulness that have been granted to you. The many other lives that
+you have brightened and saved from shame.”
+
+“How can I tell who will be the next?” Todmarsh groaned. “I tell you,
+I would have staked my life on Hopkins.”
+
+“We cannot answer for our brothers, any of us,” Mr. Collyer went on.
+“But now, my boy, you must make an effort. You must think of your Aunt
+Madeline, of Mrs. Phillimore.”
+
+There was a moment's silence, then Todmarsh raised his head.
+
+“You are right. You always do me more good than anyone else, Uncle
+James. But here I am keeping you all waiting. I beg your pardon, Aunt
+Madeline. And after lunch there is much to be done. I must see about
+getting Hopkins bailed out.”
+
+“Where is Hopkins?” questioned Anthony, taking part in the
+conversation for the first time.
+
+“At a place called Burchester,” Aubrey answered. “I fancy it is quite
+a small place. Probably it is the nearest police court to Whistone
+Hall.”
+
+“Whistone Hall, in the New Forest, you said, didn't you?” Anthony went
+on. “Is it near Burford, do you know?”
+
+He hardly knew what made him ask the question. John Steadman glanced
+at him sharply.
+
+Aubrey Todmarsh turned a surprised face towards him.
+
+“I don't know. I don't know anything about the place. And I never
+heard of Burford.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+Luncheon, not a particularly cheerful meal, was over. Mrs.
+Phillimore's jewelled cigarette case lay on the table beside her, but
+her cigarette had gone out in its amber holder, and her eyes were
+furtively watching her fiancé as she chatted with Mr. Collyer, who sat
+opposite.
+
+Aubrey Todmarsh had taken his uncle's advice and pulled himself
+together. He was talking much as usual now, but John Steadman watching
+him from his seat opposite thought that his face looked queer and
+strained. His eyes no longer seemed to see visions, but were bloodshot
+and weary. His high cheekbones had the skin drawn tightly across them
+to-day and gave him almost a Mongolian look; his usually sleek, dark
+hair was ruffled across his forehead.
+
+John Steadman had not hitherto felt particularly attracted by the
+young head of the Community of St. Philip. Apart from the natural
+contempt of the ordinary man for a conscientious objector, there
+always to Steadman appeared something wild and ridiculous about
+Todmarsh's visionary speeches and ideas. To-day, however, his
+sympathies were aroused by the young man's obviously very great
+disappointment over Hopkins's defection. He felt sorry for Mrs.
+Phillimore too. The poor little widow was evidently sharing her
+lover's depression, and, though she did her best to appear bright and
+cheerful, was watching him anxiously while she talked to her hostess
+or to Steadman himself.
+
+It seemed to Steadman that he had never realized how protracted a meal
+luncheon could be until to-day, and he was on the point of making some
+excuse to Mrs. Bechcombe for effecting an early retreat when the
+parlourmaid entered the room with two cards—on one of which a few
+words were written—upon her silver salver.
+
+Mrs. Bechcombe took them up with a murmured excuse. She glanced at
+them carelessly, then her expression changed. She looked round in
+indecision then turned to Steadman.
+
+“I—I don't know what to do. That woman——”
+
+The momentary lull in the conversation had passed; every one was
+talking busily. Under cover of the hum, Steadman edged himself a
+little nearer his hostess.
+
+“What woman?”
+
+For answer she handed him the larger of the two cards.
+
+“Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke,” he read. He glanced at Mrs. Bechcombe.
+“What does this mean?”
+
+“That woman—I have always felt certain she was responsible for Luke's
+death,” Mrs. Bechcombe returned incoherently. “Oh, yes”—as Steadman
+made a movement of dissent—“if she did not actually kill him herself
+she took her horrid diamonds to him and let the murderer know and
+follow her. Oh, yes, I shall always hold her responsible. But to-day
+you see she—I mean he—the man says their business is important.
+Perhaps he has found out—something. What am I to do?”
+
+“Why not ask them to come in here?” John Steadman suggested. “We are
+all members of the family,” glancing round the room.
+
+Mrs. Bechcombe hesitated. Aubrey Todmarsh sprang to his feet.
+
+“I must go, Aunt Madeline. I have to see about bail for Hopkins, and
+that he is legally represented. And, besides, I don't really feel that
+I can stand any more to-day.”
+
+His face was working as he spoke, and they all looked at him
+sympathetically as he hurriedly shook hands with Mrs. Bechcombe. His
+absorption in Hopkins's backsliding was so evidently of first
+consideration, rendering him oblivious even of his fiancée. As for the
+poor little Butterfly, her spirits, which had been gradually rising,
+seemed to be finally damped by this last contretemps. She raised no
+objection to her lover's abrupt departure, but sat silent and
+depressed until the Carnthwackes were ushered into the room.
+
+One glance was enough to show John Steadman that both the American and
+his wife were looking strangely disturbed. They went straight up to
+Mrs. Bechcombe.
+
+“I am obliged to you, ma'am, for receiving us,” Carnthwacke began,
+while his wife laid her hand on Aubrey Todmarsh's vacant chair as
+though to steady herself.
+
+“You said it was important,” Mrs. Bechcombe's manner was distant. She
+did not glance at Mrs. Carnthwacke.
+
+“So it is, ma'am, very important!” the American assented. “Sure thing
+that, else I wouldn't have ventured to butt in this morning. Though if
+I had gathered your guests were so numerous”—looking round
+comprehensively and making a slight courteous bow to Steadman and
+Collyer—“but I don't know. It is best that a thing of this importance
+should be settled at once.”
+
+As he spoke he was slowly removing the brown paper covering from a
+small parcel he had taken from his breast pocket. Watching him
+curiously Steadman saw to his amazement that when the contents were
+finally extracted they appeared to be nothing more important than the
+day's issue of an illustrated paper.
+
+Carnthwacke spread it out. Then he looked back at Mrs. Bechcombe.
+
+“I don't want to hurt your feelings, ma'am. And it may be that some
+one else belonging to the house, perhaps that gentleman I saw down at
+the Yard”—with a gesture in Steadman's direction—“would just look at
+this picture.”
+
+Steadman stepped forward. But Mrs. Bechcombe's curiosity had been
+aroused. She leaned across.
+
+“I will see it myself, please.”
+
+Carnthwacke laid it on the table before the astonished eyes of the
+company.
+
+A glance showed John Steadman that the centre print was a quite
+recognizable portrait of Luke Bechcombe. There were also pictures of
+the offices in Crow's Inn, both inside and out, an obviously fancy
+likeness of Thompson “the absconding manager,” and of Miss Cecily
+Hoyle, the dead man's secretary.
+
+Steadman half expected to find Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke figuring
+largely, but so far as he could see there was nothing to account for
+that lady's excessive agitation.
+
+She passed her handkerchief over her lips now as she sat down sideways
+on the chair that Tony Collyer placed for her, and he noticed that she
+was trembling all over and that every drop of colour seemed to have
+receded from her cheeks and lips. Her admirers on the variety stage
+would not have recognized their idol now.
+
+Carnthwacke cleared a space on the table and spread out his paper
+carefully, smoothing out the creases with meticulous attention. Then
+he pointed his carefully manicured forefinger at the portrait of Luke
+Bechcombe in the middle.
+
+“Would you call that a reasonably good picture of your late husband,
+ma'am?”
+
+Mrs. Bechcombe drew her eyebrows together as she bent over it.
+
+“Yes, it is—very,” she said decidedly. “I should say unusually good
+for this class of paper. It is copied from one of the last photographs
+he had taken, one he sat for when we were staying with his sister in
+the country. You remember, James?” appealing to the rector.
+
+Mr. Collyer smiled sadly.
+
+“Indeed I do. We were all sitting on the lawn and that friend of
+Tony's, Leonard Barnes, insisted on taking us all. Poor Luke's was
+particularly good. Why are you asking, Mr. Carnthwacke?”
+
+Carnthwacke wagged his yellow forefinger reprovingly in the direction
+of the rector.
+
+“One moment, reverend sir. It may be, ma'am, that you have another
+portrait of your lamented husband that you could let us glimpse?”
+
+Mrs. Bechcombe hesitated a moment and glanced nervously at John
+Steadman. In spite of all her preconceived notions, the American was
+beginning to impress her. There was something in his manner,
+restrained yet with a sinister undercurrent, that filled her with a
+sense of some hitherto unguessed-at, unnamable dread. At last, moving
+like a woman in a dream, she went across to the writing-table that
+stood between the two tall windows overlooking the square, and
+unlocking a drawer took out a cabinet photograph.
+
+“There, that is the most recent, and I think the best we have. It was
+taken at Frank and Burrows, the big photographers in Baker Street.”
+
+“Allow me, ma'am.” Cyril B. Carnthwacke held out his hand. He studied
+the photograph silently for a minute or two, laying it beside the
+paper and apparently comparing the two. Everybody in the room watched
+him with curious, interested eyes. His wife sat crouching against the
+table, leaning over it, her handkerchief, crushed into a hard little
+ball, pressed against her lips.
+
+At last Carnthwacke laid both the portraits down together and stood up
+with an air of finality.
+
+“Mrs. Carnthwacke, I rather fancy the moment to speak has come. Now,
+don't fuss yourself, but just tell these ladies and gentlemen what you
+have to say simply, same way as you did to me.”
+
+It seemed at first, as Mrs. Carnthwacke appeared to struggle for
+breath and caught convulsively at her husband's hand, that she would
+not be able to speak at all. But his firm clasp drew her up. The
+magnetism of his gaze compelled her words.
+
+“If that is Mr. Bechcombe,” she said very slowly, “that portrait, I
+mean, and if it is a really good likeness of him, I can only say”—she
+paused again and gulped something down in her throat—“that that is not
+the man I saw at the office, not the man to whom I gave my diamonds.”
+
+A tense silence followed this avowal—a silence that was broken at last
+by a moan from Mrs. Bechcombe.
+
+“What do you mean? What does she mean?”
+
+There was another momentary silence, broken this time by John
+Steadman. He had remained standing since the Carnthwackes came in, on
+the other side of the table. He came round towards them now.
+
+“I think you must give us a little further explanation, Mrs.
+Carnthwacke,” he said courteously.
+
+Mrs. Carnthwacke was pressing the little ball that had been her
+handkerchief to her lips again. She turned from him with a quick
+gesture as though to shut him, the other guests, the whole room, out
+of her sight.
+
+Her husband laid his hand on her shoulder, heavily yet with a certain
+comfort in its very contact.
+
+“That is all right, old girl. You just keep quiet and leave it to me.
+She can't give you any explanation. That is just all she can say,” he
+went on in a determined, almost a hostile voice. “As soon as she saw
+that portrait, she knew, if that was Luke Bechcombe, that she never
+saw him at all on the day of his death—that she gave the diamonds to
+some one else, some one impersonating him.”
+
+“And who,” inquired John Steadman in that quiet, lazy voice of his,
+“do you imagine could have impersonated Luke Bechcombe?”
+
+The American looked him squarely in the eyes.
+
+“That's for you legal gentlemen to decide. It is not for me to come
+butting in. But I can put you wise on one thing that stares one right
+in the face, so to speak, that I can say before I quit. I don't guess
+who it was who impersonated Luke Bechcombe, or where he came from or
+how he got right there. But there is only one man it could have been,
+and that is the murderer!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+He looked from one to another as he spoke and as he met John
+Steadman's glance his grey eyes were as hard as steel and his thin
+lips were drawn and pinched together like a trap.
+
+The horror in his hearers' faces grew and strengthened. Mrs. Bechcombe
+alone tried to speak; she leaned forward; in some inscrutable fashion
+her figure seemed to have shrunk in the last few minutes. She looked
+bent and worn and old, ten years older than Luke Bechcombe's handsome
+wife had done. Her face was white and rigid and set like a death-mask.
+Only her eyes, vivid, burning, looked alive. No sound came from her
+parted lips for a moment, then with a hoarse croak she threw up her
+hands to her throat as though she would tear the very words out:
+
+“What was he like?”
+
+Mrs. Carnthwacke cast one glance at her and began to tremble all over,
+then she clutched violently at her husband's hand.
+
+“It—it is easier to say that he wasn't like that portrait,” she
+confessed, “than to tell you what he really was like. He gave me the
+impression that he was a bigger man; his beard too was not neat and
+trimmed like that—short, stubby and untidy-looking. His hair grew low
+down on his forehead. That—that man's hair,” pointing with shaking
+fingers to the paper portrait, “grows far back. He is even a little
+bald. I don't know that I can point out any other differences, but the
+two faces are not a bit alike really. Oh, if I had only known Mr.
+Bechcombe by sight this dreadful thing might never have happened!” She
+leaned back in her chair trembling violently.
+
+Carnthwacke placed himself very deliberately between her and the rest
+of the room. His clasp of her cold hands tightened.
+
+“Now, now, be a sensible girl!” he admonished, giving her a little
+shake as he spoke, yet with a very real tenderness in his gruff tones.
+“Quit crying and shaking and just say what you have to say as quietly
+as possible. Nobody can hurt you for that. And if they do try to, they
+will have to reckon with Cyril B. Carnthwacke. Now, sir.” He looked at
+John Steadman. “I guess there will be other questions you will have to
+ask, and it may be as well to get as much as we can over at once.”
+
+The barrister cleared his throat.
+
+“I am afraid it will be impossible to do that here. The very first
+thing to be done is to inform Scotland Yard of Mrs. Carnthwacke's
+tragic discovery.”
+
+The American bent over his wife for a minute then drew aside.
+
+“I guess it will have to be as the gentleman says, Mrs. Carnthwacke.
+Now just as plain as you can put it, and remember that I am standing
+beside you.”
+
+Mrs. Carnthwacke drew one of her hands from his and passed her
+handkerchief over her parched lips. Then she looked at Steadman.
+
+It seemed to him that it was only by a supreme effort that she became
+articulate at all.
+
+“I knocked at the door—I knew how to find it, Mr. Bechcombe had told
+me how on the phone. Down the passage to the right, past the clerks'
+office. It—it wasn't opened at once—I heard some one moving about
+rather stumblingly, and I was just going to knock again when the door
+was opened and——” She stopped, shivering violently.
+
+“Now then, now then!” admonished her husband. “You just quit thinking
+of what you are wise about now, and tell us just what took place as
+quickly as you can.”
+
+Mrs. Carnthwacke appeared anxious to obey him.
+
+“He—he opened the door, the man I—I told you about. ‘Come in, Mrs.
+Carnthwacke,’ he said. I never doubted its being Mr. Bechcombe—why
+should I? He knew my name and my errand. Certainly I thought he had an
+unpleasant voice, husky—not like what I had heard when I rang him up.
+But he said he had a cold.” She stopped again.
+
+This time John Steadman interposed.
+
+“Now the details of your interview you have told us before——”
+
+“Ever so many times,” she sobbed. “I can't say anything but what I
+told you at the inquest.”
+
+“But, now that this extraordinary new light has been thrown upon
+everything, do you recollect anything—anything that may help us? You
+know the veriest trifles sometimes provide the most successful clues—a
+mark on hands or face, for example.”
+
+“There wasn't any,” Mrs. Carnthwacke answered, shaking visibly. “Or if
+there was, I didn't see it. But my eyesight isn't what it was, and the
+room was very dark, so I couldn't see very well.”
+
+“Dark! I shouldn't call it a dark room,” contradicted John Steadman.
+“And the day was a clear one, I know.”
+
+“The room itself mightn't be dark,” Mrs. Carnthwacke said obstinately.
+“But the blinds were drawn partly down and that heavy screen before
+the window nearest the desk would darken any room.”
+
+“Screen!” John Steadman repeated in a puzzled tone. “I have seen no
+screen near the window.”
+
+“Oh, but there is one,” Mrs. Carnthwacke affirmed positively. “A big
+heavy screen, stamped leather it looked like. It was opened out, and
+stood right in front of the window nearest the desk. I remember
+wondering he should have it there. It blocked out so much of the
+light.”
+
+“What a very curious thing!” The rector interjected. “Often as I have
+been in to see my lamented brother-in-law, I have seen no screen. Nor
+have I found him with drawn blinds.”
+
+“It was not Mr. Bechcombe who was so found by Mrs. Carnthwacke,” John
+Steadman corrected. “Of course the semi-darkness of the room was
+purposely contrived for one of two reasons, either that the murderer
+should not be recognized or that his disguise should not be
+suspected.”
+
+“Your two reasons seem to me to mean the same thing, my dear sir,”
+Carnthwacke drawled. “But there, if that is all——”
+
+“They do not mean the same thing at all,” John Steadman retorted.
+“Anybody might suspect a person of being disguised. But only some one
+who was personally acquainted with the murderer could recognize him.
+Now what we have to discover is which of these reasons was operating
+in this case. Or whether, as is possible, we have to reckon with
+both.”
+
+Cyril B. Carnthwacke's sleepy-looking eyes were opened sharply for
+once.
+
+“I don't understand you,” he drawled. “But I can put you wise on one
+of your points. Mrs. Carnthwacke ain't acquainted with any murderers.
+So she could not have recognized the man.”
+
+The barrister did not appear to be impressed.
+
+“Nobody is aware that he is acquainted with murderers until the
+murderer is found out,” he remarked with a certain air of
+stubbornness. “Besides, it might not have been from Mrs. Carnthwacke
+that this murderer had to fear recognition. He may have been known by
+sight to lots of people who might possibly have encountered him on his
+way to and from the room. All the clerks for example, the messengers,
+office boys, tenants of the neighbouring offices. Other people might
+have come to Mr. Bechcombe's private room too. Mrs. Carnthwacke may
+not have been the only expected client. But one thing is certain: this
+new evidence of Mrs. Carnthwacke's does throw a good deal of light on
+the much vexed question of the time at which the murder took place.”
+
+“As how?” Carnthwacke's voice did not sound as though he would be
+easily placated.
+
+Steadman shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“Don't you realize that the medical testimony that Luke Bechcombe met
+his death soon after twelve o'clock has always been at variance with
+Mrs. Carnthwacke's statement that she saw him alive and well at one
+o'clock, and afterwards Miss Hoyle too heard some one moving about in
+Mr. Bechcombe's room when she returned from lunch? Now we realize that
+the doctors were right and that Mrs. Carnthwacke's interview took
+place with the murderer and that Miss Hoyle——”
+
+The last word was interrupted by a hoarse, muffled shriek from Mrs.
+Carnthwacke. “I can't bear it, Cyril. If you don't take me away I
+shall die.”
+
+The American looked round doubtfully, then he drew her to her feet and
+supported her with one arm.
+
+“Guess there is nothing to be gained by staying any longer,” he said,
+a certain note of truculence in his voice as he met Steadman's eyes.
+“You know where to find us if you want us. Come then, little woman, we
+will just say good morning.”
+
+No one made any effort to detain them as they went towards the door.
+John Steadman followed them into the hall.
+
+Carnthwacke was bending over his wife and saying something to her in a
+low, earnest voice. As John Steadman came up to them he turned.
+
+“Guess that little fair lady on your side the table is some one you
+know well, sir?”
+
+Steadman looked at him curiously.
+
+“Well, fairly well. She is engaged to Luke Bechcombe's nephew. She is
+a compatriot of yours too—a Mrs. Phillimore.”
+
+“Gee whiz!” ejaculated the American. “And is that Mrs. Phillimore?”
+
+“You have heard of her?” Steadman questioned.
+
+“Reckon I have,” Carnthwacke assented, “and seen her too. Though it
+don't seem to me she was called Phillimore then.”
+
+“Before she was married perhaps,” suggested Steadman.
+
+“Perhaps,” drawled the American. “Anyway I have glimpsed the lady
+somewhere. Americans mostly know one another by sight you know,” a
+faint twinkle in his eye as he glanced over his wife's head at the
+barrister.
+
+When Steadman went back to the dining-room Mrs. Bechcombe was lying
+back in her chair apparently in a state of collapse. Mrs. Phillimore
+was bending over her, looking very little better herself. All her
+little butterfly airs and graces had fallen from her. Her make-up
+could not disguise the extreme pallor of her cheeks, the great blue
+eyes were full of horror and of dread. She was trying to persuade Mrs.
+Bechcombe to drink a glass of wine which Mr. Collyer had poured out
+for her.
+
+But as Steadman re-entered the room Mrs. Bechcombe sprang up, pushing
+Mrs. Phillimore aside and throwing the wine over the table cloth.
+
+“Have you let her go?”
+
+Steadman looked at her.
+
+“Control yourself, my dear Madeline. Let who go?”
+
+“That—that woman. That Mrs. Carnthwacke,” Mrs. Bechcombe stormed
+hysterically. “I thought at least that you could see through her, that
+you had gone with her to make sure that she was arrested, that——”
+
+A gleam of pity shone in Steadman's eyes as he watched her—pity that
+was oddly mingled with some other feeling.
+
+“There is not the slightest ground for arresting Mrs. Carnthwacke,
+Madeline. I have told you so before. Less than ever now.”
+
+“Why do you say less than ever now?” demanded Mrs. Bechcombe. “Are you
+blind, John Steadman? Or are you wilfully deceiving yourself? Do you
+not know that that woman was telling lies? I can see—I should think
+anyone with sense could see—what happened that dreadful day in Luke's
+office. She took her jewels there, her husband followed her—I believe
+he is in it too. Probably he has lost his money—Americans are like
+that, up one day and down the next. He didn't want it to be known that
+his wife was selling her jewels. Yes. Yes. That is how it must have
+been. He sent her with the diamonds to Luke and followed her to get
+them back and make it look as if Luke had been robbed. Luke resisted
+and he was killed in the struggle. Oh, yes. That was how it was! And
+this cock and bull story of theirs——” She paused, literally for
+breath.
+
+Steadman looked pityingly at her wide, staring eyes, at her twitching
+mouth and the thin, nervous hands that never ceased clasping and
+unclasping themselves, working up and down.
+
+“Madeline, this suspicion of Mrs. Carnthwacke is becoming a monomania
+with you. It is making you unjust and cruel,” he said, then waited a
+minute while she apparently tried to gather strength to answer him.
+Then he went on, “There is not the slightest ground for this new idea.
+Cyril B. Carnthwacke's name is one to conjure with in Wall Street as
+well as on the Stock Exchange here. Do you imagine that the police
+have neglected so very ordinary a precaution as an inquiry into his
+circumstances?”
+
+With a desperate struggle Mrs. Bechcombe regained her power of speech.
+
+“The police—the police are fools!” she cried passionately. “If a crime
+of this kind had been committed in Paris or New York, the murderer
+would have been discovered long ago, but in London—Scotland Yard
+cannot see what the merest tyro in such matters would recognize at
+once.”
+
+“Do you think so?” John Steadman's clean-cut, humorous mouth relaxed
+into a faint half-smile. “I can tell you, Madeline, that both in New
+York and Paris it is recognized that our Criminal Investigation
+Department is the finest in the world. But your feeling towards Mrs.
+Carnthwacke is becoming an obsession. When the mystery surrounding
+Luke's death is cleared up, and somehow I do not think it will be long
+now before it is, I prophesy that you will repent your injustice.”
+
+“I prophesy that you will repent your folly in not listening to me,”
+retorted Madeline Bechcombe obstinately. “That woman was lying. Ah,
+you may not have thought so. It takes a woman to find a woman out. If
+I had my way I would have women detectives——”
+
+“Do you suppose we haven't?” John Steadman interposed gently. “Dear
+Madeline, no stone is being left unturned in our endeavours to bring
+Luke's murderer to justice. Have patience a little longer!”
+
+“Patience, patience! I have no patience!” Mrs. Bechcombe pushed
+Steadman's outstretched hand away wrathfully and turned to Mrs.
+Phillimore. “Sadie, you thought the same—you said you did just now!”
+
+In spite of her pallor Steadman fancied that the Butterfly looked
+considerably taken aback.
+
+“I don't think I said quite that,” she hesitated, “I don't know what
+to think. I feel that I can't—daren't think—anything.”
+
+“What?” Mrs. Bechcombe raised her hand.
+
+For one moment Steadman thought she was about to strike her guest, and
+with some instinct of protection he stepped to the Butterfly's side.
+
+The Butterfly visibly flinched. “I—I think I said more than I ought,”
+she acknowledged frankly. “When you said she was telling lies, I—I
+didn't know what to say.”
+
+“What did you say?” Steadman inquired quietly. “Did you say anything
+that could be misinterpreted?”
+
+The Butterfly raised a fragment of cambric, widely edged with real
+lace. Apparently it did duty as a pocket-handkerchief. She pressed it
+to her eyes, taking care, as Steadman noticed, not to touch her
+carefully pencilled eyebrows.
+
+“I said I didn't think Mrs. Carnthwacke was telling us all she knew,”
+she confessed. “I cannot tell what made me feel that, but I did.
+She—she was keeping something back, I am sure, and her husband knew
+that she was.”
+
+“I wonder whether you are right,” said John Steadman slowly.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+“I hear you are very busy, Aubrey, and I am very sorry to interrupt
+you. But I thought perhaps you would spare me a few minutes.”
+
+The head of the Confraternity of St. Philip was sitting at his
+writing-table apparently absorbed in some abstruse calculations. He
+looked up with a furrowed brow and without his usual smile as the
+rector of Wexbridge advanced into the room.
+
+“I can't spare very long, Uncle James. This enforced absence of
+Hopkins is throwing double work on my shoulders.”
+
+“I know, I know!” assented Mr. Collyer. “You must realize how
+sincerely I sympathize with you, my dear Aubrey. But I bring some news
+that I feel sure will interest you. The police have found some of the
+emeralds.”
+
+“Is that so?” There was no doubting the interest in Todmarsh's voice
+now. “Where? And why only some? Why not all?” He sprang up as he spoke
+and took up a position with his back to the fire, one elbow resting on
+the high wooden mantelpiece. “My dear Uncle James, this is good news
+indeed! And I am sure we all need some!”
+
+“We do!” assented Mr. Collyer. “As to your questions, my dear Aubrey,
+the police preserve a reticence that I find extremely trying. They
+have just told me that they have found them, not when or where. The
+only thing they will say is that they believe they were stolen by the
+Yellow Gang. It may retard developments to say much of their find now,
+they say.”
+
+“But how?” questioned Todmarsh.
+
+The rector shook his head.
+
+“I don't know. I don't know how they can even be sure that the ones
+they have are my emeralds. They all look alike to me. However, they
+seem very certain. But what I came in for now, my dear Aubrey, is to
+ask if you can come to Scotland Yard with me. I don't seem much good
+alone and Anthony went away for the week-end last night. And I do know
+you would be more useful in identifying the jewels than he would.”
+
+“I wonder whether I could,” debated Aubrey. “Perhaps if we took a taxi
+and I came straight back——. Stolen by the Yellow Gang, you say, Uncle
+James?”
+
+“Well, the police seem to think so,” Mr. Collyer assented. “But I
+doubt it myself. What should the Yellow Gang be doing at quiet little
+Wexbridge?”
+
+Aubrey smiled in a melancholy fashion that was strangely unlike his
+old bright look.
+
+“The Yellow Gang infests the whole country. They brought off a big
+_coup_ at a country house in the north of Scotland a week or two ago.
+That they should be able to do so and escape unpunished shows the
+absolute inefficiency of the police system. The Yellow Dog, as they
+call him, sets the whole authority of the country at defiance.
+Personally I find myself up against him at every turn.”
+
+“How?” the rector questioned.
+
+“Why, all this.” Todmarsh made a comprehensive gesture with his arm
+that seemed to include not only the Community House but the men
+playing squash racquets and cricket outside. “All this is a direct
+challenge to the Yellow Dog. We get hold not only of those who have
+already gone astray, but of the potential young criminals who are his
+raw material, and do our best to turn them into decent members of
+society.”
+
+Mr. Collyer looked at him.
+
+“But do you mean that any of your community men were ever members of
+the Yellow Gang?”
+
+“Many of them—Hopkins himself and at least two more of my best
+workers.”
+
+“Then I should have thought it would have been a comparatively easy
+matter to get such information from them as would enable you to have
+broken up the Yellow Gang,” argued Mr. Collyer shrewdly.
+
+Todmarsh shook his head.
+
+“One would think so on the face of it. But, as a matter of fact, not
+one of them has ever seen the Yellow Dog. His instructions have always
+reached them in some mysterious fashion and they have known nothing of
+the headquarters of the gang. We have never been able to get hold of
+anyone who knows anything of the inner workings.”
+
+“Extraordinary!” said the rector. “Still, I can't believe that they
+took my emeralds. With regard to your Uncle Luke, it is a very
+different matter. What do you think?”
+
+“I have not had time to think lately,” Aubrey Todmarsh said dully.
+“This terrible affair of Hopkins obsesses me, Uncle James. I cannot
+help thinking that I am responsible for the whole thing.”
+
+The rector looked at him pityingly.
+
+“I know you do, my dear Aubrey. But you have described this idea of
+yours rightly when you call it an obsession—you are not struggling
+against it as you ought. No. That is not quite what I mean—you can't
+struggle against an idea. What I mean is that you should try to
+realize, as your friends do, how very much you did for Hopkins, and
+how entirely blameless you are in the matter of his downfall.”
+
+This was rather in the rector's best pulpit style, and the young head
+of the Community House of St. Philip moved his shoulders restlessly.
+
+“You see we don't look at the matter from the same standpoint, Uncle
+James. I do not acknowledge that Hopkins has fallen.”
+
+Mr. Collyer stared.
+
+“I don't understand you, my dear Aubrey.”
+
+“No,” said Todmarsh, speaking very rapidly. “I don't suppose you do.
+But I saw Hopkins yesterday and heard his story. It made me feel both
+thankful and ashamed,” pausing to blow his nose vigorously. “Uncle
+James, when you know it, I am certain you will feel as I do, that it
+bears the stamp of truth. Hopkins has been working of late among some
+of the plague spots of the East End, and has been most marvellously
+successful. By some means he learned of the intended burglary at
+Whistone Hall, and also that one of the men engaged was one whom he
+had regarded as a most promising convert. He came to ask my advice,
+but I was out with Sadie and he couldn't reach me. I shall never cease
+to regret that I failed him then. In his anxiety to stop the plot he
+could think of no better plan than going down to Whistone himself and
+reasoning with the men. Only in the event of their very obstinate
+refusal did he intend to give the alarm. However, when he reached the
+scene of action, he found that operations had begun sooner than he
+expected and that they had already effected an entrance. Hopkins went
+after them. He pleaded, he argued and just as he thought he was on the
+point of success he found that they were surrounded. Then, it is a
+moot point what he ought to have done. So conscious was he of his own
+integrity that the idea of making his escape never occurred to him;
+and, when he found himself arrested with the others, he thought he
+only had to explain matters. His amazement when he was disbelieved was
+pathetic—so pathetic that I lost my own composure when listening to
+him.”
+
+“Um!” The rector raised his eyebrows. “But, my dear Aubrey, in the
+account in the papers it said that he was evidently the ringleader and
+that he was caught red-handed with a revolver in his possession.”
+
+Aubrey cast a strange glance at his uncle from beneath his lowered
+eyelids.
+
+“The papers will say anything, Uncle James. Though as a matter of fact
+Hopkins had a revolver. He had just persuaded one of the more reckless
+men to give it up to him. Uncle James, in another minute Hopkins
+believes and I believe he would have got them safely out of the house.
+He has wonderful powers of persuasion.”
+
+Mr. Collyer did not speak. Remembering Hopkins's gloomy countenance
+and pleasing habit of opening and shutting his mouth silently, he was
+inclined to think that Hopkins's powers of persuasion if effective
+must be little short of marvellous. His defence too did not strike him
+in the same light as it apparently did Aubrey. He was inclined to
+think it as lame a tale as he had ever heard.
+
+Presently Todmarsh resumed.
+
+“Keith and Swinnerton are taking up the case. They are the keenest
+solicitors I know and they are briefing Arnold Wynter for the defence.
+Oh, we shall get Hopkins off all right at the assizes. But it is the
+thought of what the poor old chap is going through now, locked up
+there alone and knowing how the world is misjudging him that bowls me
+over.” He stopped and blew his nose again.
+
+“But, my dear boy, you cannot be held responsible for that. And I am
+certain that nobody could have done more for him than you, if as you
+say he is to be defended by Arnold Wynter. But I am afraid, my dear
+Aubrey, that it is likely to prove an expensive matter for you, for it
+is absurd to suppose that Hopkins——”
+
+“I shall not allow Hopkins to pay a penny if it costs the last one I
+possess,” Todmarsh interrupted, a dull shade of red streaking his
+sallow face as he spoke. “You can have no idea what Hopkins was to me.
+To speak to a crowd of all sorts of men, and to have Hopkins sitting
+in the front with his wonderfully responsive face was like an
+inspiration. You who preach must know what I mean.”
+
+“Um! Well, I hope you may soon have him back,” the rector said slowly.
+
+Todmarsh smiled for the first time that day.
+
+“Uncle James, I do not believe you appreciate my poor Hopkins any more
+than those people at Burchester do.”
+
+Mr. Collyer twisted himself about impatiently.
+
+“I really did not know Hopkins at all, Aubrey. I did not take to him,
+I must confess. Burchester? I did not think that was the name of the
+place where he was taken.”
+
+“Oh, of course he was taken at Whistone. I suppose Burchester was the
+nearest gaol,” Aubrey said carelessly. Then with a little more
+appearance of interest, “Why, do you know Burchester, Uncle James?”
+
+Mr. Collyer shook his head.
+
+“No. My interest has always lain in the North or the Midlands. But Mr.
+Steadman has got Tony the offer of a post near there. He went down
+somewhere there the other day with Inspector Furnival. I thought them
+rather mysterious about it, I must say. I should have enjoyed the
+ride, for they went down in the car, and it was a lovely day. But I
+soon found that they did not want a companion.”
+
+“Business, perhaps,” Todmarsh suggested. His face was dull and
+uninterested now: the enthusiasm so remarkable when he spoke of
+Hopkins had died out.
+
+“Oh, I shouldn't think so!” Mr. Collyer dissented. “What connexion
+could there be between your Uncle Luke's death and a quiet little
+country town such as Burchester? No, Burford was the place they went
+to.”
+
+“Oh, well, as we don't know who the murderer was, or where he came
+from, he may just as well have been connected with Burford as anywhere
+else. Uncle James, who do you think killed Uncle Luke?”
+
+“My dear boy!” The sudden question seemed to embarrass the rector. He
+took off his pince-nez and rubbed them, replacing them with fingers
+that visibly trembled. “How can we tell? How can any of us hazard an
+opinion? Heaven forbid that I should judge any man! The only idea I
+have formed on the subject can hardly be called original since I know
+it is shared by your Aunt Madeline, who has been voicing it much more
+vehemently than I should ever do.”
+
+“Aunt Madeline!” Todmarsh looked up quickly. “What does she say? I
+have not seen her since the interrupted luncheon party. I have called,
+but she was out. But what can she know?”
+
+“She does not know anything, of course.” The rector hesitated, his
+face looking troubled and disturbed. “But like myself, dear Aubrey,
+she was listening very intently to Mrs. Carnthwacke. I may say that my
+attention was fixed entirely on the lady; and it may be that my
+profession makes me particularly critical and observant. I dare say
+you have noticed that it does?”
+
+“Naturally!” Todmarsh assented. But as he spoke the fingers of his
+right hand clenched themselves with a quick involuntary movement of
+impatience. Observant as Mr. Collyer had just proclaimed himself to be
+he did not notice how his nephew's fingers tightened until the
+knuckles shone white beneath the skin.
+
+“Yes. We parsons so often have to form our own judgments on men and
+women quite independently of all external things,” the Rev. James
+Collyer prattled on, while only something in the restrained immobility
+of his nephew's attitude might have made a close observer guess at
+impatience resolutely held in check. “Therefore, as I said, I watched
+Mrs. Carnthwacke very closely, and I formed the opinion—the very
+strong opinion that, though she was undoubtedly speaking the truth as
+far as she went, she was not telling us the whole truth. So far I
+agree with your Aunt Madeline. But I feel sure that—I will not say she
+recognized the murderer, the man who was impersonating your Uncle
+Luke, but I think that she saw something that might give us a clue to
+him, put the police on his track. And in fact I know that this opinion
+is that of Mr. Steadman if not of the police. It is from Mrs.
+Carnthwacke that the identification of the murderer will come, I feel
+sure. Still, I may be wrong. You, my dear boy——”
+
+A sharp cry from Todmarsh interrupted him. The penknife with which he
+had been sharpening a pencil had slipped, inflicting for so slight a
+thing quite a deep gash in his wrist. The blood spurted out.
+
+His uncle looked at him aghast.
+
+“My dear Aubrey! You must have cut an artery. What shall we do? A
+doctor——”
+
+Todmarsh wrapped his handkerchief hurriedly round his wrist and tied
+it. He held one end out to the clergyman.
+
+“Pull as tight as you can. I must have cut a vein. Excuse me, Uncle
+James. I will just get Johnson to make a tourniquet. He is as good as
+a doctor. I must apologize for making such a mess. If you will just
+have a look at the papers; you will find them over there,” jerking his
+head in the direction of the table at which he had been writing when
+his uncle came in. “I won't be a minute, and then I shall be quite at
+your service.” He hurried out of the room.
+
+Mr. Collyer walked over to the writing-table and took up a paper. But
+he was feeling too restless and excited to read. Events were moving
+too quickly for the rector of Wexbridge. Hitherto, except for his
+anxiety over Tony, his had been a calmly ordered life. Now, with his
+journey to London and subsequent discovery of the loss of the
+emeralds, he had been plunged into a veritable vortex of horror and
+bewilderment. Two things alone he held to through all: his faith in
+Heaven and his faith in Tony. Whoever else might distrust Tony Collyer
+and think that he had had far more opportunities than anyone else in
+the world of possessing himself of the emeralds, his father had never
+doubted him. He had seen a gleam of pity in the eyes of the detective
+who had brought him the news that the emeralds had been traced, which
+had told him who was suspected of having taken them. He was thinking
+of it now, and asking himself for the hundredth time who the culprit
+could have been, as at last he seated himself in Todmarsh's chair and
+reached out for a paper which lay folded at the back of the inkstand.
+But he drew back with an exclamation of distaste.
+
+There was blood on the writing-table, on the inkstand, on the cover of
+the blotting-book. The first spurt from Aubrey's wrist had apparently
+gone right over them all. The orderly soul of the rector was revolted.
+He opened the blotting-book and tearing out a sheet proceeded to mop
+up the blood. He tore up the blotting-paper and took up each spot
+separately. But when the paper was finished there were still spots of
+blood scattered over the writing-table. Turning back to the
+blotting-book he tore out another sheet.
+
+“Wonderful!” he said to himself. “It is wonderful that so slight a
+thing, a mere slip of the knife, should inflict so much damage. I
+should not have thought it possible.”
+
+And as he voiced his thoughts, his long, lean fingers were pulling out
+bits of pink blotting-paper and dabbing them down on the drops of
+scarlet blood, then rolling them up into damp red pellets and dropping
+them into the waste-paper-basket. Then all at once a strange thing
+happened. As his fingers moved swiftly, mechanically over their work,
+his gaze went back to the open blotter.
+
+There on the leaf, as it had lain beneath the paper he had torn out,
+was a piece of paper. Just a very ordinary piece of paper with a few
+lines in a woman's clear writing scrawled across it.
+
+The Rev. James Collyer read them over with no particular intention of
+doing so; then as his brain slowly took in the sense of what he read
+his fingers stopped working. He never knew how long he stood there,
+staring at that paper, while his lips moved noiselessly, while every
+drop of colour drained slowly from his face and the stark horror in
+his eyes deepened. At last he moved. The bits of paper had dropped
+from his hands and lay in an untidy heap on the table. With a quick,
+furtive gesture he caught up the piece of paper, and moving quickly he
+thrust it between the bars of the grate into the sluggish fire inside.
+It burst into a flame and the rector stood there and watched it burn.
+When nothing was left but bits of greyish ash he turned away and put
+up his hands to his forehead. It was wet—great drops of sweat were
+rolling into his eyes. A few minutes later a messenger, one of the
+Confraternity, coming down from the room of the Head, found the Rev.
+James Collyer letting himself out at the front door.
+
+“Mr. Todmarsh desired me to say, sir, that the cut is much deeper than
+he thought. We have sent for the doctor, and it may be some time
+before he is ready to come to you. But, if you will wait, he will be
+very pleased——”
+
+“No, no! I won't wait,” said the rector thickly, in tones that none of
+his parishioners would have recognized as his. “He—he—my business is
+not important.”
+
+A wild idea that of a certainty the clergyman had been drinking shot
+through the brain of Todmarsh's messenger, as he stood at the open
+door watching the tall, lean figure of the clergyman making its way
+along the pavement and saw it sway more than once from side to side.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+“You identify these emeralds as yours?”
+
+“No, I can't. I don't see how anybody could identify unset stones,”
+said the rector wearily.
+
+“H'm!” Inspector Furnival stopped, nonplussed. “But these exactly
+answer to the description that has been circulated, that you yourself
+supplied to the police.”
+
+Mr. Collyer's face looked drawn and grey as he turned the stones over
+with the tip of his finger.
+
+“Yes, yes! But emeralds look the same, and these seem to fit in their
+settings. I—I really can't say anything more definite. I thought mine
+were larger.”
+
+The inspector swept the emeralds in their wadded box into a drawer.
+
+“Well, there is no more to be said. We shall have to rely on expert
+evidence as to identity. Unless—wouldn't it be possible that young Mr.
+Anthony might be able to help us?”
+
+“I should think it extremely unlikely,” said Tony's father decisively.
+“In fact I am sure it is impossible. I always took charge of
+the emeralds. Tony had not seen them for years before their
+disappearance.”
+
+The inspector pushed the drawer to and locked it.
+
+“That is all that can be done this afternoon, then. I quite understood
+that you were prepared to be definite with regard to the
+identification or I would not have troubled you.”
+
+“I am sorry!” the rector said hesitatingly. “Then—then there is
+nothing more?”
+
+“Nothing more!” the inspector responded curtly.
+
+He and John Steadman were standing against the writing-table, in one
+drawer of which the emeralds had been deposited. Mr. Collyer paused a
+moment near the door and looked at them doubtfully. Once he opened his
+mouth as if to speak, then apparently changing his mind closed it
+again dumbly.
+
+When the sound of his footsteps had died away on the stone passage
+outside, Steadman glanced across at the inspector.
+
+“Unsatisfactory, isn't it?”
+
+“Very,” the inspector returned shortly. “Thank you, sir.” He took a
+cigarette from the case Steadman held out to him. “Well, fortunately,
+the cross was exhibited at the Great Exhibition in '61, so I think we
+shall be able, with the description then given and the expert evidence
+of to-day, to reconstruct the cross and make sure about the emeralds.
+But what can be wrong with the rector?”
+
+“Is anything wrong with him?” Steadman questioned in his turn as he
+lighted a match.
+
+“He looks like a man who has had some sort of a shock,” the inspector
+pursued. “I wonder if it means that Mr. Tony——”
+
+“Tony had nothing to do with the loss of the emeralds,” John Steadman
+said in his most decided tones. “You can put that out of your mind.”
+
+The inspector paced the narrow confines of his office in Scotland Yard
+two or three times before he made any rejoinder. Then as he cast a
+lightning glance at Steadman he said tentatively:
+
+“I have sometimes wondered what Mrs. Collyer is like.”
+
+“Not the sort of woman to substitute paste for her own emeralds,”
+Steadman said ironically. “No use. You will have to look farther
+afield, inspector.”
+
+“I am half inclined to put it down to the Yellow Gang,” the inspector
+said doubtfully. “But it differs in several particulars from the work
+of the Yellow Dog, notably the substitution of the paste. But—well,
+there may have been reasons.”
+
+Still his brow was puckered in a frown as he turned to his notebook.
+
+“Now, Mr. Steadman, I have someone else for you to interview.” He
+sounded his bell sharply as he spoke. “Show Mr. Brunton in as soon as
+he comes,” he said to the policeman who appeared in answer.
+
+“He is waiting, sir.”
+
+“Oh, good! Let him come in. This Brunton, Mr. Steadman, is one of the
+late Mr. Bechcombe's younger clerks. I do not know whether you knew
+him.”
+
+John Steadman shook his head.
+
+“No, I have no recollection of any of the clerks but Thompson.”
+
+“He is with Carrington and Cleaver, who are carrying on Mr.
+Bechcombe's clients until, if ever, some one takes on the practice,”
+pursued the inspector. “And I should like you to hear a story he
+brought to me this morning.”
+
+Almost as the last word left his lips, the door opened again and a
+lanky, sandy-haired youth was shown in.
+
+The inspector stepped forward.
+
+“Good afternoon, Mr. Brunton. Now I want you just to repeat to this
+gentleman, Mr. Steadman, what you told me this morning.”
+
+Mr. Brunton coughed nervously.
+
+“I thought I did right in coming to you.”
+
+“Certainly you did,” the inspector reassured him. “Your evidence is
+most important. Now, from the beginning, please, Mr. Brunton.”
+
+“Well, it was last night. I left the office early because I had an
+errand to do for Mr. Carrington,” the youth began. He kept his eyes
+fixed on the inspector—not once did he glance in Steadman's direction.
+His hands twisted themselves nervously together. “It took me some time
+longer than I expected and it was getting late when I started home.
+You will remember perhaps, inspector, that there was a bit of a fog
+here, but on the other side of the river where I had to go it was much
+worse, and the farther I went the denser it became. I got out of the
+bus at the _Elephant_, which is not far from my rooms, you know.” He
+paused.
+
+“I know. Go on, please.”
+
+“Well, I had to walk from there—there's no bus goes anywhere near. The
+fog was getting dangerous by then. You couldn't see your hand before
+your face, as the saying is. I know the way well enough in the
+daylight, but in a fog things look so different. It is a regular
+network of small streets behind there, you know, and one seemed just
+like the other. I lost my bearings and began to wonder how I was going
+to get home. There were no passers-by—I seemed to be the only living
+creature out—and I was just making up my mind to ring the bell at one
+of the houses and see if anyone could direct me or help me at all,
+when a strange thing happened; though I hadn't known there was anyone
+about, a voice spoke out of the fog close beside me as it seemed. ‘It
+is the only thing to be done—you can't make a mistake.’ The rejoinder
+came in a woman's voice. ‘But I can't do it. It wouldn't be safe. They
+might follow me. You must shake them off if you have any affection for
+me.’ The man's voice said again, ‘If you have any thought for the
+future you will get it for me. Would you like to see me in prison and
+worse? Would you like to be pointed at as——’ That was all I heard,
+sir.” Mr. Brunton turned himself from Mr. Steadman to the inspector,
+then back again to Steadman. “I was listening for all I was worth,
+trying not to miss a word, when that horrid fog got down my throat and
+tickled me, and before I could help myself I had given a great sneeze.
+There was a sharp exclamation, and I thought I caught the sound of
+footsteps deadened by the fog. That was all I could hear, sir—every
+word,” looking from one to the other.
+
+“Very good, Mr. Brunton,” the inspector said as he stopped. “And now
+just you tell Mr. Steadman why you listened—why you were anxious to
+hear.”
+
+The youth glanced at Steadman in a scared fashion. “I—I listened, sir,
+because I recognized the voices, one voice at least for certain—the
+man's. It was Mr. Amos Thompson's, the late Mr. Bechcombe's managing
+clerk.”
+
+John Steadman raised his eyebrows. “You are sure?”
+
+“Quite certain, as certain as I could be of anything,” asseverated
+Brunton. “I knew Mr. Thompson's voice too well to make any mistake,
+sir. I had good reason to, for he was for ever nagging at me when I
+was at Mr. Bechcombe's. There wouldn't be one of us clerks who
+wouldn't recognize Mr. Thompson's voice.”
+
+“Is that so?” Mr. Steadman raised his eyebrows again. “And the other
+voice—the woman's?”
+
+Mr. Brunton fidgeted. “I wasn't so certain of that, sir. I hadn't had
+so many opportunities of hearing it, you see. But it sounded like Miss
+Hoyle's—Mr. Bechcombe's secretary. I heard it at the inquest.”
+
+“I understand you saw absolutely nothing to show that you were right
+in either surmise,” John Steadman said, his face showing none of the
+surprise he felt at hearing Cecily's name.
+
+“Nothing—nothing at all!” Mr. Brunton confirmed. “But, if I ever heard
+it on earth, it was Mr. Thompson's voice I heard then. And I don't
+think—I really don't think I was wrong in taking the other for Miss
+Hoyle's, as I say I heard it at the inquest, and I took particular
+notice of it.”
+
+“Um!” John Steadman stroked his nose meditatively. “How long had you
+been in Mr. Bechcombe's office, Mr. Brunton?”
+
+Mr. Brunton hesitated a moment.
+
+“Five years, sir. I began as office boy to—to gain experience, you
+know. I was fourteen then and I am nineteen now.”
+
+“No more?” said Mr. Steadman approvingly.
+
+Mr. Brunton, who had looked distinctly depressed at the mention of his
+lowly beginning, began to perk up.
+
+“And Mr. Thompson has been managing clerk all the time,” the barrister
+went on. “No, I don't think you could very well mistake his voice. But
+Miss Hoyle had only been a short time with Mr. Bechcombe, you say—you
+had not seen much of her? At the office, I mean, not the inquest.”
+
+“Not much, sir. Because she never came into our office. She always
+went into her own by the door next Mr. Bechcombe's room. Most of the
+clerks really did not know her by sight at all, let alone recognize
+her voice. But it was part of my job to go into Mr. Bechcombe's room
+with the midday mail, and more often than not she would be there
+taking down Mr. Bechcombe's instructions in shorthand. Very often too
+he would make her repeat the last sentence he had given her before he
+broke off. It was in that way I got to know her voice a little, for I
+never spoke to her beyond passing the time of day if we met
+accidentally, for she was always one that kept herself to herself,”
+Mr. Brunton concluded, quite out of breath with his long speech.
+
+John Steadman nodded.
+
+“Yes, you would have a fair chance of becoming acquainted with her
+voice that way. Better, I think, than at the inquest. The words that
+you overheard, I take it you reported as accurately as possible.”
+
+“Oh, yes, sir.” Mr. Brunton moved restlessly from one leg to the
+other. “You see, I recognized Mr. Thompson's voice with the first
+words and, knowing how important it was that the police should find
+him, I listened for all I was worth.”
+
+“I take it from the words you have reported that Thompson had some
+hold over the girl,” Mr. Steadman pursued. “Had you previously had any
+idea of any connexion between them?”
+
+Mr. Brunton shook his head in emphatic negative.
+
+“Not the least, sir. If you had asked me I shouldn't have thought Mr.
+Thompson would have known Miss Hoyle if he had met her.”
+
+“And yet Miss Hoyle's portrait was found in Thompson's room,” Mr.
+Steadman said very deliberately. “One might say the only thing that
+was found there in fact.”
+
+“Was it, indeed, sir?” Young Brunton looked dumbfounded. “Well, if
+they were friends, there was none of us in the office suspected it,”
+he finished.
+
+“And that was rather remarkable among such a lot of young men as there
+were at Luke Bechcombe's,” remarked John Steadman. “They generally
+have their eyes open to everything. Now as to where they were when you
+overheard them. You do not think you could recognize the place again?”
+
+“I am afraid not, sir. You see, the fog alters everything so. I seemed
+to have been wandering about for hours when I heard Thompson's voice,
+and it appeared to me that I walked about for hours afterwards before
+the fog lifted. When it did I was quite near home, but I haven't the
+least idea whether it meant that I had been sort of walking round
+about in a circle, or whether I had been further afield.”
+
+“Anyway we shall have all that neighbourhood combed out,” interposed
+Inspector Furnival. “If Mr. Thompson is in hiding anywhere there I
+think that we may take it his capture is only a matter of time. I am
+much obliged to you, Mr. Brunton. I will let you know in good time
+when your evidence is likely to be required.”
+
+“Thank you, sir.” With an awkward circular bow intended to include
+both men Mr. Brunton took his departure.
+
+The inspector shut the door behind him.
+
+“What do you think of that?”
+
+“I was surprised,” Steadman answered. “Surprised that they were not
+more careful,” he went on. “There is nothing more unsafe than talking
+of one's private affairs abroad in a fog. Buses and trains are child's
+play to a fog.”
+
+The inspector smiled.
+
+“Oh, well, don't criminals always overlook something? Which reminds
+me—this came an hour ago.”
+
+He handed a piece of paper to Steadman.
+
+The latter regarded it doubtfully. It had evidently been torn out of a
+notebook, and looked as though it had passed through several hands,
+for it was dirty and thumbmarked and frayed at the edges as though it
+had been carried about in some one's pocket. Across one corner of it
+were scrawled some letters in pencil. He put up his pince-nez and
+looked at it more closely. The few words scrawled across it were very
+irregularly and illegibly written in printed characters. After
+scrutinizing it for some time through his glasses Steadman made them
+out to be: “Wednesday night, 21 Burlase Street, Limehouse.
+Chink-a-pin.”
+
+“What is to take place at 21 Burlase Street on Wednesday night?” he
+questioned as he laid it down.
+
+“A meeting of the Yellow Gang, and I hope the capture of the Yellow
+Dog,” the inspector answered pithily and optimistically.
+
+“And this comes from——?” Steadman went on, tapping the paper with his
+eyeglasses.
+
+“One of the Gang. It is pretty safe to assume that sooner or later
+there will be an informer.”
+
+“You will be there?”
+
+The inspector nodded. “But we are taking no risks. The informer may be
+false to both sides. The house will be surrounded. Whole squads of men
+are being drafted to the neighbourhood, a few at a time, to-day. I
+fancy we shall corner the Yellow Dog at last. With this password I
+shall certainly get into the house and arrest the Yellow Dog. Then at
+the sound of the whistle the house will be rushed.”
+
+“I will come with you,” said John Steadman. “I fancy an interview with
+the Yellow Dog may be extraordinarily interesting.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+“I cannot live without you, Cecily. This bogy of yours shall not
+separate us. Surely my love is strong enough to help you to bear
+whatever the future can hold. Till the last hour of my life I shall be
+your devoted lover, Tony.”
+
+A momentary sensation of warmth and light ran through Cecily's cold
+frame as she read the impassioned sentences. Very resolutely she had
+put Anthony Collyer's love from her. She had told herself that she was
+a moral leper set far apart from all thoughts of love or marriage. It
+was not in the nature of a mortal girl to read such words and remain
+unmoved.
+
+She was sitting at her table in Madeline Bechcombe's private
+sitting-room. As she finished reading her letter she made a movement
+as though to tuck it in the breast of her gown, then, changing her
+mind, she tossed it into the very centre of the bright fire on the
+hearth.
+
+At this same moment Mrs. Bechcombe came into the room. She glanced
+curiously at the paper just bursting into momentary flame.
+
+“I wish you would not burn papers here, Miss Hoyle,” she said
+fretfully. “It does litter up the hearth so and there is a
+waste-paper-basket over there.”
+
+“I am very sorry, I quite forgot,” Cecily said penitently. “Mrs.
+Bechcombe, this is a letter from Lady Chard-Green. She wants you to go
+to them for a week-end, the 3rd or the 10th if that would suit you
+better.”
+
+“They will neither of them suit me at all,” Mrs. Bechcombe said
+decisively. “You can tell her so. I wonder whether she would feel
+inclined to go about week-ending if her husband had been cruelly
+murdered?”
+
+Cecily shivered as she took up the next letter.
+
+“This is from Colonel Chalmers. He has just returned to England,
+and——”
+
+“I don't care what he has done,” Mrs. Bechcombe interrupted. “I really
+only came in to tell you that I do not feel well enough to attend to
+letters or anything else this morning. So you need not stay—it will
+give you a little more time to yourself.”
+
+“Thank you very much.” Cecily hesitated. “But can I not do anything
+for you, Mrs. Bechcombe? Perhaps if your head is bad again, you might
+let me read to you.”
+
+“No, no! I could not stand it. It would drive me mad,” Mrs. Bechcombe
+responded, with the irritability that was becoming habitual with her.
+“No, when I feel like this, I must be alone. I mean it.”
+
+Cecily was nothing loath to leave her work and go out into the air. It
+was a lovely day. The sky was blue as Londoners seldom see it, tiny
+fleecy clouds of white just floating across it emphasizing the depth
+of colour. Spring seemed to be calling to the youth in her to come
+into the country and rejoice with the new life that was springing into
+being everywhere. And Cecily must go to Burford. She had intended to
+go when her day's work was over, but now she could start at once. Like
+a great black thundercloud over the brightness of the day the thought
+of Burford and of her errand there overhung everything. She made up
+her mind to take the first train down and get the thing over.
+
+She made her way to the station at once. Trains to Burford ran
+frequently and she had not long to wait. She occupied the time by
+getting a cup of tea and a bun in the refreshment room, but though she
+had had nothing but a piece of dry toast for her breakfast she could
+not eat. She only crumbled the bun, one of the station variety, while
+she drank the tea thirstily. She did not notice that a shabbily
+dressed small boy who had been loitering outside the house in
+Carlsford Square had dogged her steps to the station and now sat
+reading a dilapidated copy of “Tit-Bits” outside on the seat nearest
+the refreshment room.
+
+The station for Burford was soon reached. Cecily, who was fond of
+walking, made up her mind to walk to Rose Cottage instead of taking
+the shabby one-horse cab that stood outside the station, but she was
+out of practice and she was distinctly tired when she reached her
+destination.
+
+The housekeeper received her with evident amazement.
+
+“Miss Hoyle! Well, I never! And I have been expecting your pa down
+every day this past week!”
+
+“Well, I have come instead, you see. I hope I am not a dreadful
+disappointment,” Cecily said, calling up a smile with an effort as she
+shook hands. She did not know much of Mrs. Wye and what little she did
+know she did not much like, but she knew that the woman had been a
+long time with her father and felt that it behoved her to make herself
+pleasant.
+
+The housekeeper held open the sitting-room door and Cecily walked in
+and sat down with an air of relief.
+
+“My father has been ill, Mrs. Wye. That is why he has not been down
+here lately. He is much better now and I am hoping to take him to the
+sea soon to convalesce. In the meantime he wants some papers from the
+desk in his bedroom and I have come to fetch them.”
+
+“I am very sorry to hear Mr. Hoyle has been ill, miss,” and the woman
+really did look concerned. “We have had several people here asking
+after him of late and there is a lot of letters. But I never know
+where to forward them. I take it Mr. Hoyle will have been in a
+nursing-home, miss?”
+
+“Er—oh, yes.” Cecily began to feel that even this woman might want to
+know too much. “Perhaps you would get me a cup of tea, Mrs. Wye,” she
+went on. “I hadn't time for lunch before I started and though I had
+some tea at the station it wasn't up to much. It never is at stations,
+somehow.”
+
+“You are right there, miss,” Mrs. Wye agreed. “And is the master out
+of the nursing-home now, might I ask, miss?”
+
+“Oh, yes. He is with friends,” Cecily said vaguely. Her colour
+deepened as she spoke.
+
+The housekeeper's little eyes watched her curiously. “Perhaps you
+would give me an address I could forward the letters to, miss.”
+
+“Oh, of course!” Cecily got up. She could not sit here to be badgered
+by this woman who she began to feel was inimical to her. “I will get
+the things my father wants,” she went on. “For I must catch an early
+train back. I do not want to be away longer than necessary.”
+
+She went upstairs to the front bedroom which she knew to be her
+father's. It was spotlessly clean and tidy, but it had the bare look
+of a room that has been unoccupied for a long time. The desk stood on
+a small table near the window. Cecily had the key, and the envelope
+for which she had come down was lying just at the top. A long rather
+thin envelope inscribed 11260. Doubled up it just fitted into Cecily's
+handbag. She pushed it in and shut it with a snap. Then she sat down
+in a basket-work chair near the open window. She really could not
+start back without some rest, and she was not anxious to encounter
+Mrs. Wye again. As she sat there her thoughts went back to Tony's
+letter; and though she told herself that nothing could come of it the
+recollection of his love seemed to fall like sunshine over her,
+cheering and enveloping her.
+
+She was feeling more herself when her eyes mechanically straying past
+the little garden with its ordered paths and flower-beds fixed
+themselves on the road that ran beyond. Suddenly they focused
+themselves upon an object nearly opposite the cottage gate. Slowly the
+colour ebbed from her cheeks and lips, her eyes grew wide and
+frightened, the hands lying on her lap began to twitch and twine
+themselves nervously together.
+
+Yet at first sight there seemed nothing in the road outside to account
+for her agitation—just a heap of broken stones and sitting by it a
+worn, tired-looking old tramp. Just a very ordinary-looking old man.
+Yet Cecily got up, and, craning forward while keeping herself in the
+shadow as much as possible, tried to view him from every possible
+angle. Surely, surely, she said to herself, it could not be the very
+same old man to whom she had seen John Steadman give a penny outside
+the house in Carlsford Square only that very morning! Yet try to
+persuade herself as she might, that it could not be the same, she knew
+from the first moment beyond the possibility of a doubt that there was
+no mistake. And that could mean only one thing, that she was being
+followed, that they suspected—what? She began to shiver all over. Then
+one idea seemed to take possession of her. Almost she could have
+fancied it had been whispered in her ear by some outside unseen
+agency. She must get back to town without delay, by the very next
+train, she must take that mysterious envelope to its destination at
+once. She ran downstairs. Mrs. Wye was laying the table.
+
+“I thought maybe you would relish a dish of ham and eggs. Butcher's
+meat is a thing we can't come at out here at the end of the week, not
+unless it is ordered beforehand.”
+
+“Oh, no, no! Please don't trouble to cook anything. I will just have a
+bit of bread and butter. Indeed I would rather,” Cecily protested. “I
+find I must get back again as quickly as possible. I have forgotten
+something in town.”
+
+She sat down and drawing the plate of brown bread and butter towards
+her managed to eat a piece while she drank a cup of the strong tea
+Mrs. Wye poured out for her.
+
+“It isn't any use your hurrying,” the housekeeper babbled on. “You
+will have plenty of time to make a good meal and walk slowly to the
+station and still have time to spare, before eight o'clock.”
+
+“Ah, but I want to get the half-past six,” Cecily said quickly. “I
+shall have time if I start at once, I think.”
+
+“You might, but then again you might not,” Mrs. Wye said in a
+disappointed tone. The hour's gossip to which she had been looking
+forward was apparently not coming off. “You would save a few minutes
+by taking the footpath at the back,” she added honestly. “You cut off
+a good bit past Burford Parish Church that way.”
+
+The back! Cecily's heart gave a great throb. Would she be able to
+escape that watcher in the front after all?
+
+“Do you mean at the back of this cottage?” she questioned.
+
+“Dear me, yes, miss. It is a favourite walk of the poor master's. If
+you go out of the front you just go round the house. Or you can get on
+to the path by our back door and the little gate behind we use for
+bringing in coal and such-like.”
+
+“I will go by the back, please,” Cecily said, standing up. “No, thank
+you, Mrs. Wye, I really can't eat any more. And I will write and let
+you know how my father is in a day or two.”
+
+She made her escape from the loquacious housekeeper with a little more
+difficulty, and sped quickly on to the path pointed out to her,
+clutching the precious handbag tightly to her side. She almost ran
+along the footpath in her anxiety to reach the station and was
+delighted to find herself there with a quarter of an hour to spare.
+She bought her ticket and then ensconced herself in the waiting-room
+in a corner so that she could watch the approach to the station and
+find out whether the old beggar was on her track.
+
+As soon as the train was signalled she went out on the platform, and
+managed to find a seat in an empty carriage. It did not remain empty
+long, however. There were more people waiting for the train than she
+had expected. Evidently the 6.30, slow though it might be, was popular
+in Burford. The carriage, a corridor one, was soon full. Cecily took
+her seat by the window, clutching her handbag closely to her, and
+winding the cord tightly round her wrist. Opposite to her was a young,
+smart-looking man, who showed a desire to get the window to her liking
+which was distinctly flattering. Next to him sat a young woman, very
+pale and delicate-looking. Beyond her again was an elderly woman
+apparently of the respectable lodging house keeper type. The other
+seats were occupied by a couple of working men, one with his bag of
+tools on his shoulder. Cecily, after one look round, decided that she
+was certainly safe here. She had brought a pocket edition of Keats's
+poems with her, and she took it out now and, opening the book at
+“Isabella and the Pot of Basil,” was soon deep in it.
+
+The man opposite was reading, the old lady beside him was sleeping,
+the two working men were staring at the flying landscape with
+uninterested, lack-lustre eyes, half-open mouths and one hand planted
+on each knee. Cecily after her unwonted exercise in the open air felt
+inclined to sleep herself, but she remembered the contents of her bag
+and resolutely resisted the inclination of her eyelids to droop. Still
+she was feeling pleasantly drowsy when they ran into the long tunnel
+between Rushleigh and Fairford. The man opposite her put down his
+paper and leaned across her to draw up the window with a murmured
+“Excuse me.”
+
+At the same moment the light went out. There was a chorus of
+exclamations, a shriek from the old lady beside Cecily, something very
+like a swear word from the man opposite. In a trice he had lighted a
+match and held it up. “It is not much of a light,” he said
+apologetically, “but it is better than nothing and I have plenty to
+last to the end of the tunnel.”
+
+Then he uttered a sharp exclamation. Cecily's eyes followed his. She
+saw that the old lady next her had slipped sideways, the pretty apple
+colour in her cheeks had faded, that the pendulous cheeks had become a
+sickly indefinite grey. The man in the corner dropped his match and
+lighted another. He moved up the seat and struck another.
+
+“She has fainted,” he announced. “In itself that is not serious, but I
+am a doctor and I should say she has heart trouble. She certainly
+ought not to travel alone.”
+
+Already they were getting through the tunnel. Cecily felt the old lady
+lurch against her and lie like a dead weight against her arm. The girl
+put out her other hand and held the helpless form tightly. As the
+light spread the doctor leaned over and felt the woman's pulse.
+
+“She must be laid flat,” he said briefly. “Will you help me?” He
+beckoned to the man at the other end, and between them they raised the
+woman, and laid her down. Cecily unfastened a scarf that was twisted
+tightly round the flabby neck. The doctor's quick, capable fingers
+produced a pair of scissors from a case and cut down the woolen jumper
+in front, then from a handbag he produced a tiny phial. From this he
+poured just one drop into the poor woman's mouth, while Cecily by his
+directions fanned her vigorously with a sheet of newspaper. By and by
+they were rewarded by signs of returning consciousness, and presently
+the patient opened her eyes and gazed round questioningly at the
+strange faces. Then she began to sit up and try to pull her jumper
+together with shaking fingers.
+
+“Did I faint?” she asked tremulously. “I—I know it all went dark, and
+then I don't remember any more.”
+
+“Don't try!” advised the doctor, “just rest as long as you can. I
+think we can manage a pillow for you.” He disposed his bag and rug
+behind her so that she was propped up against the end of the carriage.
+
+As she watched him fix the handbag, Cecily was suddenly reminded of
+her own bag with its precious contents. With a certain prevision of
+evil she clapped her free hand on her wrist. The bag was gone! She
+remembered that it had been in her way when she began to help with the
+invalid—then she could remember no more. Withdrawing her hand from the
+sick woman's grasp, she began to search feverishly among the
+newspapers and various odds and ends that were strewn all over the
+compartment. The doctor looked at her.
+
+“You have lost something? Your bag? Oh, now where did I see it? Oh, I
+remember—you put it down here.” He produced it from the side of his
+patient, from between her and the wood of the compartment, and handed
+it to her.
+
+Cecily almost snatched it from him. How had she come to let it fall,
+she asked herself passionately. But had she dropped it or had it been
+taken from her? She fumbled with the clasp with fingers that were numb
+with fear. Yes, yes! There it was, that mysterious packet, just as she
+had placed it, and with a sigh of relief she sat down again and leaned
+back.
+
+There was little more to be done for the woman who was ill. She lay
+quietly in her seat until they ran into the London terminus. Then
+Cecily leaned forward.
+
+“Will your friends meet you?” she asked gently. “Or can I help you?”
+
+The sick woman did not open her eyes.
+
+“I shall be met, thank you. Thank you all so much.”
+
+Quite a crowd of porters, apparently beckoned by the guard, appeared
+at the door. The doctor smiled as he stood aside for Cecily.
+
+“You have been a most capable assistant.”
+
+“Thank you!” Cecily gave him a cold little smile of farewell as she
+sprang out.
+
+She hesitated a moment outside the station, then she beckoned to a
+passing taxi and gave her address at the Hobart Residence. She was
+taking no further risks, and her hand held the handbag firmly with its
+precious contents intact until it had been safely locked up in her
+desk.
+
+Meanwhile another taxi had flashed out of the station and bowled
+swiftly in the opposite direction to that which she had taken. In it
+were seated side by side the woman who had been ill in the train, now
+marvellously recovered, and the smart young doctor, while opposite to
+them there lounged one of the working men who had been sitting at the
+other end of the compartment.
+
+Half an hour later, Inspector Furnival, busily writing at his desk in
+his room at Scotland Yard, looked up sharply as there was a tap at the
+door.
+
+“Come in!”
+
+The door opened to admit a man who bore a strong resemblance to the
+young doctor of the train, though in some subtle fashion a curious
+metamorphosis seemed to have overtaken him. To Cecily he had seemed to
+be all doctor—now, he looked to even a casual observer all policeman
+as he saluted his superior.
+
+The inspector glanced at him.
+
+“Any luck, Masterman?”
+
+For answer Masterman held out a piece of paper on which a few words
+were scrawled.
+
+The inspector drew his brows together over it.
+
+“Samuel Horsingforth,” he read, “Sta. Irica, Portugal.” Then he looked
+up at his subordinate. “You have done very well, Masterman. This is
+really all that is essential.”
+
+Masterman, well-pleased, saluted again.
+
+“I thought it would be, sir. And it was really all we had time for.
+Miss Hoyle is not an easy nut to crack.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+John Steadman was hard at work in Luke Bechcombe's study. He was
+finding his co-executor, the Rev. James Collyer, of very little use.
+It was rumoured that the rector had had a nervous breakdown; at any
+rate it appeared impossible to get him up to town and documents
+requiring his signature had to be sent to Wexbridge Rectory by special
+messenger.
+
+Steadman was cogitating over this fact in some annoyance and
+deliberating the advisability of applying for the appointment of
+another executor, when he heard the sound of a taxi stopping before
+the door, and looking up he saw Inspector Furnival getting out. He
+went into the hall to meet him.
+
+The inspector was looking grave and perturbed.
+
+“Have you heard?” he questioned breathlessly.
+
+“Nothing!” Steadman answered laconically.
+
+“Mrs. Carnthwacke was murderously assaulted this morning in her own
+carriage in one of London's best-known thoroughfares!”
+
+“What!” The barrister stared at him in a species of stupefaction.
+
+Instead of answering the inspector stepped back to the open door of
+the study.
+
+“One moment, please.”
+
+But if to speak to John Steadman in private was his objective he did
+not obtain it. Mrs. Bechcombe came quickly into the hall with Cecily
+Hoyle close behind her.
+
+“Inspector,” she cried, “what is it? You have discovered my husband's
+murderer? I heard you say ‘Mrs. Carnthwacke.’”
+
+The inspector's face was very grave as he turned. Then he stood back
+for her to pass into the study. He did not speak again until they were
+all in the room, then he closed the door and looked at Luke
+Bechcombe's widow with eyes in which pity was mingled with severity.
+
+“Mrs. Carnthwacke has nearly shared your husband's fate, madam,” he
+said very deliberately. “I think you must be convinced now of the
+absolute impossibility of the theory you have not hesitated to
+broadcast all along.”
+
+“What do you mean?” Mrs. Bechcombe questioned sharply.
+
+The inspector spread out his hands.
+
+“As I was just telling Mr. Steadman, Mrs. Carnthwacke was murderously
+assaulted and left for dead in her own carriage this morning, in
+circumstances which leave small doubt in my mind that the miscreant
+who attacked her was Mr. Bechcombe's murderer.”
+
+“I do not believe it! The Carnthwackes—one of them, murdered my
+husband,” Mrs. Bechcombe said uncompromisingly. “I have the strongest
+possible——”
+
+She was interrupted by an odd sound, a sort of choking gasp from
+Cecily. They all turned. The girl was deathly white. She caught her
+breath sharply in her throat.
+
+“It—it can't be true! I don't believe it! Why should he want to hurt
+Mrs. Carnthwacke?”
+
+“Why should who want to hurt Mrs. Carnthwacke?” the inspector
+counter-questioned.
+
+“Because—oh, I don't know——. Oh, I know he didn't!” Cecily accompanied
+this asseveration with a burst of tears. “Nobody could be so cruel.”
+
+“Somebody has!” the inspector said dryly. “Is it any consolation to
+you to think that there are two murderers at large instead of one,
+Miss Hoyle?”
+
+Cecily stared at him, twisting her hands about, apparently in an agony
+of speechlessness. She made two or three hoarse attempts to answer
+him. Then, with a wild glance round at the amazed faces of Steadman
+and Mrs. Bechcombe, she turned and rushed out of the room.
+
+The inspector glanced at John Steadman—a glance intercepted by Mrs.
+Bechcombe.
+
+“Hysteria!” that lady remarked scornfully. “I fancy she thinks that
+you suspect Anthony, and that naturally—— But enough of Cecily Hoyle.
+What is this wild tale of yours about Mrs. Carnthwacke, inspector?”
+
+“It is no wild tale, madam,” the inspector said coldly. “I have just
+come from the Carnthwackes' house, where Mrs. Carnthwacke lies at
+death's door. I came here by Mr. Carnthwacke's express desire to see
+whether I could induce Mr. Steadman to accompany me to consult with
+him as to the best measures to be taken now.”
+
+“Of course I will come, inspector,” the barrister said readily. “As I
+should go anywhere where it was in the least probable that I should
+hear anything at all bearing upon our own case. One never knows from
+what point elucidation may come.”
+
+Mrs. Bechcombe turned her shoulder to him.
+
+“Oh, please don't prose, John! Now what has happened to Mrs.
+Carnthwacke, inspector?”
+
+“Mrs. Carnthwacke, madam, was just taking a drive as you might
+yourself. She came up Piccadilly, left an order at a shop in New Bond
+Street, told her man to drive by way of Regent Street and Oxford
+Street to the Park, to go in by the Marble Arch and wait near the
+Victoria Gate until Mr. Carnthwacke who had been out for the night
+came from Paddington Station to join them. As it happened he was at
+the meeting-place first. When the car stopped he was amazed to see
+Mrs. Carnthwacke lolling back in a sort of crouching position against
+the side of the car. At first he thought she had had a fit of some
+kind, but there was an odour to which he was unaccustomed hanging
+about the car and then he discovered a piece of cord twisted tightly
+round his wife's throat. He cut it in a frenzy of fear and for some
+time they thought she was dead. But they drove straight to some doctor
+they knew close to the Park. He tried artificial respiration and
+brought her round to some extent, and then before they took her home,
+phoned to Scotland Yard for me.”
+
+“What was the motive?” Steadman asked quietly.
+
+The inspector raised his eyebrows.
+
+“Only one person saw Mr. Bechcombe's murderer. Mrs. Carnthwacke was a
+witness to be feared.”
+
+“But you say she is not got rid of! She is alive!” Mrs. Bechcombe
+interrupted hysterically.
+
+“At present,” the inspector rejoined grimly. “Mr. Steadman, if you
+could come——? As I said before, Carnthwacke is most anxious to have
+your advice with regard to what steps should be taken to discover the
+would-be murderer. And there is no time to be lost.”
+
+“I am at your service, inspector.” Steadman turned to the door. “You
+shall hear further particulars as soon as possible, Madeline.”
+
+In the taxi outside John Steadman looked at the inspector.
+
+“Is this the work of the Yellow Dog, inspector?”
+
+“It is the work of Mr. Bechcombe's murderer, sir,” the inspector
+replied evasively.
+
+“You have some grounds for this conviction, I presume,” John Steadman
+rejoined. “At first sight it looks as though it might be an entirely
+independent affair. An attempt to steal any jewels that Mrs.
+Carnthwacke might be wearing. Or her money.”
+
+“You wait until you have talked to Mrs. Carnthwacke, sir. You won't
+feel much doubt as to her assailant's identity then.”
+
+“But is Mrs. Carnthwacke able to speak?” John Steadman questioned in
+great surprise. “I understood from what you said——”
+
+The inspector looked him full in the face and solemnly winked one eye.
+
+“It suits our purpose that the outside world and particularly Mrs.
+Carnthwacke's assailant should think her dying. But, as a matter of
+fact, when Mrs. Carnthwacke had rallied from the effects of the
+strangulation, except that she feels weak and ill from the shock, she
+was practically as well as you or I. She is perfectly able to discuss
+the matter with us, though by my advice she is keeping to her own
+rooms and it is being given out that she is still unconscious, lying
+between life and death.”
+
+At No. 15 Blanden Square, they were received by Cyril B. Carnthwacke
+himself. He was looking pale and worried, but he greeted John Steadman
+warmly.
+
+“Say, this is all right of you, Mr. Steadman,” he exclaimed. “Come
+right away to my sanctum and I will tell you what I can about this
+affair.”
+
+He led the way to his study, a large room at the back of the house on
+the second floor. When they were inside he locked and bolted the door,
+somewhat to Steadman's surprise.
+
+“Now,” he said, going to the opposite side of the room and unlocking
+another door, “we are going right away to Mrs. Carnthwacke and you
+shall hear what she says, Mr. Steadman.”
+
+The door he opened led into what was apparently his dressing-room with
+a communicating door into Mrs. Carnthwacke's apartments. In this a
+couple of women dressed as nurses were sitting. They rose. Furnival
+murmured:
+
+“Female detectives to guard Mrs. Carnthwacke. Even her own maid is not
+admitted.”
+
+One of them opened the farther door and ushered them into Mrs.
+Carnthwacke's room. In spite of Inspector Furnival's report, Steadman
+was surprised to see how well she looked. She was lying back in a
+capacious arm-chair; some arrangement of lace concealed any damage
+there might be to her throat, and beyond the fact that she was
+unusually pale—which might have been put down to the absence of
+make-up—and that one side of her face was a little swollen, he would
+have noticed nothing unusual in her.
+
+He went forward with a few conventional words of sympathy. Carnthwacke
+drew up three chairs and motioned to the other men to be seated.
+
+“Now, honey,” he said persuasively, “you are just going to tell us all
+once more what happened this morning.”
+
+“I will do my best.” Mrs. Carnthwacke closed her eyes for a moment.
+“It is such a horrible ghastly thing. But—but I know that to let such
+a man be at large is a public danger. So I must tell you though every
+time I speak of it I seem to live through it again. Well, I left home
+this morning just as well as ever, Mr. Steadman. And really you
+wouldn't have thought I _could_ be in any danger in my own car with
+two men on the front; now, would you?”
+
+“I certainly should not,” John Steadman agreed.
+
+“Such a thing never entered my head,” Mrs. Carnthwacke went on. “But
+first, perhaps, I had better say that I wore no jewellery that could
+possibly attract anybody's attention. None at all, in fact, but my
+wedding ring and the diamond half hoop that was my engagement ring
+which I have worn as a keeper ever since. I haven't even worn my
+pearls out of doors lately, because I thought it best to be on the
+safe side. Well, I went to my tailor's in New Bond Street. It was an
+awful bother getting there, because as you know Bond Street is up—any
+street you want to go to is always up—and we had to go very slow in
+the side streets because all the vehicles which turned out of Bond
+Street were crowding up in the narrower streets, and the traffic was
+generally disorganized. I was just hoping we should soon get out of
+the crush when the door of the car was opened and a young man got in.
+In that first moment I was not really frightened, for he looked like a
+gentleman and smiled quite pleasantly.”
+
+“One minute, please,” Steadman interposed. “In what street were you
+now?”
+
+“I don't know. I didn't notice. We didn't seem to have left New Bond
+Street very long! I really thought for the moment in a half-bewildered
+way that he must be some one I had known very well in the old days
+when I was in England, and who had altered—grown as it were. He sat
+down opposite me. ‘I see you don't know me,’ he said in quite a
+cultivated voice, ‘and yet it is not so very long since we met.’
+‘Isn't it?’ I said. ‘No, I don't seem to remember you. Where did we
+meet?’ With that I put out my hand to the speaking tube, for I was
+beginning to think that all was not right. But he was too quick for
+me. He caught both my hands in his, then managing somehow to hold them
+both in one of his he sprang across and sat down beside me. I
+struggled, of course, and tried to call out, though I wasn't so
+awfully frightened, not at first, for it seemed unthinkable that I
+should really be hurt there in my own car in the broad daylight. But
+when I opened my mouth to cry out he stuck something into my mouth,
+something that burned and stung. Then in that moment I knew him—knew
+him for Luke Bechcombe's murderer, I mean. I struggled frantically,
+but he was putting something round my neck, pulling it tighter and
+tighter. I couldn't breathe. And then I knew no more till I was coming
+round again and my husband and the doctor were with me.” She stopped
+and put up her hands to her neck as if she still felt that cruel
+strangulating grip.
+
+Cyril B. Carnthwacke's face looked very grim.
+
+“That guy will have something round his own neck soon, I surmise.
+Something he won't be able to get rid of, either.”
+
+John Steadman and the inspector had both taken out their notebooks.
+The former spoke first.
+
+“You say you know your assailant to be the murderer of Luke Bechcombe.
+Will you tell us how you recognized him?”
+
+“Because—because that day when I was talking to the man whom I thought
+to be Mr. Bechcombe, whom we now believe to have been the murderer, I
+noticed his hands. He kept moving them over the table in and out of
+the papers in a nervous sort of way, and I saw——” Mrs. Carnthwacke's
+voice suddenly failed her. She shrank nervously to the side of the
+chair. “You are sure no one can hear me, Cyril?”
+
+He sat down on the side of her chair.
+
+“Dead certain, honey. Come now, get it off your chest and you will
+feel ever so much better.”
+
+“And be ever so much safer,” Inspector Furnival interposed. “As long
+as you only know this secret, Mrs. Carnthwacke, Mr. Bechcombe's
+murderer has a solid reason for wanting to destroy the one person who
+can identify him. But, once this knowledge is shared with others, the
+reason disappears. If Mrs. Carnthwacke is disposed of and there remain
+others who share her knowledge, he is none the safer. You see this,
+don't you, madam?”
+
+“Yes, yes! Of course I do,” she assented feverishly. “I wish now I had
+spoken right out at once. But I wanted a big American detective to
+undertake to get my diamonds back. My husband had promised to engage
+him and I wanted him to have this exclusive information. Now, we will
+have everybody else knowing the secret too.”
+
+“Never mind, madam, there will be plenty for him to do,” Inspector
+Furnival observed consolingly. “You were telling us you noticed the
+hands of the man in Mr. Bechcombe's office.”
+
+“Yes.” Mrs. Carnthwacke glanced up again at her husband and seemed to
+gather strength from his smile. “I just looked at his hands
+mechanically while we were talking, and I saw that though they were
+nice hands, well shaped and carefully manicured, they had one curious
+defect, if you can call it a defect. The thumb was unusually long, and
+the first—don't you call it the index finger?—was very short, so that
+the two looked almost the same length. It was an odd fault, and I
+never noticed it in any hand before, until——”
+
+“Yes, madam, until?” the inspector prompted as she paused with a
+shiver.
+
+“Until this morning in the car,” she went on, steadying her voice with
+an effort. “Just as he caught my hands, I saw his and I knew—I knew
+beyond the possibility of a doubt that my assailant was the man who
+stole my diamonds, and murdered Mr. Bechcombe.”
+
+“Well, that is definite enough, anyhow,” John Steadman remarked
+thoughtfully. “Were both hands alike, do you know, Mrs. Carnthwacke?”
+
+“Yes, they were,” she returned in a more positive tone than she had
+yet used. “I noticed that particularly.”
+
+“Did you recognize him in any other way?” the inspector asked with his
+eye on his notebook.
+
+“No, not really. I can't say I did,” Mrs. Carnthwacke said
+hesitatingly. “That is, I did think there was something about the
+eyes, though the Crow's Inn man had his hidden by smoked horn-rimmed
+glasses, so I couldn't have seen much of them. But there was something
+about his eyebrows and the way his eyes were set that I certainly
+thought I recognized.”
+
+John Steadman was drawing his brows together.
+
+“Yes, it is a curious defect and I should think as you say an uncommon
+one, yet I cannot help feeling that I have noticed the same thing in
+some hands I have seen—fairly lately too, but I cannot remember
+where,” he said in a puzzled tone. “Probably I shall recollect
+presently.”
+
+Was it a warning glance the inspector shot at him? Steadman could not
+be quite certain, but at any rate there was no misinterpreting
+Carnthwacke's gesture as he got up from his seat on the arm of his
+wife's chair.
+
+“She can't tell you any more, gentlemen, and that's a fact. What
+became of that guy is what we want to know and what we reckon your
+clever police are going to find out. Now you can't be half murdered
+and left for dead in the morning without being a wee trifle exhausted
+in the afternoon, so if you could come to my study——”
+
+“You—you won't be long? I don't feel as if I should ever be safe away
+from you again,” his wife pleaded.
+
+Carnthwacke's reply was to pat her shoulders.
+
+“I shan't leave you long, honey. And you just figure to yourself you
+are as safe as a rock with these gentlemen in the study with me, and
+these females in the dressing-room.”
+
+Once more in his study the American's face hardened again as he
+invited the other men to sit down, and put a big box of cigars on the
+table before them.
+
+“There's nothing like a smoke to clear the brain, gentlemen,” he said
+as he lighted one himself. “And what do you make of the affair now
+that you have seen Mrs. Carnthwacke?”
+
+John Steadman took the answer upon himself.
+
+“As brutal and deliberate an attempt to murder as I ever heard of.”
+
+“There I am with you,” Cyril B. Carnthwacke said grimly. “How did that
+fellow find out where Mrs. Carnthwacke was journeying and when?
+There's where I should like you to put me wise.”
+
+“He may not have arranged anything beforehand. It may have been a
+sudden thing when he saw the carriage,” Inspector Furnival hazarded.
+
+“Don't you bet your bottom dollar on that, old chap!” Carnthwacke
+admonished, puffing away at his big cigar. “He don't go about with a
+drop of chloroform and a nice long piece of ribbon handy in his pocket
+any more than other folks, I guess. It just figures out like this—some
+of our folks here must be acquainted with this guy, and put him wise
+to Mrs. Carnthwacke's movements.”
+
+“Yes, I think there can be no doubt you are right about that,” John
+Steadman assented deliberately. “What of Mrs. Carnthwacke's maid?”
+
+“Came over with us from the States,” the American told him. “And she
+is devoted to Mrs. Carnthwacke. No flies on her.”
+
+“No young man?” the inspector questioned.
+
+“Not the shadow of one,” Carnthwacke told him, leaning back in his
+chair and watching his cigar smoke curl up to the ceiling.
+
+“No great friend?”
+
+“Never heard of one. Of course I don't say she has no acquaintance,
+but she is one of the sort that keeps herself to herself, as you say
+over here.”
+
+“Next thing is the chauffeur and footman,” the inspector went on. “I
+should like a talk with them. It seems inconceivable that they should
+not have seen this man get in or out.”
+
+“I don't know that it does,” said Carnthwacke thoughtfully. “They are
+taught to keep their heads straight in front of them—the footman at
+least; and the chauffeur has enough to do in the traffic of London
+streets, I reckon, to look after himself and his car. However, you can
+have them as long as you like, but you won't get anything out of them.
+They swear they saw nothing and heard nothing, and that is all they
+will say. They were bothered with the traffic being diverted on all
+sides, and continually having to slow down, and of course it was this
+slowing down that gave the guy his chance. He must be a cool hand,
+that. Say, inspector, do you think it was this Yellow Dog the
+newspapers have a stunt about?”
+
+“When we have caught the Yellow Dog I shall be able to tell you more
+about it,” the inspector replied evasively. “I will see your men,
+please, Mr. Carnthwacke. But before they come let me warn you again to
+be most careful not to allow it to be known that Mrs. Carnthwacke
+escaped with comparatively so little injury. Continue to represent her
+as lying at death's door, and let nobody but the doctor and nurses see
+her. I cannot exaggerate the importance of not allowing it to reach
+the ears of her would-be murderer that he has failed. We must look to
+it that not a breath as to her condition leaks out from us, Mr.
+Steadman.”
+
+John Steadman was looking out of the window.
+
+“I quite see your point, inspector. It is most important that we
+should not allow the faintest suspicion of the truth to leak out among
+our friends, especially——”
+
+“Especially——?” Carnthwacke prompted.
+
+John Steadman did not speak, but he turned his head and looked at the
+inspector.
+
+“From the widow, Mrs. Bechcombe,” the detective finished.
+
+Carnthwacke stared at him.
+
+“Why Mrs. Bechcombe?”
+
+“Because,” said the inspector very slowly and emphatically, “she might
+tell Miss Cecily Hoyle and——”
+
+The eyes of the three men met and then the pursed-up lips of Cyril B.
+Carnthwacke emitted a low whistle.
+
+“Sakes alive! Sits the wind in that quarter?”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+“Samuel Horsingforth passenger to Lisbon by the _Atlantic_ starting
+from Southampton seventeenth instant.”
+
+Inspector Furnival read the telegram over again aloud and then handed
+it to Steadman.
+
+“Better get there before the boat train, I think, sir.”
+
+Steadman nodded. “I'll guarantee my touring car to do it in less time
+than anything else you can get.”
+
+“Y—es. Perhaps it may, but——” the inspector said uncertainly.
+
+“But what?” Steadman questioned in surprise.
+
+The inspector cleared his throat apparently in some embarrassment.
+
+“I should like nothing better than the car, but that I am afraid the
+fact that we are going down to Southampton in her might leak out—and
+then the journey might be in vain.”
+
+John Steadman drew in his lips.
+
+“Trust me for that. My chauffeur can keep a still tongue in his head;
+and you ought to know me by now, Furnival.”
+
+“I ought, sir, that's a fact,” the inspector acquiesced. “It is the
+chauffeur I am doubtful of. Never was there a case in which servants'
+gossip has been more concerned and done more harm than this one of
+Luke Bechcombe's death.”
+
+“I will take care that he knows nothing of our destination until after
+we have started,” Steadman promised, “but these cold winds of late
+have given me a stiff arm, and I am afraid rheumatism is setting in.
+It is the right arm too, confound it! Of course it might last the
+journey to Southampton all right, but it might not; and it wouldn't do
+to risk a failure.”
+
+“No, we can't afford a failure,” the inspector said briskly. “The car
+then, sir, and you will take all precautions. Have you heard anything
+of Mrs. Carnthwacke?”
+
+“Lying at death's door. Mrs. Bechcombe has inquired,” Steadman said
+laconically.
+
+The inspector smiled warily.
+
+“We shall have all our time to keep Cyril B. quiet till we want him to
+speak. Their American detective is here too, butting in, as they
+phrase it. Ten o'clock then.”
+
+“Ten o'clock,” Steadman assented.
+
+
+He was at Scotland Yard in his luxurious touring car punctually at the
+appointed hour. Punctual as he was, though, the inspector was waiting
+on the step for him.
+
+“Got off all right, inspector,” the barrister remarked as the
+detective took his seat and the car started. “Only filled up with
+petrol at a garage after we left my flat, and I told Mrs. Bechcombe
+that I might be back to lunch. Chauffeur doesn't know where we are
+going yet. You direct him to the Southampton Road and then I will tell
+him to put all speed on.”
+
+The day was perfect, no head wind, just a touch of frost in the air.
+Both men would have enjoyed the long smooth spin if their minds had
+been free, if their thoughts had not been busy all the time with their
+journey's end. To the inspector, if all went well, it would spell
+success, when success had at first seemed hopeless and a long step
+forward in the great campaign on which he had embarked.
+
+To Steadman it would mean that a certain theory he had held all along
+was justified.
+
+As they reached Southampton the inspector looked at his watch. “Plenty
+of time—half an hour to spare!”
+
+They drove straight to the docks and went alongside. The inspector had
+good reason to expect his prey by the boat train. They had left the
+car higher up. Steadman waited out of sight. The inspector went on
+board and ascertained that Mr. Samuel Horsingforth had not so far
+arrived.
+
+As the boat train drew up, keeping himself well out of sight, Steadman
+peered forth eagerly. The train was not as crowded as usual, but so
+far as Steadman could see no Mr. Horsingforth was visible. Then just
+at the last moment a man of middle height strolled to the gangway—a
+man, who, though his face and figure were absolutely unknown to the
+barrister, seemed to have something vaguely, intangibly familiar about
+him. Steadman was looking out for a slight, spare-looking man, shorter
+than this one, with the rounded shoulders of a student, pale too, with
+a short straggling beard and big horn-rimmed glasses. The man at whom
+he was looking must be at least a couple of inches taller than the one
+they were in search of, and he was distinctly stout, and his shoulders
+were square, and he carried himself well. He was clean-shaven too. He
+had the ruddy complexion of one leading an outdoor life. He smiled as
+he spoke to a porter about his luggage and Steadman could see his
+white even teeth and his twinkling grey eyes. Yet, after a momentary
+pause, the barrister came out into the open and followed up the
+gangway. Suddenly Steadman saw Inspector Furnival moving forward. The
+man in front saw too, and came to a sudden stop; stopped and faced
+round just as he was about to put his foot on deck, and then seeing
+Steadman stopped again and looked first one way and then the other and
+finally stepped on deck with an air of jaunty determination.
+
+Inspector Furnival came up to him.
+
+“Samuel Horsingforth, _alias_ John Frederick Hoyle, _alias_ Amos
+Thompson, I hold a warrant for your arrest on a charge of fraud and
+embezzlement. It is my duty to warn you that anything you may say will
+be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence against you.”
+
+For a minute Steadman thought that the man whose arm the inspector was
+now holding firmly was about to collapse. His ruddy colour had faded
+and he seemed to shrink visibly. But he rallied with a marvellous
+effort of self-control.
+
+“You are making some strange mistake,” he said coolly. “Samuel
+Horsingforth is my name. Of the others you mention I know nothing. I
+have been backwards and forwards several times on this line and more
+than one of the officers and stewards know me, and can vouch for my
+good faith.”
+
+The inspector's grip did not relax.
+
+“No use, Thompson, the game is up,” he said confidently. “You have
+made yourself a clever _alias_, I admit; but it is no use trying to go
+on with it now. You don't want any disturbance here.”
+
+Horsingforth, _alias_ Thompson, made no further resistance. He allowed
+the inspector to lead him down the gangway and down to the quay to
+Steadman's car. Only when the inspector opened the door did he hold
+back.
+
+“Where are you taking me?”
+
+“Town,” the inspector answered laconically. “You will be able to
+consult a solicitor when you get there—if you want to,” he added.
+
+Thompson said no more. He seated himself by Steadman, the inspector
+opposite.
+
+As they started, another car, which had quietly followed the first
+from Scotland Yard, at a sign from the inspector fell in behind.
+
+Until they had left Southampton and its environs far behind none of
+the three men spoke, then Thompson, who had been sitting apparently in
+a species of stupor, roused himself.
+
+“How did you find out?” he asked. “What made you suspect?”
+
+“A photograph of your daughter, that you had overlooked,” the
+inspector answered. “You had provided yourself with a second identity
+very cleverly, Mr. Thompson. If it had not been for Mr. Bechcombe's
+murder you would probably have succeeded.”
+
+“I had nothing to do with that,” Thompson interrupted with sudden
+fire. “I swear I had not! Mr. Bechcombe was alive and well when I left
+the offices. I was never more shocked in my life. You might have
+knocked me down with a feather when I saw in the paper that he had
+been murdered, and that I was wanted on suspicion as having murdered
+him.”
+
+“Umph!” The inspector looked at him. “You are a solicitor, or next
+door to one, Mr. Thompson, I believe. You ought not to need a bit of
+advice I am going to give you now. As I told you, you will be at
+liberty to see a solicitor as soon as we reach London. Send for the
+best you know and tell him the whole truth about this unhappy affair
+and tell nobody else anything at all.”
+
+Thus advised, Thompson wisely became dumb. He sat back in his corner
+of the car in a hunched-up, crouching condition. He looked strangely
+unlike the jaunty, self-satisfied man who had stepped upon the gangway
+of the _Atlantic_ so short a time before. To the inspector, watching
+him, he seemed almost visibly to shrink, and as the detective's keen
+eyes wandered over him he began to understand some of the apparently
+glaring discrepancies between the descriptions of Thompson circulated
+by the police and the appearance of the man before him. Thompson's
+teeth had been noticeably defective. Samuel Horsingforth, otherwise
+Hoyle, had had all the deficiencies made good and was, when he smiled,
+evidently in possession of a very good set of teeth, real or
+artificial. This, besides entirely altering his appearance, made his
+face fuller and quite unlike the hollow cheeks of Mr. Bechcombe's
+missing clerk. That Thompson had worn a thin, straggly beard, while
+this man was clean-shaven, went for nothing, but Thompson had been
+bald, with hair wearing off the forehead. Horsingforth's stubbly, grey
+hair grew thickly and rather low, and though the inspector now
+detected the wig he inwardly acknowledged it to be the best he had
+ever seen. Then, too, Thompson had been thin and spare, and though
+looking now at the man hunched up in the car one might see the padding
+on the shoulders, and under the protuberant waistcoat over which the
+gold watch chain was gracefully suspended, altogether it was not to be
+wondered at that Thompson had been so long at large. Inspector
+Furnival knew that his present capture would add largely to a
+reputation that was growing every day. At the same time he realized
+that he was still a long way from the achievement of the object to
+which all his energies had been directed—the capture of the Yellow Dog
+and the dispersal of the Yellow Gang.
+
+Thompson took the inspector's advice for the rest of the drive and
+said no more. There were moments when the other two almost doubted
+whether he were not really incapable of speech.
+
+They drove direct to Scotland Yard. From there, later in the day,
+Thompson would be taken to Bow Street to be formally charged, and from
+thence to his temporary home at Pentonville.
+
+After the remand Steadman and the inspector walked away together.
+
+“So that's that. A clever piece of work, inspector,” the barrister
+remarked.
+
+The inspector blew his nose.
+
+“All very well as far as Thompson is concerned. But Thompson is not
+the Yellow Dog.”
+
+John Steadman shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“Sometimes I have doubted whether he were not.”
+
+The inspector looked at him with a curious smile.
+
+“I don't think you have, sir. I think your suspicions went the same
+way as mine from the first.”
+
+Steadman nodded. “But suspicion is one thing and proof another.”
+
+“And that is a good deal nearer than it was,” the inspector finished.
+“The Yellow Dog's arrest is not going to be as easy a matter as
+Thompson's, though, Mr. Steadman. By Jove! those fellows have got it
+already.”
+
+They were passing a little news-shop where the man was putting out the
+placards: “Crow's Inn Tragedy—arrest of Thompson.” Further on—“Crow's
+Inn Mystery—Arrest of absconding clerk at Southampton—Thompson at Bow
+Street—Story of his Career—Astounding Revelations!”
+
+“Pure invention!” said the inspector, flicking this last with his
+stick. “I should like to put an end to half these evening rags.”
+
+“I wonder what his history has been!” Steadman said speculatively. “I
+am sorry for his daughter—and Tony Collyer too. This will put an end
+to that affair, I fancy.”
+
+“I don't know,” said the inspector as they walked on, “Mr. Tony seems
+to have made up his mind and I should fancy he could be pretty
+pig-headed when he likes. I sent the girl a letter from Scotland Yard
+covering one of Thompson's, so that she should not hear of this arrest
+first from the papers.”
+
+“Poor girl! But I think she has been dreading this for some time.
+Probably anything, even this certainty, will be better than the state
+of fear in which she has been living of late.”
+
+“Probably,” the inspector assented. Then he went on after a minute's
+pause, “Thompson's is the most ingenious case I have ever come across
+of a deliberately planned course of dishonesty, with a second identity
+so that Thompson of Bechcombes' could disappear utterly and Mr. Hoyle
+of Rose Cottage, Burford, could just take up his simple country life,
+paint his pictures and potter about the village where he was already
+known.”
+
+“Yes. His fatal mistake was made in putting in his daughter as Mr.
+Bechcombe's secretary,” John Steadman said thoughtfully. “It trebled
+his chances of discovery and I can't really see his motive. I suppose
+he thought she could assist his schemes in some way.”
+
+“Yes, I fancy he did get some information from her,” the inspector
+assented. “Though I am certain the girl herself did not know that
+Thompson and Hoyle were one and the same until after Mr. Bechcombe's
+death. Then I imagine he disclosed his identity to her and that
+accounts for the state of tension in which she has been living. His
+second mistake was leaving her photograph in his room. That gave the
+clue to his identity.”
+
+“Yes. Well, as you know, inspector, it is the mistakes that criminals
+make that provide you and me with our living,” Steadman said with a
+chuckle. “And now Mr. Thompson—Hoyle, will disappear for some
+considerable time from society. And the intelligent public will
+probably clamour for his trial for Mr. Bechcombe's murder. For a large
+section of it has already believed him guilty.”
+
+“And not without reason,” the inspector said gravely. “Appearances
+have been, and are, terribly against Thompson. Mrs. Carnthwacke's
+evidence may save him if——”
+
+“Yes. If,” Steadman prompted.
+
+“If she is able to give it,” the inspector concluded. “But Mrs.
+Carnthwacke is not recovering from the injuries she received in that
+terrible assault upon her so quickly as was expected. In fact, the
+latest editions of the evening papers, after having devoted all their
+available space to Thompson's career and arrest, will have a paragraph
+in the stop press news recording Mrs. Carnthwacke's death.”
+
+“What!” Steadman glanced sharply at the inspector's impassive face.
+Then a faint smile dawned upon his own. “So that, with that of
+Thompson's arrest, the Yellow Dog will feel pretty safe.”
+
+“I hope so,” returned the inspector imperturbably.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+
+“One minute, sir. I shan't hurt you!”
+
+With a comical look at the inspector John Steadman submitted himself
+to the hands of the little old man in the shabby black suit, who was
+surveying him with critical eyes in the looking-glass, and who now
+approached him with a curious little instrument looking like a pair of
+very fine tweezers, combined with a needle so minute that it almost
+required a microscope to see it.
+
+They were in a small room at the back of a little shop in Soho,
+whither the inspector had conducted John Steadman, and where the
+former had already undergone a curious metamorphosis.
+
+The presiding genius of the establishment was this little old man with
+an oddly wrinkled face that reminded Steadman of a marmoset, and with
+pale grey eyes that were set far apart, and that seemed to stare
+straight at you and almost through you, with as little expression as a
+stone. The room was odd-looking as well as its master. It had very
+little furniture in it. Nothing on the wall but the big looking-glass
+that ran from floor to ceiling, and occupied the greater part of one
+side. Two tables stood near and a very old worm-eaten escritoire was
+by the window. There were four chairs in the room, all of the plain
+Windsor variety, one standing right in front of the mirror differing
+from the others only in that it had arms and an adjustable head.
+
+Inspector Furnival had just been released from its clutches, and now
+John Steadman was taking his place. A huge enveloping sheet was thrown
+over him; a brilliant incandescent light was focused upon him, and the
+queer little marmoset face, with a big, curiously made magnifying
+glass screwed into it, was submitting him to an anxious scrutiny.
+
+“I shall not hurt you,” the soft, caressing voice with its foreign
+intonation repeated. “Just a few hairs put in—a few put in, and
+Monsieur's best friend would not know him.”
+
+Steadman thought it very likely his best friend would not as he
+glanced back at the inspector. But now the lean yellow fingers were at
+work. From the angle at which the head-rest was fixed the barrister
+could not see what they were doing, but they were pinching, prodding,
+stabbing. It seemed to him that they would never stop. At last,
+however, the tweezers were thrown aside and he felt little, tiny
+brushes at work, dropping moisture here, drying it up with fragrant
+powder.
+
+“Monsieur's teeth?” the foreign voice said with its sing-song
+intonation.
+
+Steadman shrugged his shoulders as he took a plate from his mouth and
+dropped it into the finger-bowl held out to him.
+
+“Ah, all the top! That is goot—very goot!” Something soft and warm was
+pressed into his mouth, pushed up and down until at last it felt
+secure. Then, with a satisfied sigh, the yellow fingers raised the
+head-rest; the little man stood back, the marmoset face wrinkled
+itself into a satisfied smile. “I hope that Monsieur is pleased.”
+
+Steadman, as he faced his reflection, thought that it was not a
+question of his best friend but that he himself would not have
+recognized the image he saw therein. The shape of the eyebrows had
+been entirely altered. They now slanted upwards, while a clever
+disposition of lines and hairs made the eyelids themselves appear to
+narrow and lengthen. His hair, thin in front and near the temples for
+many a long day now, had actually disappeared, and the enormously
+broad, high expanse of forehead was furrowed with skilfully drawn
+lines, and like the rest of his face of a greenish, greyish colour.
+The nose had become thinner in a mysterious fashion, the bridge had
+grown higher, the nostrils had widened. But the greatest change was in
+the mouth—the lips were thicker, more sensual looking. Then, in place
+of Steadman's perfectly fitting artificial teeth were several
+projecting yellow fangs with hideous gaps between.
+
+Altogether the effect of a particularly unprepossessing, partially
+Anglicized Oriental.
+
+“As the English talk, she, your own mother would not know you, eh?”
+the silky voice questioned anxiously.
+
+And John Steadman, smiling in the curiously stiff fashion which was
+all the alterations would allow, said that he was sure she would not.
+
+Both he and Furnival donned queerly designed overcoats that looked
+more like dressing-gowns than anything else, and soft hats. As they
+made their way through the streets with their hands folded in front
+and hidden by their wide sleeves, their eyes masked in blue
+spectacles, their heads turned neither to the right nor left, no one
+would have suspected their disguise—no one would have taken them for
+Englishmen. They got into a taxi and the inspector gave an address not
+far from Stepney Causeway. Once safely inside, he handed Steadman an
+automatic pistol and a police whistle.
+
+“For emergencies,” he said shortly. “I don't fancy we shall have to
+use them; but the police are all round the house. At the sound of the
+whistle they will rush the place.”
+
+“Yes, you may depend upon me, inspector,” Steadman said quietly.
+
+“Here we are!” said the inspector, drawing a couple of parcels from
+his capacious pockets. One of them he handed to John Steadman, the
+other he unfastened himself. He shook out a voluminous, flimsy garment
+of bright yellow and unwrapped from its tissue paper a small yellow
+mask. “These dominoes we had better put on here beneath our overcoats,
+Mr. Steadman, and our masks we shall have to slip on as soon as we get
+inside.”
+
+John Steadman was surveying his with some amusement. “Certainly, we
+shall look like Yellow Dogs ourselves. You have had the cordon drawn
+all round as I suggested, inspector?”
+
+“It is as narrow as can be, sir. They will almost be able to hear what
+we say. Oh, I am taking no risks. But I mean to catch the Big Yellow
+Dog himself to-night—dead or alive.”
+
+“Ay! Dead or alive!” Steadman echoed. “You have been near him once or
+twice before, haven't you, inspector?”
+
+“Not so near as I shall be to-night,” the inspector retorted.
+
+They had no time for more. The taxi stopped and they got out. The
+inspector paused to give a few low-toned directions to the cabman,
+then he led the way down a side street. From this there seemed to
+Steadman to spread out in every direction, a perfect network of narrow
+streets and alleys. It was a veritable maze and the barrister would
+have been utterly bewildered, but the inspector apparently knew his
+ground, as he wound himself in and out with an eel-like dexterity. At
+last, however, he slackened his steps and then, side by side, he and
+Steadman made their way over the ill-kept, ill-lighted pavement. More
+than once the barrister heard a faint cheeping sound issue from the
+inspector's lips. Although he heard no response, he knew that the
+cordon that the detective had spoken of was in its place.
+
+When the inspector stopped again he looked round and up and down, then
+turned sharply to the right into a small _cul-de-sac_ apparently
+running between two high brick walls, for Steadman could see no
+windows on either side. As they were nearing the opposite end to that
+by which they had entered, however, they came upon a low door at the
+right. To the barrister's heated fancy there was something sinister
+about its very aspect. The windows on either side were grimy and
+closely shuttered; they and the door were badly in need of a coat of
+paint. What there was on it was blistered, and so filthy that it was
+impossible even to guess at its original colour. There was no sign of
+either knocker or bell, but right at the top of the door was a small
+grille through which the janitor could survey the applicants for
+admission, himself unseen. The inspector applied his knuckles to the
+door, softly at first, then with a crescendo of taps that was
+evidently a signal.
+
+Steadman, with his eyes fixed on the grille, could see nothing, no
+faintest sign of movement, but for one moment he felt a sickening
+sense of being looked at, he could almost have fancied of being looked
+through. Then moving softly, noiselessly, in spite of its apparently
+dilapidated condition, the door in front of them opened.
+
+The inspector stepped inside, Steadman keeping close to him, and gave
+the word—“Chink-a-pin,” and at the same moment Steadman became aware
+of a figure veiled in black from head to foot standing motionless
+against the wall behind the door. The door closed after them with a
+snap in which Steadman fancied he heard something ominous. They found
+themselves in a long, rather wide passage down which they proceeded,
+the inspector still leading; their bare hands held out in front of
+them, thumb-tip joined to thumb-tip, finger-tip to finger-tip. On the
+door at the end of the passage the inspector knocked again so softly
+that it seemed impossible that he should be heard.
+
+However, as if by magic, this door opened suddenly.
+
+Inside, in contrast with the brightness in the passage, everything
+looked dark, but gradually Steadman made out a faint, flickering
+light. A soft, sibilant voice spoke, this time apparently out of the
+air, since there was no sign of any speaker:
+
+“The Great Dane bites.”
+
+“His enemies will bite the dust.” The inspector gave the countersign.
+
+Once again they moved forward and found themselves in a narrow passage
+running at right angles to the first. Here, instead of bareness, were
+softly carpeted floors and heavy hangings on the walls, and a sickly,
+sweet smell as of incense. The light, dim and flickering at first,
+grew stronger and more diffused. Steadman saw that the passage in
+which they stood served as an ante-chamber or vestibule to some larger
+room into which folding doors standing slightly ajar gave access. They
+were not alone, either. At a sign from the inspector Steadman had
+donned his yellow mask. In another moment shadowy hands had relieved
+him of his coat and were gently pushing him forward, and he saw
+faintly that there were other yellow-clad forms flitting backwards and
+forwards. Between the half-open doors he could glimpse more light,
+golden, dazzling, while over everything there brooded a sense of
+mystery, of evil unutterable. In that moment there came over John
+Steadman a certainty of the danger of this enterprise to which they
+stood committed, and brave man though he was he would have drawn back
+if he could. But it was too late. With one hand beneath his yellow
+domino clutching his automatic firmly he paced by the inspector's side
+into the Golden Room. As the first sight of it burst upon him he asked
+himself whether he could really be living in sober twentieth-century
+England, or whether he had not been translated into some scene of the
+“Arabian Nights.”
+
+The room was oblong in shape; the ceiling, pale yellow in colour, was
+low, and across it sprawled great golden flowers. In the centre of
+each blazed, like some lovely exotic jewel, a radiant amber light. The
+walls of this extraordinary room were panelled in yellow too, and
+round about them were ranged twelve golden seats. Ten of them were
+occupied by figures, masked and dominoed as he and the inspector were.
+The two seats at the end of the room nearest to them were unoccupied,
+while at the opposite end stood a raised dais, also of gold; an empty
+golden chair, looking like a throne, stood upon it. Right in the
+middle of the room stood a great mimosa in full bloom, its powerful
+fragrance mingling with that other perfume that Steadman had sensed
+before. His feet sank into the pile of the carpet as he followed the
+inspector to the unoccupied chairs nearest to them. At the same moment
+the hangings at the back of the throne were parted and a tall figure
+came through, masked, and wearing the same kind of yellow domino as
+all the others. He seated himself upon the throne upon the dais. At
+the same moment a sweet-toned bell began to ring slowly.
+
+Steadman had hardly realized that there was any sound to be heard, but
+now he became conscious by its sudden cessation that there had been a
+low incessant hum going on around. Then the bell ceased, and the
+silence grew deadly. The very immobility of those yellow figures began
+to get on John Steadman's nerves, though up to now he would have
+denied that he possessed any. His eyes were fixed upon that figure in
+the chair on the dais. Silent, immobile, it sat, hands joined together
+in front like those of every other figure in the room; but in these
+hands there was a curious defect—the thumb was extraordinarily long,
+the first finger short, so that they looked to be of the same length.
+And, as Steadman noticed this, his fingers clutched his revolver and
+felt the cool metal of the police whistle. Of what use was it, he
+asked himself, for surely no sound could reach the outside world from
+this terrible room. Suddenly he became conscious of a slight, a very
+slight movement close to him. Had the inspector moved, he wondered as
+he glanced round. And then the arms of his chair seemed to contract
+and lengthen; he felt himself gripped in a vice. Now he knew that the
+danger he had felt was upon him. He saw the inspector at his side
+begin to struggle violently. Desperately he tried to bring out his
+revolver—he was powerless, caught as in a vice. Some hidden mechanism
+in those chairs had been released, arms and legs were held more firmly
+than human hands could have held them.
+
+An oath broke from the inspector's lips as he realized the nature of
+the trap in which they were caught. But there came no answering sound
+from those waiting, motionless, yellow figures on every side. Their
+very immobility seemed only to render the position more terrible. And
+then at last the silence was broken by a laugh, a wicked, malicious
+laugh, the very sound of which made Steadman's blood run cold in his
+veins.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+The laughter ceased as suddenly as it had begun and, as if by a
+concerted signal, every light in the room went out. A voice rang out,
+Steadman fancied from the figure on the dais.
+
+“Arms up! inspector. Arms up! Mr. Steadman.” Then another ripple of
+that horrible laughter. “Ah, I forgot! Our wonderful chairs make all
+such commands a superfluity! And so, inspector, you are going to have
+your wish—you are going to meet the Yellow Dog at last! But I fear, I
+greatly fear that when that interview is over you will not be in a
+position to make your discoveries known to that wonderful Scotland
+Yard, of which you have been so distinguished a member.” The emphasis
+on the “have been” was ominous.
+
+But there was no fear in the inspector's voice as it rapped out:
+
+“Be careful what you do, Yellow Dog. He laughs best who laughs last. I
+warn you that this house is virtually in the hands of the police.”
+
+“Is that so, my dear inspector?”
+
+There was another laugh, but this time John Steadman fancied there was
+some subtle change in the quality.
+
+“But I rather think the police do not know where this house ends, and
+those of others begin!”
+
+“Shall I supply you with the names of the others? The police know more
+than you think, you dog!” said the inspector daringly.
+
+“And less than they think,” said the raucous voice mockingly, “or you
+and your friend would hardly find yourselves here, dear inspector.”
+
+“Damnation!” Steadman knew that the detective was struggling fiercely
+from those clutching, enveloping arms.
+
+“In case, however, that there is just the thinnest substratum of truth
+in your statement, Furnival,” the mocking voice went on, “perhaps we
+had better waste no more time but get on to business.”
+
+The silvery bell tinkled again, the light was switched on.
+
+Steadman saw that all the golden chairs were empty, that there was
+apparently no one in the room with the inspector and himself but that
+figure on the dais. He saw that the inspector had given up struggling
+and that by some means he had managed to tear the yellow mask from his
+face, which was unwontedly scarlet from his efforts to free himself.
+
+“Strip!” ordered that voice from the platform.
+
+In an instant a dozen hands had seized Steadman. It seemed that there
+were countless, yellow-masked men in the room. He had not even been
+conscious of their coming, until he had felt them and those ruthless,
+yellow, claw-like fingers catching at him on all sides at once. The
+gripping arms of the chair had released him, but it was in vain that
+he sought to release himself—he was conscious, vaguely, that the
+inspector was fighting too. But neither the inspector nor Steadman was
+in fighting condition. Both of them were elderly men who in their
+young days had not been athletic, and their efforts now were hopeless.
+Their garments were rent from them, the contents of their pockets were
+passed to the man on the platform, who commented upon them
+sarcastically.
+
+“Automatics! Dear, dear! And you never had a chance to use them,
+either! Shows how differently things pan out to our anticipations,
+doesn't it, inspector? And police whistles? If we were only to sound
+one how the scene would change! You did not neglect any precautions,
+did you, inspector?”
+
+And while the jeering questions went on the grasping yellow fingers
+were going on too, until the prisoners stood mother naked before their
+tormentors, their bare limbs bound round and round with cords.
+
+“So now we come to grips,” said the masked man, and this time Steadman
+thought he caught something faintly familiar, and one question that
+had troubled him of late was answered for ever. “I hope you'll not be
+much inconvenienced by this return to a state of nature,” the man on
+the platform went on. “I fear you may be rather cold, but it is
+unavoidable under the circumstances, and it will not be for long. Then
+I feel sure you will neither of you be cold any more. Now, now,
+inspector!”
+
+For a while John Steadman stood motionless, his short-sighted eyes
+peering at that yellow-clad figure; the inspector was swearing big
+strange oaths.
+
+“You do look so funny, you know, inspector”—and this time Steadman
+could almost have fancied there was a feminine echo in that vile
+laughter—“and your language is too dreadful. But this outrage, as you
+call it, had to be. Clothes are so identifiable, as I am sure you have
+learnt in your wide experience, my dear inspector. But now this
+conversation, interesting as it is, must end. And I think we must
+silence that unruly member of yours, inspector!”
+
+The silver bell tinkled sharply. In an instant those soft hands had
+seized the two men and gags were thrust into their mouths, and tied
+with cruel roughness. Then bandages were bound over their eyes and
+rougher, harder hands held their pinioned arms on either side and
+pulled them sideways.
+
+Steadman felt certain they were being taken out by the door by which
+they entered, and very carefully his trained legal mind was noting
+down every slightest indication of the direction in which they were
+being taken. A farewell laugh came from the platform.
+
+“So this is really good-bye. I trust, I do trust that your poor bare
+feet may not be hurt by the path along which you have to travel. But
+in case some injury should be unavoidable let me assure you it will
+not be for long, that much sooner than you probably anticipate the
+pain will be over.”
+
+Steadman could have fancied that there was something hysterical in
+that last laugh. But he had not time to think of it, to speculate as
+to the identity of the figure on the dais that the yellow domino and
+the mask concealed. He was being hurried along at a rate that did not
+give him time to raise his naked, shackled feet. They dragged
+helplessly along the stone pavement, for, once they had left that
+sinister yellow room, there were no carpets. Two or three times
+Steadman felt wood and guessed they were being taken through rooms,
+and several times for a few paces there would be oilcloth. Once his
+knee was banged against something that he felt certain was the corner
+of a wooden chair; once a splinter ran into his foot. It was evident
+that either they were being taken in and out or that many of the
+houses in that neighbourhood must have means of communication, and
+must necessarily be in the occupation of members of the Yellow Gang.
+
+At last there was a pause, a door was unlocked and they were pushed
+inside a room with bare plank floor. They were propped up against the
+wall; something was thrown on the boards; the bandage over Steadman's
+eyes was pulled roughly off. A voice with a harsh, uncouth accent,
+singularly unlike the soft purring voice that had spoken from the dais
+in the Yellow Room, said abruptly:
+
+“The Great Yellow Dog has sent you these two rugs. They will serve to
+keep you warm. He regrets very much that you will be kept waiting. But
+unfortunately it is low tide and the river is not up yet.”
+
+Then the door was closed, they heard the key turn; the captives were
+left alone in their prison.
+
+Steadman's eyes, aching from the tight bandage, were full of water:
+for a few minutes he could see nothing. He would have given worlds to
+rub his eyes, but he could not move his arms one inch upwards.
+However, as the mist before his eyes cleared he saw that they were
+both propped up against a plain whitewashed wall, in a room that was
+absolutely bare, except that a fur rug lay at his feet and another at
+the feet of the inspector farther along.
+
+Steadman could turn his head, almost the only movement that was free,
+and he saw that the detective had fared worse at the hands of their
+capturers than he had himself. Furnival's face was grazed on the
+forehead and cheek. It was flecked with blood and slime. As Steadman
+watched, his fellow-sufferer sank on the rug at his feet with a
+muffled sound of utter exhaustion. Steadman was not inclined to give
+up easily and, leaning there, he tried to work the knot of the string
+that tied his gag, but in vain. The members of the Yellow Gang had
+done their work thoroughly. He looked round the room. It was
+absolutely bare of furniture and indescribably dirty. It was lighted
+dimly by a small window set rather high and guarded by iron bars. As
+Steadman's dazed faculties returned he became aware of a lapping sound
+and realized that the river must be just outside. The full meaning of
+that last message from the Yellow Dog dawned upon him now.
+
+As Steadman gazed round the room and then at his exhausted companion,
+the conviction forced itself upon him that, as far as all human
+probability lay, their very moments were numbered. Try as he would he
+could not free his hands. There appeared to be no possibility of
+escape except by the door or window, and he had heard the door locked
+and saw that it was of unusual stoutness, while the iron bars across
+the window spoke for themselves. In his present helpless condition
+what gleam of hope could there be?
+
+He followed Furnival's example and dropped on the rug at his feet,
+finding the fall unpleasantly hard even with the rug over the floor.
+
+As he lay there trying to rest his aching bones, while his eyes
+watched the particularly solid-looking door hopelessly, he became
+aware of a faint, sliding, grating sound. With a sudden accession of
+hope he glanced around him. The inspector, lying on his rug,
+apparently heard nothing. For a few minutes—they seemed to him an
+eternity—Steadman could see nothing. He was telling himself that the
+noise he heard must be that of some mouse or rat gnawing in the
+woodwork, when his eye caught a faint movement under the door. Hope
+sprang up again as he watched.
+
+Yes, there could be no mistake, something was moving! There was just a
+narrow space under the door; had there been a carpet it would have
+been useless, but, as it was, that sliding, scraping sound continued
+and presently he saw that it was the blade of a knife that was coming
+through, a short, sharp blade it looked like, and he guessed that it
+was the handle that was proving the difficulty. Presently, however, it
+was overcome, and with an apparently sharp push from behind knife and
+handle both came through. Something white, a piece of paper, was
+fastened to the latter. Steadman lay and gazed at it. The distance
+between him and the door, short though it was, seemed, in his present
+state, almost insurmountable, and yet in that knife and bit of paper
+lay his only chance of life. And there was so little time! Not one
+tiny second to be wasted. By some means he must get possession of the
+knife.
+
+The door was on the same side as that on which he was lying and the
+distance from the edge of the rug to the knife was, as far as he could
+judge, something like six or eight feet, more than double his own
+height. Bound as he was he could move neither arms nor legs to help
+himself. Common sense told him that the only way he could reach the
+knife was by rolling towards it. And rolling would be no easy matter.
+Still, it was not an impossibility and as long as he was on the rug
+not particularly painful. But crossing the bare boards was a very
+different proposition—dragging his naked feet inch by inch across the
+roughened dirty surface was a terrible job.
+
+More than once he told himself that he could not do it, that he must
+lie still and give up. But John Steadman was nothing if not dogged. He
+had not attained the position he had occupied at the Bar by giving way
+under difficulties, and at last his task was accomplished. He lay just
+in front of the door with the knife close to his side. But his
+difficulties were by no means over yet. Unable as he was to move his
+hands, how was he to cut the strong cords which bound him. Fortunately
+for him his hands were not fastened separately, but his arms were tied
+round his body tightly, the cord going round again and again. It was a
+method very effective so long as the cord was intact, but Steadman saw
+directly that, if he could cut it in one place, to free himself
+altogether would be easy enough. The question was, how was the cord to
+be cut in that one place? Steadman lay on the ground tied up so that
+he could not even free one finger, and the knife lay close to him
+indeed but with the blade flat on the ground.
+
+He lay still for a moment, contemplating the situation. He saw at once
+that his only hope was in the handle. At the juncture where the blade
+entered it, the blade was, of course, raised a little from the ground.
+Now if he could by any means push the knife along until he could rest
+his arm on the handle, thus tipping the blade up, if only a trifle,
+and work the cord against it, he might fray the cord through and thus
+free himself. It was simple enough to recognize that that was what
+ought to be done, however, and quite another matter to do it. Time
+after time Steadman rolled over imagining that this time he must be on
+the handle, only to find that he had inadvertently pushed it away.
+With the perseverance of Bruce's spider he at last succeeded. Arms,
+back and sides were grazed and bleeding, but the knife blade was at
+least a quarter of an inch from the ground. To get the end of the cord
+against it, to wriggle so that it was brought into contact with the
+blade forcefully enough to make any impression upon it was anything
+but easy, but it did not present the apparently insuperable obstacles
+that he had successfully grappled with in reaching the door and
+turning the knife round. Strand by strand the cord was conquered and
+at last Steadman was free. Free, with bruised and bleeding skin and
+stiffened limbs, and naked as he came into the world.
+
+Escape, even now, did not look particularly easy; but the barrister
+had not been successful so far to give up now. The first thing to do
+was to free the inspector. Scrambling up from the sitting position to
+which he had raised himself he found Furnival lying on his rug
+regarding him with astonished eyes, and making vain attempts to
+wriggle towards him. At the same moment his eye was caught by the
+folded piece of paper which was attached to the knife handle by a
+piece of string, and which he had noticed when he lay on his rug. He
+caught it up in his hands and unfolded it. Across the inside was
+scrawled a couple of lines of writing:
+
+“The window looks straight on to the river, the bars across can be
+moved upwards. Jump out into the water at once. It is your only
+chance. If you delay it will be too late—from one who is grateful.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII
+
+Steadman read the note over twice. Was it possible that they had an
+unknown friend in this haunt of the Yellow Gang? Or was it just
+another trap laid for them like the other communications that the
+inspector had received?
+
+However, there was no time for deliberation. He turned to the
+inspector, knife in hand. To cut the bonds that bound the detective
+was an easy matter, even for his stiffened hands, in comparison with
+the difficulty of freeing himself. Then, taking the gag from his
+mouth, he saw that the lips were bruised and swollen both inside and
+out, and the gag had been thrust in with such brutality that the
+tongue had been forced backwards and several teeth loosened. As the
+inspector began to breathe more freely the blood poured from his
+mouth. But there was no time to be lost.
+
+Steadman left his fellow-prisoner to recover himself while he padded
+across to the bars. In a moment he saw that his unknown informant was
+right. The bars would move upwards in their groove, easily enough.
+Evidently this window was used as a means of egress to the river.
+Inconvenient things could be pushed through and lost too! When the
+bars had gone, the window frame was quite wide enough to let a man get
+through. He leaned out. The moon was shining brightly, and he could
+see various small craft riding at anchor. As he spoke he heard the
+splash of oars and realized that at all hazards they must get into the
+river while the boat was about. Therein lay their hope of safety. He
+turned to the inspector, who had just struggled to his feet.
+
+“Can you swim, Furnival?”
+
+“Got the swimming medal at the Force Sports in 1912,” the detective
+replied tersely. “I haven't quite forgotten the trick.”
+
+“I wasn't bad as a young man,” the barrister said modestly. “We must
+do our best, you see.” He held out the note. “There is no time to be
+lost.”
+
+“If we are to turn the tables on the Yellow Dog,” the inspector said,
+speaking as plainly as his sore mouth would allow. He looked at the
+note. “Who wrote this?”
+
+“I haven't the least idea,” Steadman replied truthfully.
+
+The inspector stooped stiffly and picked up the knife. Then he looked
+at the door which opened inwards.
+
+“We might keep them back for a bit with this, perhaps.” He went back
+and stuck the knife under the door, so that anybody trying to open it
+would inevitably jam it on the handle.
+
+In the meantime Steadman had twisted himself, not without difficulty,
+up to the window frame. He peered down. The water was still some
+distance below them, and it looked particularly dark and gloomy, but
+at any rate it was better than falling alive into the hands of the
+Yellow Dog. He tore the note into tiny fragments and let them fall
+into the river. Then he called out:
+
+“Come along, inspector. Pile up the rugs. They will give you a bit of
+a leg up.”
+
+Furnival pushed them along before him.
+
+“Now, Mr. Steadman, are you going first?”
+
+“I suppose so,” said the barrister dubiously. “You had better look
+sharp after me, inspector. They may hear the first splash, and then——”
+
+At this moment they became aware of steps and voices in the passage.
+The inspector almost pushed his companion off and hoisted himself in
+his place on the window frame. Steadman had no time to dive. He went
+down, it seemed to him, with a deafening splash and a roar of churning
+paddles. The inspector came down at once almost on top of him. The
+water felt bitterly cold, but after the first shock it braced their
+jangled nerves; its very cold was grateful to their bruised bodies.
+
+The two men came up almost together, and moved by the same impulse
+struck out for the middle of the river. The moonshine was lying like
+silver sheen on the surface of the water. Steadman realized that their
+heads must afford a capital target to any members of the Yellow Gang
+who were in the house they had left. The thought had barely formulated
+itself before a shot rang out and he felt something just rush by his
+ear and miss it. There came another shot and another, and a groan from
+the inspector. Steadman realized that he was hit, but the injury must
+have been slight, for the inspector was swimming onwards. Meanwhile
+the shots were not passing unnoticed. From the small craft around,
+from the houses on the bank there came shouts; lights were flashed
+here, there and everywhere. Steadman became conscious of a familiar
+sound—that of the rhythmic splash of oars working in concert. He trod
+water and listened.
+
+There came a gasping shout from the detective.
+
+“The police patrol from the motor-launch down the river! They have
+heard the shots.”
+
+He struck out towards the on-coming boat, Steadman following to the
+best of his ability. The inspector's shout was answered from the boat.
+It lay to and waited, and the two in the river could see the men in
+the boat leaning over peering into the water. There came no more
+shots, but as the inspector swam forward Steadman knew that the police
+boat had sighted them, and in another moment they were alongside.
+
+Willing hands were stretched out, and they were hauled up the boat's
+side. The inspector's first proceeding as soon as he had got his
+breath was to order the boat to lie to so that he might locate the
+house and if possible the window by which they had escaped. The police
+officer in charge looked at him curiously; it was evident that he
+resented the authoritative tone; and as he met his glance Steadman at
+any rate realized something of the extraordinary figures they must
+present to his eyes. Stark naked, bruised from head to foot, with
+faces bleeding and in the inspector's case swollen out of all
+recognition they looked singularly unlike Inspector Furnival, the
+terror of the criminal classes, or John Steadman, the usually
+immaculately attired barrister.
+
+But they were being offered overcoats; as the inspector slipped into
+his, he said sharply:
+
+“Inspector Furnival, of the C.I.D., Scotland Yard.”
+
+The police officer's manner underwent an instant modification.
+
+“I beg your pardon, sir. You have been conducting a raid down here?”
+
+The inspector would have smiled if his bruised face had allowed him.
+
+“I fancy the raid has been rather the other way about,” he said
+ruefully. “We have been trying to make some discoveries about the
+Yellow Gang, laying a trap for the Yellow Dog, but unluckily we fell
+into the trap ourselves, as you see. Now, will you give me a bit of
+paper, officer. I want to take the bearings of this place. It is
+evidently one of the outlets of the Yellow Gang.”
+
+He looked across; on that side for quite a considerable distance the
+buildings abutted right on to the river. Farther along there appeared
+to be small boat-building plants, but just here there seemed to be
+only tall warehouses, and in almost every case the doors and windows
+were barred. Look as they would neither Steadman nor the inspector
+could identify the building from which they had sprung, and curiously
+enough no one in the boat had seen them until they were in the water.
+Some little time was spent in making fruitless inquiries of the small
+craft at hand. Though it would seem impossible that their plunge had
+been absolutely unseen, yet to discover any witnesses would evidently
+be a work of time and time was just then particularly precious to the
+inspector. Giving the search up as useless he had the boat rowed back
+to the police launch. Distinct as the C.I.D. is from the River Police,
+the different branches of the service are frequently brought into
+contact. Inspector Furnival found friends on the motor-launch at once,
+and he and Steadman were soon supplied with clothes and everything
+they needed. Then, declining the police officer's offer of rest, the
+inspector asked to be put on land. It was still dark but for the
+moonlight, but their various adventures had taken time. It was later
+than the inspector thought, and all along the river bank the various
+activities were awaking.
+
+The inspector chartered a taxi; when they were both inside he turned
+to Steadman.
+
+“I believe I owe you my life, Mr. Steadman. But I think I shall have
+to defer my thanks until—I am out to catch the Yellow Dog and I mean
+to have another try this morning before he has had time to get away.”
+
+“I am with you,” John Steadman said heartily. “And as for thanks,
+inspector, why, when we have caught the Yellow Dog we will thank one
+another.”
+
+The inspector had directed their taxi to drive to Scotland Yard, but
+half-way there he changed his mind and told the man to drive to the
+scene of their late experience.
+
+They got out as nearly as possible at the same place, but from there
+the inspector only went a little distance before he blew his whistle.
+It was answered by another and a couple of men in plain clothes
+appeared.
+
+“Ah, Murphy, Jackson,” said the inspector. “Well, what news?”
+
+The men stared at him in a species of stupefaction, then the one whom
+he had addressed as Murphy spoke with a gasp:
+
+“Why, inspector, we have been round the house all night—every means of
+egress watched. And yet—here you are!”
+
+“Umph! You didn't see me come out, did you?” the inspector said
+gruffly. “Never mind, Murphy, you are not to blame. What have you to
+report?”
+
+Murphy saluted.
+
+“Nothing, sir. No one has come in or out since you were admitted last
+night.”
+
+“Good!” The inspector turned to Steadman. “Now, I think we will go in
+again by the front door, sir. And come out the same way this time, I
+hope. Murphy, bring six of your best men along, and post others all
+round the house. We shall probably have to rush it.”
+
+He and Steadman walked on, realizing to the full how stiff and bruised
+their limbs were as they went. Once the inspector spat out a couple of
+teeth. Steadman's sides and back felt absolutely raw. His borrowed
+clothes chafed them unbearably.
+
+The _cul-de-sac_ looked absolutely quiet and deserted when they
+entered it. The inspector's thunderous knock at the door roused the
+echoes all round, but it brought no reply. In the meantime Murphy and
+his men had marched in behind them.
+
+The inspector knocked again. This time as they listened they heard
+lumbering steps coming down the passage. There was a great withdrawal
+of bolts and unlocking of locks and the door was opened a very little
+way, just enough to allow a man's face, heavy, unshaven, to peer
+forth.
+
+“Now what is the—all this 'ere noise abaht?” a rough voice demanded.
+
+The inspector put his foot between the door and the post.
+
+“Stand aside, my man!” he commanded sternly. “I hold a warrant to
+search this house.”
+
+“Wot?” The door opened with such suddenness that the inspector almost
+fell inside. “Wot are you a goin' to search for? We are all honest
+folk here. Anyway, if you was King George 'imself you will have to
+give my missis and the kids time to get their duds on, for decency's
+sake.”
+
+This eloquent appeal apparently produced no effect upon the inspector.
+He stepped inside with a slight motion of his hand to the men behind.
+Four of them followed with Steadman, the others stood by the door in
+the _cul-de-sac_. The man who had opened the door backed against the
+wall, and stood gazing at them in open-mouthed astonishment.
+
+Meanwhile the inspector was looking about him with sharp observant
+eyes. He threw back the doors one on each side of the passage. The
+first opened into a small room with a round table in the middle, a few
+books that looked like school prizes ranged at regular intervals round
+a vase of wax flowers in the middle, and an aspidistra on a small
+table in front of the window, from which light and air were rigorously
+excluded by the heavy shutters.
+
+With a hasty glance round the inspector and his satellites went on,
+speaking not at all, but with eyes that missed no smallest detail. Not
+that there was any detail to be observed, as far as Steadman could
+see. This commonplace little house was absolutely unlike that other
+which had been but the threshold of the headquarters of the Yellow
+Gang—as unlike as its stupid-looking tenant was to the silky-voiced,
+slippery-handed members of the Yellow Gang. The passage into which
+that first door of mystery had opened had been much longer than this,
+which was just a counterpart of thousands of houses of its type.
+
+The passage, instead of lengthening out as that one of Steadman's
+recollection had done, ended with the flight of narrow stairs that led
+to the upper regions and over the balustrade of which sundry undressed
+and grimy children's heads were peering. The barrister began to tell
+himself that in spite of the certainty the inspector had displayed
+they must have made a mistake. Doubtless in this unsavoury part of the
+metropolis there must be many _culs-de-sac_ the counterpart of the one
+in which was the entrance to the home of the Yellow Gang. The master
+of the house began to rouse himself from his stupor of astonishment.
+
+“This 'ere's an outrage, that's wot it is,” he growled. “Might as well
+live in Russia, we might. No! You don't go upstairs, not if you was
+King George and the Pope of Rome rolled into one.”
+
+This to the inspector who was crawling up the staircase as well as his
+stiffened limbs would allow. He looked over the side now.
+
+“Don't trouble yourself, my man. I have no particular interest in the
+upper part of your house at present.”
+
+Something in his tone seemed to cow the man, who opened the kitchen
+door and slunk inside.
+
+The inspector beckoned to the man behind Steadman.
+
+“Simmonds, tell Gordon to come inside, then send a S.O.S. message to
+headquarters.” Then he hobbled downstairs again. “This grows
+interesting, Mr. Steadman.”
+
+The barrister looked at him.
+
+“It seems pretty obvious to me that we have made a mistake. And I
+can't say that standing about in cold passages at this hour in the
+morning is exactly an amusement that appeals to me; especially after
+our experiences in the night.”
+
+The inspector looked at him curiously.
+
+“You think we have made a mistake in the house?”
+
+The barrister raised his eyebrows.
+
+“What else am I to think?”
+
+For answer the inspector held out his hand, palm uppermost. It was
+apparently empty, but as Steadman, more short-sighted than ever
+without his monocle, stared down at it he saw that in it lay a tiny
+yellow fragment. For a moment the full significance of that bit of
+silk did not dawn on John Steadman, but when he looked up his face was
+very stern.
+
+“Where did you find this?”
+
+“Wedged in between the stairs and the wall,” the inspector answered.
+“There is a larger piece higher up, but this is enough for me.”
+
+“And for me!” Steadman said grimly.
+
+“Gordon is the best carpenter and joiner I know,” the inspector went
+on. “We keep him permanently available for our work. He will soon find
+the way to the Yellow Room and then—well, some of the Yellow Gang's
+secrets will be in our hands at any rate.”
+
+As the last word left his lips Gordon came in with another man. Both
+carried bags of tools. The inspector gave them a few instructions in a
+low tone, then he pointed to the staircase.
+
+“Last night that was not there. Where it stands an opening went
+straight through to the next house.”
+
+Gordon touched his head in salute.
+
+“Very good, sir!” He looked in his basket and chose out a couple of
+tools—chisels, and a strange-looking bar, tapering down to a point as
+fine as a knife, but very long and several inches thick most of the
+way to the other end. Then, apparently undeterred by the magnitude of
+his task, he walked up to the top of the staircase and sat down on the
+top step. His assistant followed with a collection of hammers ranging
+from one small enough for a doll's house to the size used by colliers
+in the pits. They held a consultation together, and then Gordon
+inserted his chisel in a crack. The other man raised one of the mighty
+hammers and brought it down with a crash that rang through the house.
+It did not rouse the master of the dwelling, however. He seemed to
+have taken permanent refuge in the kitchen. There were no children's
+heads hanging over the banisters now. The house might have been
+absolutely deserted but for the inspector and his party. Presently the
+inspector went up to the couple on the stairs and after talking to
+them for a minute or two came back to Steadman.
+
+“The whole staircase is movable, Mr. Steadman. They have loosened it
+at the top. Stand aside in one of the rooms in case it comes down
+quicker than we expect. No doubt the Yellow Gang had some way of
+opening it which we have not discovered, but this will serve well
+enough.”
+
+“What about the children upstairs?” Steadman asked.
+
+The inspector smiled in a twisted fashion.
+
+“Little beggars! They will be taken care of all right. The parents
+were well prepared for some such eventuality as this, you may be
+sure.”
+
+Steadman said no more. He stood back with the inspector, while the
+others of their following went to Gordon's help. There was more
+crashing, quantities of dust and a splintering of wood, and at last
+the staircase came suddenly away. Behind it a locked door the width of
+the passage blocked their way.
+
+To open it was only the work of a minute, and then the inspector and
+Steadman found themselves in the scene of last night's exploits. The
+Yellow Room looked garish and shabby with the clear morning light
+stealing in. The chairs in which they had sat had gone, otherwise
+everything looked much the same.
+
+But time was too precious to be spent in examining the Yellow Room,
+interesting though it might be. The inspector was out to catch the
+members of the Yellow Gang; but, though, once the staircase was down,
+to get from one room to the other of the perfect rabbit warren of
+small houses which had been devised for the safety of the Yellow Gang
+and its spoils presented little difficulty, the inspector, standing in
+that room by the river, had to acknowledge that the Yellow Dog and his
+satellites had outwitted him again. The only member of the Gang that
+remained in their hands was the man who had opened the first door to
+them. Not a sign of any other living creature was to be seen. Even the
+wife and children had disappeared.
+
+But, as Furnival and John Steadman stood there talking, a tiny wisp of
+grey vapour came floating down the passage, another came, and yet
+another.
+
+“Smoke!” the inspector cried.
+
+And as the two men turned back, and heard the clamour arise, while the
+smoke seemed to be everywhere at once, and over all sounded the
+crackling of the flames and the ringing of the alarm bells, they
+realized that the Yellow Gang was not done with yet.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV
+
+The Community House of St. Philip was _en fête_. Not only was it the
+name day of its patron saint, but its young head had just been
+rendered particularly joyful by the receipt of a telegram from
+Burchester stating that at a further hearing the magistrates had
+dismissed the charge against Hopkins, and that he would reach the
+Community House the same evening. A special tea of good things for all
+members of the Community was in full swing in the Refectory. Mrs.
+Phillimore was presiding at the urn at the centre table, and friends
+of hers at the tables at either side. The delectable pork pies and
+plates of pressed beef and ham had been carried round by Todmarsh and
+a little band of workers comprising several of the clergy of the
+neighbourhood and several West End friends, Tony Collyer, who had been
+unwillingly pressed into the service, among the number.
+
+Now the first keenness of the men's appetites seemed to be over. Down
+near the door they were even beginning to smoke and quite a thick mist
+was already hanging over the tables. The young Head of the Community
+was looking his best to-day. The rapt, “seeing” look in his eyes was
+particularly noticeable. The relief from the long strain he had been
+enduring with regard to Hopkins was plainly written in his face. The
+bright, ready smile which had been so infrequent of late was flashing,
+here, there and everywhere, as he greeted his friends and
+acquaintances. He alone of the members of the Confraternity was not
+wearing the habit of the Order. His grey lounge suit was obviously the
+product of a West End tailor, though in his buttonhole he wore the
+badge of the Confraternity with the words that were its motto running
+across: “Work and Service.”
+
+Just as the meal seemed about to end a telegram was brought to
+Todmarsh. He read it and then, with it open in his hand, hurried up
+the room to the platform at the end. As he sprang up, a hush came over
+the room; every face was turned to him in expectation.
+
+“Dear friends,” he began, “my comrades of the Confraternity.
+This”—holding out the telegram—“brings me very glad news. Hopkins, our
+friend and brother, has started from Burchester by car. He may be here
+almost any moment now. What could be happier than the fact that we are
+all gathered together in such an assembly as this in order to welcome
+our friend and brother home? Now, to-night, I want all of us, every
+one of us, to do all that lies in our power to give Hopkins a rousing
+welcome, to make him feel that we know he has been wrongfully accused,
+and that his home, his comrades, his brothers are only waiting and
+longing for an opportunity to make up to him for all that he has
+suffered.”
+
+It was not a particularly enthusiastic outburst of cheering that was
+evoked by this speech. For a moment Aubrey hesitated on the platform
+as though doubtful as to whether to go on, then he jumped down and
+turned towards Mrs. Phillimore. Tony intercepted him.
+
+“Well done, old chap,” he exclaimed, giving Todmarsh a rousing slap on
+the back. “Jolly glad you have got old Hoppy back, since you are so
+keen on him. Shouldn't have been myself, but, there, tastes differ.”
+
+Todmarsh winced a little. “You would have been as pleased as I am to
+have Hopkins back if you had known him as I do. The difference it
+would have made if I had been speaking of some one else and he had
+been among the audience. His face was the most responsive I ever
+saw—calculated to rouse enthusiasm above all things.”
+
+“Um! Well, in some folks, perhaps,” Tony conceded. “But he doesn't
+enthuse me. I can never get over that pretty fish-like habit of his of
+opening and shutting his mouth silently. Tongue always seems too big
+for his mouth too. Seen him stick it in his cheek and chew it, as some
+folks do a piece of 'bacca.”
+
+Todmarsh looked annoyed. “What a thing it is always to see the worst
+side of people. Now, I try only to look at the best——”
+
+He was interrupted. A man came to him quietly. “A car has stopped
+before the front door, sir, and I think——”
+
+“Hopkins!” Todmarsh exclaimed, his face lighting up.
+
+“I believe so, sir!”
+
+Todmarsh waited for no more, but hurried off. Tony looked at him with
+a grin on his face. Then somewhat to his surprise he saw that John
+Steadman had edged himself in by the door at the upper end of the
+hall, and seemed to be making his way towards Mrs. Phillimore and her
+friends. Tony joined him.
+
+“Didn't know Aubrey had rooked you into his schemes, sir.”
+
+“He hasn't!” Steadman said shortly.
+
+It struck Tony that there was something curiously tense about his
+expression—that he seemed to be listening for something.
+
+Meanwhile Todmarsh was hurrying to the front door. He opened it. A
+closed car stood just outside. He could see a man leaning
+back—crouching down rather, it seemed. Todmarsh waved his hand.
+“Welcome home, Hopkins!”
+
+Seen thus in the sunset light waving his greeting, there was something
+oddly youthful about Aubrey Todmarsh's face and figure. Always
+slender, he had grown almost thin during his time of anxiety about
+Hopkins. His face with its short dark hair brushed straight back and
+its strangely arresting eyes looked almost boyish. Watching him there
+one who was waiting said he looked many years younger than his real
+age. But it was the last time anyone ever called Aubrey Todmarsh
+young-looking.
+
+The car door opened. The man inside leaned out. About to spring
+forward, Todmarsh suddenly paused. Surely this was not Hopkins!
+
+At the same moment he was seized sharply from behind, his arms were
+pinioned to his sides, men in uniform and men out of uniform closed in
+upon him, and while he tried to free himself frantically, wildly, he
+felt the touch of cold steel upon his wrists, and Inspector Furnival's
+voice rose above the hubbub.
+
+“Aubrey William Todmarsh, _alias_ the Yellow Dog, I arrest you for the
+wilful murder of Luke Bechcombe in Crow's Inn, on February 3rd, and it
+is my duty to warn you that anything you say will be taken down in
+writing and may be used as evidence against you.”
+
+Quite suddenly all Todmarsh's struggles ceased. For a minute he stood
+silent, motionless, save that he moved his manacled hands about in a
+side-long fashion. The inspector's keen eyes noted the long thumb, the
+short forefinger. At last, swift as lightning, Todmarsh raised his
+hands to his mouth.
+
+“Escape you after all, inspector,” he said with a ghastly smile that
+dragged the lips from his teeth.
+
+He swayed as he spoke, but the inspector did not stir. Instead, he
+surveyed his prisoner with an ironic twist of the mouth.
+
+“I think not. You may feel a little sick, Mr. Todmarsh, that is all.”
+
+“Cyanide of potassium,” Todmarsh gasped.
+
+“You would have been dead if it had been,” the inspector said blandly.
+“But your tabloids are in my pocket, and mine, just a simple
+preparation with the faintest powdering of sulphate of zinc, have
+taken their place in yours.”
+
+“A lie!” Todmarsh breathed savagely.
+
+The inspector did not bandy words.
+
+“Wait and see!” Then with a wave of his hand: “In with him, men!”
+
+Todmarsh offered no further resistance, nor was any possible,
+surrounded as he was. He was hurried into the waiting car and the
+inspector followed him, just in time to see him slip to one side with
+a groan.
+
+“Ah, makes you feel rather bad, doesn't it?” the inspector questioned
+callously.
+
+
+The inspector heaved a great sigh of relief. “So at last we have been
+successful almost beyond my expectations. It had begun to be regarded
+as hopeless in the force. The men were getting superstitious about
+it—the capture of the Yellow Dog!”
+
+“Ay! And yet there he was just under our noses all the time if we had
+but guessed it,” Steadman said slowly. “When did you first suspect
+him, inspector?”
+
+The two men were sitting in the little study in Steadman's flat. Both
+were looking white and tired. There was no doubt that their
+experiences at the hand of the Yellow Gang had tried them terribly.
+But, while Steadman's face was haggard and depressed, the inspector's,
+pale and worn though it was, was lighted by the pride of successful
+achievement. He did not answer Steadman's question for a minute. He
+sat back in his chair puffing little spirals of smoke into the air and
+watching them curl up to the ceiling. At last he said:
+
+“I can hardly tell you. I may say that, for a long time, almost from
+its inception, the Community of St. Philip was suspect at
+headquarters. Taking it altogether the members were the most curious
+conglomeration of gaol birds I have ever heard of, and no particular
+good of Todmarsh was known. He had never been associated in any way
+with philanthropic work until he suddenly founded this Community and
+loudly announced his intention of devoting his life to it. We looked
+into his past record; it was not a particularly good one. He was sent
+down from Oxford for some disgraceful scrape into which he said, of
+course, that he, innocent, had been drawn by a friend. Henceforward,
+how he got his living was more or less a mystery save that his small
+patrimony was gradually dissipated. Then came the War when, of course,
+he was a conscientious objector. After that, he lived more or less by
+his wits, was secretary to several companies, none of them of much
+repute. At last, suddenly, with a flourish of trumpets, the Community
+of St. Philip was founded. Where the money came from was a puzzle,
+probably to be explained by the loss of the Collyer cross.”
+
+He was interrupted by a sharp exclamation of surprise from the
+barrister.
+
+“By Jove! Of course! And that explains old Collyer's curious conduct.
+He had found the young man out and wanted to hush it up for the sake
+of the family.”
+
+The inspector nodded. “He had found something out. Probably we shall
+never know what, but I am inclined to think something that led him to
+suspect who was Mr. Bechcombe's murderer. I went down to Wexbridge the
+other day, but I could get nothing out of him. He is merely the shadow
+of the man he was. Have you seen him lately, sir?”
+
+The barrister shook his head. “Not since he went back to Wexbridge.
+But I have heard frequently of the change in him. Still, you must
+remember that Mr. Bechcombe and he were great friends; the murder must
+have been a terrible shock, quite apart from his guessing who was
+responsible.”
+
+“Quite so,” the inspector responded. “But, all the same, it is very
+strongly my impression that he made some discovery the last time he
+called at Community House.”
+
+At this moment there was a tap at the door and Tony Collyer looked in.
+Seeing the inspector, he drew back.
+
+“I beg your pardon.”
+
+Steadman looked at the detective, then, receiving an almost
+imperceptible sign from him, he called out:
+
+“Come in, Tony. We were speaking of you, or rather of your father.”
+
+Tony came in and took the chair Steadman pushed towards him.
+
+“You told me to call to-night, you know, sir. Perhaps you had
+forgotten.”
+
+“I had,” Steadman said penitently. “But I am very glad to see you, my
+boy. How is your father?”
+
+“I hardly know,” Tony said slowly. “He is rather bad, I am afraid,
+poor old chap! You see he suspected the truth about Uncle Luke's
+murder and it has pretty nearly finished him off.”
+
+The inspector glanced at Steadman. “What did I tell you?”
+
+“He saw a line or two in Aubrey's blotting-book telling him that Mrs.
+C. would be at Crow's Inn with the twinklers at a quarter to twelve,”
+Tony pursued. “He will tell you himself just what it was. He sees now
+that he ought to have come to you at once, but he did not know what to
+do, the poor old governor. He had taken rather a fancy to Aubrey
+lately, though he never thought much of him as a kid. But, naturally,
+one doesn't like to try to hang one's nephew, or half-nephew by
+marriage. You know his mother was my mother's half-sister.”
+
+“And Luke Bechcombe's,” Steadman said.
+
+“Well, no one can help what one's nephews, or half-nephews do!”
+
+“The first direct line we had to Todmarsh came from you, though, Tony.
+When you told us your suspicions of Mrs. Phillimore, you know,”
+replying to Tony's look of surprise.
+
+“Knew she was a wrong 'un first time I saw her,” Tony acquiesced.
+“Carnthwacke was the same—‘bad little lot!’ he called her. Pretty well
+bust up the rich American widow business for you, didn't we?”
+
+“You did!” the inspector said with a grin. “And a detective from
+Boston, whom we wired to, finished it. He recognized her as a woman
+that they had wanted for years; been in that crook business ever since
+she was a kid. I wasn't thinking she had turned reformer over here.”
+
+“Not precisely!” Tony said with an answering grin. “Pretty well gave
+the show away when you arrested her, didn't she?”
+
+“Wanted to turn King's evidence,” said the inspector, “but we weren't
+having any. Hopkins will do for us! By the way, sir,” turning to
+Steadman, “I found out this morning to whom we owed our escape from
+the Yellow Dog's clutches.”
+
+“Indeed!” Steadman raised his eyebrows interrogatively.
+
+“Hopkins's wife,” said the inspector. “It was the Hopkins's child you
+rescued from under Mrs. Phillimore's car on the day of Mrs.
+Bechcombe's lunch. You sent it to the Middlesex Hospital and sent your
+own car to fetch Mrs. Hopkins, and take her there like a lady, as she
+phrased it. Then you sent the child sweets and toys and this
+completely won the mother's heart. She acts as housekeeper to the
+Yellow Gang at the house by Stepney Causeway. If she had not been”—he
+shrugged his shoulders—“well, you and I would have been in kingdom
+come, Mr. Steadman.”
+
+“Good for her!” said Anthony.
+
+“And I suppose my precious cousin's anxiety about Hopkins was lest the
+beggar should give him away to save his own skin, and not out of love
+for the gentleman at all. I should always distrust a chap that keeps
+on opening and shutting his mouth and chewing up his tongue,” Tony
+added sapiently. “Mrs. Phillimore, too. Carnthwacke told me he was
+sure he had seen her walking about with his wife's maid.”
+
+The inspector nodded.
+
+“Sometimes she was mistress, sometimes maid, and part of the week she
+was Fédora, the great fortune-teller, and this way she was able to
+pick up information for Todmarsh. If she had been spotted—well, it was
+her taste for philanthropy.”
+
+Tony got up and walked about the room. “But it is an awful thing,
+whichever way you look at it. We shall have to keep it from my poor
+mother. She never cared for Aubrey, but he was her half-sister's son,
+after all. I don't think he meant to kill Uncle Luke, you know,
+Furnival. I think it was done in a scuffle.”
+
+The inspector shrugged his shoulders. “Didn't care whether he did or
+not, if you ask me. According to Hopkins, he went disguised, taking
+chloroform with him to render Mr. Bechcombe unconscious, and wearing
+rubber gloves, so that his finger-prints should not be recognized.
+Then, while Mr. Bechcombe was unconscious, he meant to impersonate him
+and get Mrs. Carnthwacke's diamonds. But Mr. Bechcombe had struggled
+much more than he expected, and in the struggle recognized him. Then
+the game was up as far as Todmarsh was concerned and Mr. Bechcombe's
+death followed instantly. The rest of the programme was carried out as
+arranged, only that Mr. Bechcombe lay behind the screen dead, not
+unconscious!”
+
+“Brute!” Tony muttered between his teeth; “deserves all he'll get, and
+more! Poor old Uncle Luke——” blowing his nose. “He was always good to
+us when we were boys. It won't bear thinking of!”
+
+
+Anthony Collyer was sitting in the library at Bechcombe House. A
+letter from his father lay open on the table. To him entered Cecily
+Hoyle, looking as attractive as ever in her short black frock, low
+enough at the neck to show her pretty rounded throat, short enough in
+the arms to allow a glimpse of the dainty dimpled elbows, and in the
+skirt to reveal black silk stockings nearly to the knees, and
+_suède_-clad feet.
+
+“Tony, you have heard?”
+
+Tony got up, pushing his letter from him.
+
+“I have heard that you are not Thompson's daughter after all——”
+
+“No. I was mother's child by her first husband, Dr. James Hoyle. So I
+am Cecily Hoyle after all. Because Mr. Thompson adopted me and then
+took my father's name, but he isn't related to me at all, really—not a
+scrap!” explained Cecily lucidly.
+
+“So I have been told,” Tony assented.
+
+As Cecily drew farther into the room he drew a little back, and rested
+his elbow on the mantelpiece.
+
+“I—I thought you would be pleased, Tony,” the girl murmured, just
+glancing at him with sweet, dewy eyes. “Because, you see, it makes all
+the difference.”
+
+“Difference—to what?” Anthony inquired in a stiff, uninterested tone.
+
+“Why—why, to us,” Cecily whispered with trembling lips. “I—I said I
+couldn't be engaged to you any longer, Tony. But—but if you ask me
+again, I have changed my mind.”
+
+“So have I changed my mind,” Tony returned gloomily. “You said you
+would not let me marry a thief's daughter—well, you see, I have some
+pride too. I will not let you marry a murderer's cousin!”
+
+“Cousin! Pouf!” Cecily snapped her fingers. “Who cares what people's
+cousins do?”
+
+“Well, you would, if they did brutal murders and got themselves
+hanged,” Tony retorted, taking his elbow from the mantelpiece, and
+edging a little farther from Cecily, who was betraying an unmaidenly
+desire to follow him up.
+
+“I shouldn't really—not a half-cousin,” the girl contradicted. “And he
+was mad, Tony. His father had been in an asylum more than once, only
+your aunt didn't know when she married him.”
+
+“Half-aunt,” corrected Tony, “I'd like you to remember that half,
+Cecily.”
+
+“Well, I will!” the girl promised. “And, Tony, I want to tell you that
+I hadn't the least idea that Thompson was the man that I thought was
+my father while I was at Mrs. Bechcombe's. It seems he put me there
+thinking to get some information he wanted through me, and which I am
+thankful to say he didn't. I never recognized him, he looked so
+different. Then after the murder when he told me, though he said he
+wasn't guilty—I couldn't help doubting.”
+
+“You might have trusted me,” Tony said reproachfully.
+
+Cecily burst into tears. “You might trust me now.”
+
+Tony's heart was melted at once. He drew the sobbing girl into his
+arms. “I would trust you with my life, sweetheart—but I——”
+
+“Ah, you shall not say but!” the girl cried, clinging to him. “You do
+love me, don't you, Tony?” lifting her face to his.
+
+“You know I do!” said Anthony, his sombre eyes brightening as he
+looked down at her.
+
+“Then that is all that matters,” said Cecily decidedly, “isn't it,
+Anthony?”
+
+And Anthony, capitulating as he kissed her eyes and her trembling
+lips, confessed that he thought it was.
+
+
+The End
+
+
+
+TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
+
+This transcription follows the text of the US edition published by
+Dodd, Mead and Company in 1927. The following changes have been made
+to correct what are believed to be unambiguous printer's errors.
+
+ * “it His Will” was changed to “it is His Will” (Chapter V).
+ * “the clerk's addresses” was changed to “the clerks' addresses”
+   (Chapter V).
+ * “pierced them together” was changed to “pieced them together”
+   (Chapter IX).
+ * “few day's holiday” was changed to “few days' holiday”
+   (Chapter XIII).
+ * “by dear” was changed to “my dear” (Chapter XIII).
+ * One occurrence of a missing period has been repaired.
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75307 ***