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 solicitor 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 some one to work for I think he will."
"Girl won't take him. She has too much sense," growled the solicitor.
"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 his 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.
Mr. Bechcombe held his hand out for the case.
"Here it is."
"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."
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 them. 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 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."
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!"