by Annie Haynes
“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 m
essenger 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 confreres.
“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 anteroom 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 anyone 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.”