“What has happened?” repeated the lady.
“There has been a robbery up at Beechwood House,” said Father Brown, gravely; “a robbery, and what I fear is worse, Lady Pulman’s jewels have gone; and her unfortunate secretary, Mr. Barnard, was picked up in the garden, having evidently been shot by the escaping burglar.”
“That man,” ejaculated the lady of the house. “I believe he was—”
She encountered the grave gaze of the priest, and her words suddenly went from her; she never knew why.
“I communicated with the police,” he went on, “and with another authority interested in this case; and they say that even a superficial examination has revealed footprints and fingerprints and other indications of a well-known criminal.”
At this point, the conference was for a moment disturbed by the return of John Bankes, from what appeared to be an abortive expedition in the car. Old Smith seemed to have been a disappointing passenger, after all.
“Funked it, after all, at the last minute,” he announced with noisy disgust. “Bolted off while I was looking at what I thought was a puncture. Last time I’ll take one of these yokels—”
But his complaints received small attention in the general excitement that gathered round Father Brown and his news.
“Somebody will arrive in a moment,” went on the priest, with the same air of weighty reserve, “who will relieve me of this responsibility. When I have confronted you with him I shall have done my duty as a witness in a serious business. It only remains for me to say that a servant up at Beechwood House told me that she had seen a face at one of the windows—”
“I saw a face,” said Opal, “at one of our windows.”
“Oh, you are always seeing faces,” said her brother John roughly.
“It is as well to see facts even if they are faces,” said Father Brown equably, “and I think the face you saw—”
Another knock at the front door sounded through the house, and a minute afterwards the door of the room opened and another figure appeared. Devine half-rose from his chair at the sight of it.
It was a tall, erect figure, with a long, rather cadaverous face, ending in a formidable chin. The brow was rather bald, and the eyes bright and blue, which Devine had last seen obscured with a broad straw hat.
“Pray don’t let anybody move,” said the man called Carver, in clear and courteous tones. But to Devine’s disturbed mind the courtesy had an ominous resemblance to that of a brigand who holds a company motionless with a pistol.
“Please sit down, Mr. Devine,” said Carver; “and, with Mrs. Bankes’s permission, I will follow your example. My presence here necessitates an explanation. I rather fancy you suspected me of being an eminent and distinguished burglar.”
“I did,” said Devine grimly.
“As you remarked,” said Carver, “it is not always easy to know a wasp from a bee.”
After a pause, he continued: “I can claim to be one of the more useful, though equally annoying, insects. I am a detective, and I have come down to investigate an alleged renewal of the activities of the criminal calling himself Michael Moonshine. Jewel robberies were his speciality; and there has just been one of them at Beechwood House, which, by all the technical tests, is obviously his work. Not only do the prints correspond, but you may possibly know that when he was last arrested, and it is believed on other occasions also, he wore a simple but effective disguise of a red beard and a pair of large horn-rimmed spectacles.”
Opal Bankes leaned forward fiercely.
“That was it,” she cried in excitement, “that was the face I saw, with great goggles and a red, ragged beard like Judas. I thought it was a ghost.”
“That was also the ghost the servant at Beechwood saw,” said Carver dryly.
He laid some papers and packages on the table, and began carefully to unfold them. “As I say,” he continued, “I was sent down here to make inquiries about the criminal plans of this man, Moonshine. That is why I interested myself in beekeeping and went to stay with Mr. Smith.”
There was a silence, and then Devine started and spoke: “You don’t seriously mean to say that nice old man—”
“Come, Mr. Devine,” said Carver, with a smile, “you believed a beehive was only a hiding-place for me. Why shouldn’t it be a hiding-place for him?”
Devine nodded gloomily, and the detective turned back to his papers. “Suspecting Smith, I wanted to get him out of the way and go through his belongings; so I took advantage of Mr. Bankes’s kindness in giving him a joy ride. Searching his house, I found some curious things to be owned by an innocent old rustic interested only in bees. This is one of them.”
From the unfolded paper he lifted a long, hairy object almost scarlet in colour—the sort of sham beard that is worn in theatricals.
Beside it lay an old pair of heavy horn-rimmed spectacles.
“But I also found something,” continued Carver, “that more directly concerns this house, and must be my excuse for intruding tonight. I found a memorandum, with notes of the names and conjectural value of various pieces of jewellery in the neighbourhood. Immediately after the note of Lady Pulman’s tiara was the mention of an emerald necklace belonging to Mrs. Bankes.”
Mrs. Bankes, who had hitherto regarded the invasion of her house with an air of supercilious bewilderment, suddenly grew attentive. Her face suddenly looked ten years older and much more intelligent. But before she could speak the impetuous John had risen to his full height like a trumpeting
