But the newspaper reference to their new and possibly alarming neighbour soon put both controversialists out of court.
“How frightful,” cried Mrs. Bankes. “He must be quite a newcomer; but who can he possibly be?”
“I don’t know any particularly newcomers,” said her husband, “except Sir Leopold Pulman, at Beechwood House.”
“My dear,” said the lady, “how absurd you are—Sir Leopold!” Then, after a pause, she added: “If anybody suggested his secretary now—that man with the whiskers; I’ve always said, ever since he got the place Philip ought to have had—”
“Nothing doing,” said Philip languidly, making his sole contribution to the conversation. “Not good enough.”
“The only one I know,” observed Devine, “is that man called Carver, who is stopping at Smith’s Farm. He lives a very quiet life, but he’s quite interesting to talk to. I think John has had some business with him.”
“Knows a bit about cars,” conceded the monomaniac John. “He’ll know a bit more when he’s been in my new car.”
Devine smiled slightly; everybody had been threatened with the hospitality of John’s new car. Then he added reflectively:
“That’s a little what I feel about him. He knows a lot about motoring, and travelling, and the active ways of the world, and yet he always stays at home pottering about round old Smith’s beehives. Says he’s only interested in bee culture, and that’s why he’s staying with Smith. It seems a very quiet hobby for a man of his sort. However, I’ve no doubt John’s car will shake him up a bit.”
As Devine walked away from the house that evening, his dark face wore an expression of concentrated thought. His thoughts would, perhaps, have been worthy of our attention, even at this stage; but it is enough to say that their practical upshot was a resolution to pay an immediate visit to Mr. Carver at the house of Mr. Smith. As he was making his way thither he encountered Barnard, the secretary at Beechwood House, conspicuous by his lanky figure and the large side whiskers which Mrs. Bankes counted among her private wrongs. Their acquaintance was slight, and their conversation brief and casual; but Devine seemed to find in it food for further cogitation.
“Look here,” he said abruptly, “excuse my asking, but is it true that Lady Pulman has some very famous jewellery up at the House? I’m not a professional thief, but I’ve just heard there’s one hanging about.”
“I’ll get her to give an eye to them,” answered the secretary. “To tell the truth, I’ve ventured to warn her about them already myself. I hope she has attended to it.”
As they spoke, there came the hideous cry of a motor-horn just behind, and John Bankes came to a stop beside them, radiant at his own steering-wheel. When he heard of Devine’s destination he claimed it as his own, though his tone suggested rather an abstract relish for offering people a ride. The ride was consumed in continuous praises of the car, now mostly in the matter of its adaptability to weather.
“Shuts up as tight as a box,” he said, “and opens as easy—as easy as opening your mouth.”
Devine’s mouth, at the moment, did not seem so easy to open, and they arrived at Smith’s farm to the sound of a soliloquy. Passing the outer gate, Devine found the man he was looking for without going into the house. The man was walking about in the garden, with his hands in his pockets, wearing a large, limp straw hat; a man with a long face and a large chin. The wide brim cut off the upper part of his face with a shadow that looked a little like a mask. In the background was a row of sunny beehives, along which an elderly man, presumably Mr. Smith, was moving accompanied by a short, commonplace-looking companion in black clerical costume.
“I say,” burst in the irrepressible John, before Devine could offer any polite greeting, “I’ve brought her round to give you a little run. You see if she isn’t better than a ‘Thunderbolt.’ ”
Mr. Carver’s mouth set into a smile that may have been meant to be gracious, but looked rather grim. “I’m afraid I shall be too busy for pleasure this evening,” he said.
“How doth the little busy bee,” observed Devine, equally enigmatically. “Your bees must be very busy if they keep you at it all night. I was wondering if—”
“Well,” demanded Carver, with a certain cool defiance.
“Well, they say we should make hay while the sun shines,” said Devine. “Perhaps you make honey while the moon shines.”
There came a flash from the shadow of the broad-brimmed hat, as the whites of the man’s eyes shifted and shone.
“Perhaps there is a good deal of moonshine in the business,” he said: “but I warn you my bees do not only make honey. They sting.”
“Are you coming along in the car?” insisted the staring John. But Carver, though he threw off the momentary air of sinister significance with which he had been answering Devine, was still positive in his polite refusal.
“I can’t possibly go,” he said. “Got a lot of writing to do. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to give some of my friends a run, if you want a companion. This is my friend, Mr. Smith, Father Brown.”
“Of course,” cried Bankes; “let ’em all come.”
“Thank you very much,” said Father Brown. “I’m afraid I shall have to decline; I’ve got to go on to Benediction in a few minutes.”
“Mr. Smith is your man, then,” said Carver, with something almost like impatience. “I’m sure Smith is longing for a motor ride.”
Smith, who wore a broad grin, bore no appearance of longing for anything. He was an active little old man with a very honest wig; one of those wigs that look no more natural than a hat. Its tinge of yellow was out of keeping with his colourless complexion. He shook his head and answered with amiable obstinacy:
“I remember I went over this road ten years ago—in one
