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CHAPTER XII
MARKING TIME

Rodney Elmore's rooms were within a short distance of Paddington Station. As his cab drew up at the house he saw that another hansom was already at the door. Since it was past midnight, its presence was suggestive; it betokened a visitor. The house being a small one, there was only one other lodger besides himself, and he occupied a modest "bed-sitting-room" on the upper floor. His instinct told him that the visitor was for himself. At that hour on Sunday night the fact was portentous. Opening the door with his latch-key, as he stepped inside a girl came hastening towards him from a room at the back, noiselessly, as if she did not wish to be overheard, rather a pretty girl, with fluffy, fair hair. She spoke in a whisper:

"There's someone to see you-a lady. She would wait, although I told her I didn't know when you would be in."

"What's her name?"

"She said Miss Patterson."

He understood-he had been making certain mental calculations as he came along. No doubt his uncle would have his name and address upon him; his identity would be discovered so soon as they searched the body. There had been time to carry the news to Russell Square; this was the result. Nodding to the fluffy-haired girl, he passed quickly into his sitting-room, which was on the left, in the front of the house. Gladys was standing by the table. As she came towards him he knew by the look which was on her face that his guess had been right-that already she knew at least part of the story.

"Where have you been?" she exclaimed. "I thought you were never coming."

Taking both her hands in his, he drew her to him.

"My dear child! how could I guess that you were here? What does it mean?"

She looked at him with a curious sombre something in her big dark eyes, which reminded him of a child who is about to cry. Her lips trembled.

"Rodney, dad's dead."

His tone was eager, gentle, sympathetic; instinct with surprise.

"Dead! You-you don't mean it!"

"In the train."

"In the train! What train?" She told her tale, he listening with interest, anxiety, tenderness, which were sufficiently real.

"I was just going to bed."

"Dear, you're shivering. You'd better sit down."

"I'd rather stand-close to you."

He put his arms about her and held her tight. He kissed her. "Sweetheart," he whispered. He could feel her trembling; tears were beginning to shine in her eyes.

"I was in my bedroom, and-and-I was thinking about you" – about the corners of her lips was the queerest little smile-"when there was a ringing at the front door. I thought it was dad, who had forgotten his key; but they came and told me that there was a gentleman downstairs who wished to see me very particularly about my father, and that it was most important. So I slipped on a dressing-jacket and went down to him. It was someone from the railway company. They had found dad in the carriage of a train which had come from Brighton. He was dead-now he was at Victoria Station-he had committed suicide."

"Suicide!"

Rodney started; it could not have been better done if his surprise had been genuine.

"It's-it's incredible!"

"I can only tell you what the man told me. He said of course there would have to be an inquiry, but all the indications pointed at that. He had poisoned himself; in his hand they had found a box in which were some more of the things with which he had done it."

"I can only say that to me it seems-it does seem impossible. I should have said he was the last person to do anything like that."

"You never can tell what sort of person will do a thing like that. I once knew a girl who went straight up after dinner to her bedroom and-did it; no one ever knew why. I went with the man to Victoria, and-saw dad; I've come right on from there. I felt that I couldn't go home till I had seen you. I believe I should have stayed here all night if you hadn't come."

"You poor little thing! – sweetheart mine! – you only woman in the world!"

"You-you will be good to me, Rodney?"

"Never was man better to a woman than I will try to be to you."

"Suppose-suppose dad did it because he was ruined?"

"My dear girl, as you are aware, I was not in your father's confidence-still, I am pretty nearly certain that, commercially, it will be found that he was all right. Yet, should it turn out that he was even worse than penniless, it will not make a mite of difference in my love for you."

"You are sure?"

"Absolutely. Aren't you?"

"I do believe you care for me a little, or-I shouldn't be here."

"A little! You-you bad girl; you dearest, sweetest of darlings! Between ourselves, if it does turn out that you're no richer than I am, I shan't be sorry. He never did want you to have anything to do with me. I might have won him over if he had lived; you know, I believe he was commencing to like me a little better. I'm not sure that I wouldn't sooner have you without his money; I should feel as if I were playing the game."

"It will be horrid if he has left nothing; it will perhaps mean a scandal, and things are bad enough as they are."

"I see what you have in your mind, but I assure you you need not have the slightest fear. I'll stake my own integrity that in all matters of business your father had the highest sense of honour. I'll be willing to write myself down a rogue if it can be shown that he ever deviated in any particular from the highest standard of commercial rectitude."

"I hope you're right."

"I am right, on that point you may rest assured."

"You know, Rodney, you're all I have in the world-now."

The use of the adverb, in that connection, tickled him. The idea that, so far as she was concerned, her father ever had been much of a personal asset was distinctly funny. However, he allowed no hint of how her words struck him to peep out; never a more ardent lover, a more present help in the time of a girl's trouble. He escorted her to what bade henceforward to be her lonely home in the cab which still waited at the door. When he returned to Paddington it was very late. As he moved to his bedroom up the darkened staircase a door opened on the landing. The fluffy-haired girl looked out. She was in a state of considerable déshabillé.

"You are late," she whispered. "I thought you never were coming back."

"You goose."

He put his arms about her and kissed her with the calmest proprietary air.

"To think that you should be still awake."

"You knew I should sit up; you knew mother wasn't coming back to-night, and you said you'd be in early."

She spoke with an air of grievance. He smiled.

"It's been a case of man proposes. I have had many things to contend with-all sorts of worries. Now, as I want breakfast early, I'm going to bed, and, I hope, to sleep, if you aren't."

"You don't care for me a bit."

He kissed her again.

She waited on him at breakfast, which, as he had forewarned her, he had unusually early. She was his landlady's daughter; her name was Mabel Joyce. Among his letters was one from Stella Austin. He opened it as she placed before him his bacon and eggs; as he glanced at Stella's opening lines Miss Joyce talked.

"So you went to Brighton yesterday-by the Pullman, too."

He looked up at her as if surprised.

"Did I? Who told you that?"

"Didn't you?"

class="normal""You say I did. Pray, from what quarter did you get your information?"

"Oh, there are plenty of quarters from which I can get information-when I like. And your uncle was in Brighton. It doesn't look as if he had a very pleasant day there, as he committed suicide in the train on the way back to town. I dare say you had a pleasanter day than he did."

"I presume you got that information either from this morning's paper or else from listening last night outside the door."

"As it happens, I haven't seen a paper, and, as for listening, if you don't know I wouldn't do a thing like that it's no use my saying so."

"Then who was your informant?"

"That's my business. There is a little bird which sometimes whispers in my ear. Did you come back in the Pullman?"

He replied to her question with another.

"What's the matter with you, Mabel?"

"What should be? Nothing's the matter; I was only thinking that if you did, your uncle must have been in the train just behind you. If you'd have known what he was doing you'd have felt funny. Still, if you did come by the Pullman, considering that it's due at Victoria at ten, and yesterday was quite punctual, since you had promised to be in early, and knew that I was all alone in the house, I think you might have been back before midnight."

He eyed the girl. She was pretty, in a pink-and-white sort of way; fonder of him than was good for her. He had never seen her in this shrewish mood before.

"My dear Mabel, if I could have got back earlier I would have done so; but I couldn't. I was the sufferer, not you."

"I dare say! I suppose that Miss Patterson was your cousin. Are you going to marry her?"

"Really! you jump about! How do you suppose a fellow in my position can tell whom he's going to marry-on twopence a year?"

"I dare say she's got money, especially now. Since directly she heard of her father's death she came tearing round to you, at that time of night, it looks as if you ought to marry her if you don't!"

Miss Joyce flounced out of the room. For some moments he sat considering her words. Who told her that he went to Brighton, on the Pullman? Was it a lucky guess? Hardly; probably someone had seen him. People's eyes were everywhere. He would have to be careful what tale he told. It was odd how gingerly one had to walk when one was in a delicate position; there were so many unseen strings over which one might stumble.

As he ate his breakfast he read Stella's letter. It was a girl's first letter to her lover; which is apt to be a wonderful production, as in this case. He had not supposed that a letter from Stella could have stirred him as that one did. It suggested the perfect love which casteth out fear. She bared her simple heart to him in perfect trust and confidence, showing in every line that, to her, he was both hero and king, that man of men, – her husband that was to be. Tears actually stood in his eyes as he realised the pathos of it all; how sweet to hold such innocence in his arms. He was not sure that he had not been over-hasty in concluding that here was no wife for him. The picture which, as he read on, quite unwittingly she presented to his mind's eye, of the two wandering hand in hand down the vale of years, to the goal of venerable old age at the end, moved him to the depths. It was sweet to be so trusted; he would have loved to have her with him at the breakfast-table then. It was so dear a letter that he kissed it as he folded it, and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.

Then he set himself to thinking. Part of the point of Stella's letter lay in the fact that she expected him to go to her that night, and wished him to know all the things she set down in black and white, so that they might be able to talk about them when he came. The misfortune was that he was not going. He would have liked to go-truly. He felt that after what had happened lately an evening spent with Stella would be delicious. So strongly did he feel this that he cast about in his mind for some means of ensuring himself even a few fleeting minutes in her society; but could hit on none. Accident might befriend him, but he doubted if Gladys would give accident much chance. He had promised that he would go from the office straight to her; it might go ill with him if he did not. Once with her, she was not likely to let him go again till it was too late to think of Stella. How appease the maiden for her disappointment? He could think of nothing but laying stress on the dreadful thing which had happened to his uncle, and putting all the blame on that. He had never mentioned his cousin to Stella, or to Mary, or to anyone, being of those who, if they can help it, do not like their first finger to know what their thumb is doing. Stella did not know he had a feminine relative; it might be inconvenient to acquaint her with the fact just now; quite possibly her soft heart might move her to go and offer the orphaned Gladys consolation. He smiled as the droll side of such a possibility tickled his sense of humour. Possibly the time might come when the two young women would have to know of each other's existence, but-perhaps it might be as well to put it off for awhile.

He scribbled a hasty note to Stella, speaking of the rapture her letter had given him, and dwelling, in lurid hues, on the tragedy of his uncle's end; then suddenly remembered that, from her point of view, he ought not to have heard of it. What a number of trifles one did have to think of. He had not seen a paper; he did not propose to tell her of his trip to Brighton; she had heard nothing of Gladys; she might ask some awkward questions as to how he came to know about it so early in the day. He tore the note up and made a bonfire of the pieces. Then he scribbled another, in which he only spoke of his rapture and of the ecstatic longing with which he looked forward to seeing her after his office work was done, and of how the intervening seconds would go by like leaden hours-he felt that a poetic touch of that sort was the least that was required. Then, when he reached the office, he might wire her the dreadful tidings in an agitated telegram, and, later, in a still more agitated telegram, inform her that one awful consequence of the upheaval which had followed the hideous tragedy was that he would be unable to come to her to-night. The tale would be much more effective told like that. Whatever her feelings were, he did not see how a loophole would be left to her to lay blame on him.

CHAPTER XIII
SPREADING HIS WINGS

A disagreeable surprise awaited him when he reached St. Paul's Churchyard. Taking it for granted that everything would now belong to Gladys, he was prepared to act as her representative and sole relative, and, if needs be, carry things off with a high hand-above and beyond all else, he was desirous of gaining access to certain documents whose existence constituted a peril to him. To that end he arrived before his usual time, being conscious that this was an occasion on which it might be an advantage to be first on the field. To his disgust he found that at least two persons were in front of him, and that they were both in what had been his uncle's private room. One was Mr. Andrews, the managing man, the other was a square-jawed individual, whose blue cheeks pointed to a life-long struggle with a refractory beard. He was seated, as one in authority, in his uncle's own chair behind his uncle's own table. They were busily conversing as Rodney came unannounced into the room, but paused to stare at him.

"This," explained Mr. Andrews to the man in the chair, "is Mr. Rodney Elmore-the nephew I was telling you about."

There was a lack of deference in the speaker's tone which the young gentleman resented, and had resented in silence more than once in the days which were past; but the time for silence was gone. He had been making up his mind on that point on his way to the City. Recognising, from the bearing of the two men in front of him, that a new and, as yet, unknown factor bade fair to figure on the scene, with characteristic readiness he arrived at an instant resolution. Ignoring Andrews, he addressed himself to the man in the chair.

"May I ask, sir, who you are?"

The stranger's penetrating eyes were set deep in his head; he fixed them on the young gentleman's face with a steady stare of evident surprise. Rodney returned him stare for stare.

"You may ask, young gentleman, and, though I seriously doubt if you are entitled to ask, I don't mind telling you. My name is Wilkes-Stephen Wilkes; I am your late uncle's legal adviser, and am here to safeguard the interests he has left behind."

"Then, Mr. Wilkes, be so good as to get out of that chair."

Mr. Andrews looked at the speaker in shocked amazement.

"Mr. Elmore! You forget yourself! How dare you speak like that to a gentleman in Mr. Wilkes's position."

For answer, Rodney turned to the managing man, addressing him as curtly and peremptorily as if he had been some menial servant.

"Andrews, leave the room!"

The other's eyes opened still wider; probably he had never been so spoken to before, even by his late master in his most irascible moods. He drew up his spare and rather bowed figure with what he perhaps meant to be a touch of dignity.

"Mr. Elmore, the consequences will be very serious if you talk to me like that."

"The consequences will be very serious if you don't obey my orders."

"Your orders?"

"My orders. Are you going to leave the room, or am I to put you out?"

"Steady, young gentleman, steady. I have been your uncle's legal adviser for perhaps more years than you have been in the world, and am, therefore, intimately acquainted with his wishes. I am here to see those wishes carried out. I understand that you occupied a very humble position in this office, and, though accident made you his relative, you were not in possession of your uncle's confidence. Your position is in no way altered by his death, and you have no right to issue what you call orders here-emphatically not to Mr. Andrews. If there is any question as to who is to leave the room, it is certainly not Mr. Andrews who must go, but you."

"Mr. Wilkes, I do not propose to bandy words, and when I have once pointed out that you entirely misapprehend the situation on that subject I have done. All that Mr. Patterson had is now his daughter's, including this business and all that it implies. I am here as Miss Patterson's representative."

"Indeed! By whom appointed?"

"By Miss Patterson. I may inform you that Miss Patterson will shortly be my wife."

"Is that so? This is news. Since when has that arrangement been made?"

"Your words imply a sneer and an impertinence. That being so, I decline to enter into any further details with you beyond a bare statement of the fact."

"Are you not taking too much for granted in asserting that everything is left to Miss Patterson?"

"I have not a doubt of it; with the exception, possibly, of some small legacies. He left a will?"

"He did."

"Is it in your possession?"

"It is."

"Then I must ask you to produce it at once."

"Produce it? To whom?"

"To me. Miss Patterson has instructed me to request you to hand it over at once to my keeping."

"Then, if that is so, I am afraid that, for the moment, I have no choice but to ignore the young lady's request. I will see Miss Patterson."

"Miss Patterson will decline to see you."

"She will decline to see me? On what grounds?"

"It is not necessary that she should state any grounds. Any communication you wish to have with Miss Patterson must be through me or her solicitor. Do I understand that you finally refuse to do as she requests, and hand me her father's will?"

"If you were not a very young man, Mr. Elmore, I should say that you were a foolish one; but possibly youth is your extenuation. The will will be produced at the proper time, in the proper place, to the proper person; it will certainly not be handed to you."

"Then Miss Patterson's solicitor will at once take steps which will compel its instant production."

"Miss Patterson's solicitor? You really are a remarkable young man! I am Miss Patterson's solicitor. It was her father's wish that I should continue to act for her, as I acted for him."

"You will do nothing of the kind. If Mr. Patterson has left any legal powers to that effect, his daughter will resort to every process of law to effect your removal; your refusal to withdraw will not redound to your credit. You say you have been his legal adviser for more years than I am old. Mr. Patterson was a bad husband and a bad father. He utterly neglected his daughter; he did nothing to show that he had any of a parent's natural feelings; although she respected his every wish and he had no complaint to make of her, he was wholly indifferent to both her welfare and her happiness; he saw as little of her and did as little for her as he could. In many respects he was to her both a reproach and a shame, the sole object of his existence being his own gross physical enjoyment. Without being, perhaps, what is called an habitual drunkard, he habitually drank too much, and was frequently intoxicated in her presence. He was an evil-liver-with his relations with notorious women you are probably better acquainted than I am; she, unfortunately, has good reason to know that they were of a discreditable kind. To crown an ill-spent career he has taken his own life, under circumstances which can hardly fail to be the cause of scandal, which may leave a brand on her for the remainder of her life, though she is still only a girl. You apparently pride yourself on having been confidential adviser to such a man through a great number of years. Is it strange, therefore, that she would rather that somebody else should advise her? Think it over; you will yourself perceive that it is not strange; I am sure that will be the feeling of a court of law. Now, Mr. Wilkes, I must again ask you to get out of that chair."

"And if I refuse?"

Rodney moved to the other side of the table, took Mr. Wilkes-who was not a big man-by either elbow, lifted him as if he were a child, and deposited himself on the chair in his place. The solicitor, who had made not the slightest show of resistance, stood ruefully rubbing his arms.

"I believe you have put both my elbows out of joint, you young ruffian."

Rodney was placidity itself.

"Have you never heard of Jiu-jitsu, Mr. Wilkes? You know even better than I do that you are a trespasser on these premises, and that a trespasser is a person towards whom one is entitled to use all necessary force."

Taking a bunch of keys out of his jacket pocket, he inserted one in the lock of the drawer which was in front of him. Mr. Wilkes surveyed the proceeding with obvious surprise.

"What keys are those?"

"These are my uncle's keys. They were handed to me by Miss Patterson, with instructions to go through her father's private papers and documents, and so ensure their not being tampered with by persons who certainly have not her interest at heart."

"If you take my earnest advice, young gentleman, you will not touch anything which is in those drawers. If you are not careful you will go too far."

"I will not take your advice, Mr. Wilkes-whether earnest or otherwise. I observe, Andrews, that you are still there. There are one or two remarks which I wish to make to Mr. Wilkes in private. Once more, are you going to leave this room?"

The managing man looked at the lawyer as if for advice and help in the moment of his hesitation.

"Perhaps," said Mr. Wilkes, replying to his unspoken question, "you had better go. You will commit yourself to nothing by going."

"Whereas," observed Elmore, with his smiling glance fixed on the managing man, "you will commit yourself to a good deal by not going, because I shall not only put you out of this door, but into the street. So far as this office is concerned, that will be the end of you. I will take steps which will ensure your never entering it again."

After another brief moment of hesitation, with a glance of what was very like reproach towards the lawyer, Andrews quitted the room, with the air of one who was both bewildered and hurt. So soon as he had gone Mr. Wilkes observed:

"Mr. Elmore, you are taking a very great deal upon yourself; you certainly have the courage of youth, but be warned by me, don't take too much. If it is shown that your uncle's depositions are not what you are taking it for granted they are, your position will be rendered more difficult by the attitude you are now taking up."

"I care nothing for any warning which comes from you, Mr. Wilkes. Why did my uncle commit suicide?"

"What do you mean by asking me such a question? Do you imagine that if I knew I should tell you?"

"Does that mean that you know?"

"It means nothing of the sort; but it does mean that if I had any such secret knowledge, the only person to whom I should breathe a word of it would be his daughter."

"That you certainly would not do. Miss Patterson's heartfelt prayer is that she may never know. That he had some shameful reason is plain; if it can be kept from her it shall be; if it reaches her through you, you will deserve to be whipped."

"Mr. Elmore, I knew your father."

"That's more, Mr. Wilkes, than I ever did."

"His end was like your uncle's."

"So I learned from my uncle before-he ended. And it is because the shame of what he did seems to rest on me, in the mouths of such as you, that I am resolved to shield my cousin-if I can. I imagine that, in a strictly scientific sense, you are, in part, responsible for my uncle's fate."

"How do you arrive at that-somewhat startling conclusion?"

"You aided and abetted him in what he did."

"Indeed! As how?"

"I happen to know that you were more than once his companion when he was in the society of certain notorious women, with whose character you were undoubtedly as well acquainted as he was."

"And if I was-what then?"

"If, on more than one occasion, A is in the company of B when B is in the act of committing a crime, what is the inference we draw as regards A?"

"You really are a remarkable young man!"

"More. On more than one occasion you have borrowed money from Mr. Patterson."

"We have had business relations for many years."

"Did he ever borrow money from you?"

"No; because he did not do the class of business I did."

"Exactly. At this moment you are his debtor in a considerable sum."

"I don't know from whom you get your information, but if it is from your uncle you must be perfectly well aware that the whole matter is on a proper footing, and that there can be no reasonable doubt as to my fulfilling my engagements both in the letter and the spirit."

"Still, you have been in the habit of borrowing money from your client, sometimes, I believe, to save yourself from a difficult position. Possibly his will contains a clause relieving you of your indebtedness; possibly, also, a court of law will see its way to relieve Miss Patterson from any obligation to accept your services. I will not detain you any longer, Mr. Wilkes. Good morning. Please don't gossip with the employés as you go out."

Mr. Wilkes looked as if he would have said a good deal; but Mr. Elmore had already begun to write a letter-there was an air of complete indifference about him which apparently brought him to the conclusion that it might perhaps be as well to say nothing. He took his hat off the table and went out in silence. Presently Rodney, ringing the bell, said to the lad who answered: "Take that letter to the address which is on the envelope at once, and bring me an answer; also tell Mr. Andrews that I wish to speak to him."

Shortly the managing man appeared in the doorway. One felt that he had hesitated whether or not to come, and that he was oppressed by something like a sense of shame at the thought of having yielded. The young gentleman, leaning back, regarded him with the pleasant little smile which, so far, had not left him-it was odd of what a number of subtle inflections his manner was capable without once disturbing the smile.

"Sit down, Andrews; take this chair."

The other did as he was told, sitting on the extreme edge, leaning slightly forward, his long legs crooked in front of him, his hands resting on his knees.

"How old are you, Andrews?"

Instead of replying to the question, the managing man started off on a line of his own.

"Mr. Elmore, you must excuse my remarking that, so far as I am concerned, I don't understand the position at all."

"You will, Andrews, shortly. I always have felt that your mental processes were perhaps a trifle slow."

"I have been in this office, boy and man, practically my whole life long; I'm older than your uncle was, and I was here before he came. He was with Harding and Fletcher before he took this business over, and, so to speak, he took me with it. It was a solid business then, and it's a solid business still-indeed, it's even better than it was. I'm almost-if not quite-as well known in the City as he was; he would have been the first to tell you that with the continued success I have had something to do. He was, in some ways, a difficult man to deal with; but no man had a better head for business-if he gave his confidence, you might be sure it was deserved, and he had entire confidence in me."

"Hear, hear! Go on; I like to hear you."

"When he said a thing he meant it. It's always been a joke among those who knew him that Graham Patterson's word was as good as a bank-note. He has told me more than once that when he was gone-"

"He anticipated going?"

"Not more than other men; only, he was methodical and liked to have everything in order, and, if he could help it, leave nothing to chance. He has told me, as I have said, more than once, that when he was gone-since he only had a daughter-he had arranged that the whole management of the business should be in my hands, and that he had left me a small share in it. He said, frankly, some time ago that he would give me a share in it then and there; if it weren't that he was the kind of man who never would get on with a partner; and that was the case-often he was difficult. I am sure, from what he told me, that it will be found that he has left the management of the business in my hands, as well as a share. What I don't understand, therefore, is on what grounds you are taking up the position you appear to be doing. I am far from wishing to have any unpleasantness with you, Mr. Elmore, but I do not understand."

"I represent Miss Patterson."

"But I represent the business-which was her father's, not hers."

"But it's hers now, you yourself admit that you only expect to be left a small share."

"But I'm left the management."

"That's-I am far from wishing to have any unpleasantness with you, Mr. Andrews, but-you must know that that's all tuppence."

"Pray, Mr. Elmore, what do you mean by that? A will's a will; its terms are not to be lightly set aside."