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Updated: June 27, 2025
It was a fatal mistake to attack the readiest means of exit. Had he used his human battering ram against Holden and David he might have escaped. But now he looked into the muzzle of another revolver, and heard Brett's stern demand: "Hands up, Ooma! If you move you are a dead man?" Nevertheless, he did move. He seemed to have the agility as well as the semblance of a carnivorous animal.
He explained that their mysterious proceedings had to some extent committed them in the eyes of the police to secret knowledge of the crime which had so thoroughly aroused the detective departments in both London and Paris. Evidently Scotland Yard had not advised the French police of Mr. Brett's official connection with the hunt for the murderers.
Brett's ill-humour at the uncalled-for interference of the police was now quite dispelled, and he greeted the commissary with the genial affability which so quickly won him the friendship of casual acquaintances. "I think," he began, "that your agents, monsieur, were watching me throughout the whole of yesterday."
Before Brett could reply, Walters turned away from him and addressed the others calmly. "Despite Mr. Brett's outburst, his question is a good one. And the answer is quite simple. The bids submitted by your companies were not satisfactory in this case because we believe that they were made in bad faith!" For once, there was silence in the room as the men stared at Walters in shocked disbelief.
All the hardness went out of Brett's eyes as he took the little beast from him and fondled it, the puppy responding by thrusting against his face an affectionate moist black muzzle, still adorned with drops of milk from the recently concluded morning feed. "He has all the points," remarked Eliot. "I think he's the pick of the litter."
But he did not fail to point out that this was not all that could be required of them. Even such a work as Brett's "Val d'Aosta," marvellous as it was in observation and finish, was only the beginning of a new era, not its consummation. It was not the painting of detail that could make a great artist; but the knowledge of it, and the masterly use of such knowledge.
Brett's views on this remarkable case, I would not be sitting here this minute. My conscience would not permit it" "Be virtuous, Winter, but not too virtuous," broke in Brett drily. "There you go again, sir, questioning my motives. But I am of a forgiving disposition.
Winter, in accordance with Brett's promise, secured a fresh holiday towards the close of August, and had the supreme joy of shooting over a well-stocked Scotch moor. At last, one day in September, Brett was summoned to Whitby to assist at a family conclave. He found that Margaret was firm in her resolve never again to live at Beechcroft.
He had walked from Stowmarket because he could not afford to hire any means of conveyance. The abject confession compelled by Brett's words was too much for him. He again collapsed into a chair and covered his face with his hands. Brett was the only person present who kept his senses. Margaret was too shocked, the lovers too amazed, to speak coherently. "Mr.
Driver, I am surprised that a man of your intelligence should waste your money on a public-house cigar. Throw it away. Here is a better one. And now, Victoria Street, sharp." Winter's ears were pricked to receive Brett's intelligence.
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