“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.”