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.”