Twilight was beginning to close in when Mr. Brownlow emerged from a coach in front of his house. At the door he turned around and made a sign to two men in the coach. Holding Monks between them, the two men hurried the evil man into Mr. Brownlow's study.
"You may wait outside," Mr. Brownlow said to the two men. "If he tries to escape, call the police and have him arrested. Sit down, Monks."
"By whose authority am I kidnapped off the street and brought here?" Monks asked indignantly. He remained standing.
"By mine," said Mr. Brownlow. "We can deal with this privately, or you can choose to go to the police. If you do that, I'll have you arrested on charges of fraud and robbery."
Monks threw down his cloak and took a seat. "This is fine treatment, sir, from my father's best friend."
"It is because I was your father's best friend that I do this. And because . . ." Mr. Brownlow struggled with the painful memory. "He was with me at his sister's deathbed. We were supposed to have been married on the very day she died. And so I am moved to treat you gently, Edward Leeford, for that is your real name."
"That name means nothing to me now," said Monks. "What do you want from me?"
"You have a brother . . ."
"I have no brother!" Monks sneered.
"Really? You seemed quite shocked on the street when I whispered 'Oliver Twist' in your ear. I know that your father was forced into a loveless marriage when he was very young. That after you were born, your parents separated but didn't divorce."
"So? None of this is new to me."
"Your father eventually moved to the country and made a new friend—a naval officer whose wife had died. The officer had two daughters, one a beautiful creature of nineteen and the other a mere child of two or three years old. The older daughter grew to love your father, and he fell in love with her."
"This is such a long and boring story." Monks moved restlessly in his chair.
"It is a true tale of grief and sorrow, young man," Mr. Brownlow said sharply. "At last one of the men who had been instrumental in arranging your father's marriage died. Feeling remorse at his role, the man left your father a substantial sum of money. But your father had to go to Rome to claim it because that's where the man died."
Monks sat up straight and suddenly seemed to be paying attention.
"Before your father went abroad, he came to see me in London. He gave me a portrait of a young lady—that is, of the naval officer’s older daughter—and confessed that the young lady was pregnant. His plan was to collect his inheritance, come back for the young lady and the portrait, and then flee to Europe."
"Go on," said Monks.
"But I never heard from your father again because he suddenly took ill and died in Rome. You and your mother rushed to his side. Your mother said he left no will, so all his money came to you and her. When I heard this, I went in search of the beautiful young woman. I wanted to help her if she was indeed pregnant. But she and her family had suddenly moved away."
Monks breathed more freely and looked around with a smile of triumph. Mr. Brownlow went on with his story.
"When young Oliver was cast in my way by chance, I was astonished at his resemblance to the portrait of the young woman. But I need not tell you that he was snatched from me before I could learn his life story."
"You can't prove that I know anything about him!" Monks said defiantly. "I challenge you to do it!"
"We'll see about that," said Mr. Brownlow. "Meanwhile I knew your mother had died. You were the only one left who knew the whole story, but you were in the West Indies. I followed you there and was told you had left for London. You returned to some of your low associates, and I finally found you two hours ago."
"And now that you've found me, so what?" Monks stood up boldly. "You say I have a brother, but you can't even prove that a baby was born to my father and that woman."
"I couldn't prove it until just recently," replied Mr. Brownlow, also rising. "There actually was a will, which your mother destroyed, and it contained a reference to the child. When you accidentally came upon Oliver—as he was being falsely arrested for stealing my wallet—you noticed his resemblance to your father."
Monks said nothing.
"You went to the place where he was born and found proof of his birth and parentage—which you then dropped in the river. Do you still defy me?"
Monks shook his head, defeated by the accumulation of evidence.
"You bragged of all this to Fagin, but your every word was overheard by a poor young woman and reported to me. Now that woman has been murdered, and you must share in the blame for that. Fagin has been arrested."
"No! No!" shouted Monks, but he was defeated.
"You must do the right thing, Edward," Mr. Brownlow said quietly. "You must give your brother, Oliver, his share of the inheritance."
Two days later Oliver found himself traveling back to the town where he was born. Mrs. Maylie and Rose, as well as Mrs. Bedwin and Dr. Losberne, were traveling with him. Mr. Brownlow followed in a second coach with another man.
As they approached the town, it became difficult to restrain Oliver in the coach. There was Sowerberry's, the undertakers! There were all the shops and houses that he remembered!
They drove straight up to the door of the hotel, which Oliver used to think looked like a palace.
Supper was prepared and bedrooms were ready, so it seemed to Oliver as if everything had been arranged by magic.
Mr. Brownlow did not join them for supper but remained in a separate room with the mysterious man. Dr. Losberne was called into that room for a while, and he later reappeared with an anxious face. Mrs. Maylie stayed in that room for almost an hour and returned with eyes swollen from weeping.
Oliver and Rose looked at each other, wondering what was going on.