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.