“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.”