“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.