Graham Patterson, in the agony of that last convulsion, had nearly slipped off the seat, so that, with a very little, he would be on the floor. His nephew, who hitherto had not for a moment lost his presence of mind, and who kept it then, was at a loss. Would such an attitude be recognised as proper for a suicide? Would, that is, a doctor--any doctor--be prepared to assert that a man who had killed himself with potassium cyanide might, under the circumstances, quite conceivably die in such an attitude, or assume it after death? To Rodney's supernaturally keen vision there were trifles about his uncle's appearance which scarcely marked this as inevitably a case of suicide. The collar was a little crumpled; the tie a little disarranged; he even fancied that there were prints of his fingers on the skin of the throat. He was conscious that he had gripped him with great force--perhaps a little clumsily; he certainly ought to have avoided contact with the collar and the tie, but no doubt the prints would wear off. Indeed, as he bent closer he was not sure that they did not exist only in his imagination; the light was not good; he could not be certain. With dexterous fingers he smoothed the collar, he rearranged the tie--so deftly that he felt convinced that no one would notice that anything had been wrong with him. He raised the body a little, so that it was in what seemed to him to be a more natural position, on the edge of the seat; he felt that it would look better. He was surprised to find how heavy his uncle was--it required quite an effort on his part to lift him.
He turned the contents of the silver box on to his hand. There were seven tiny lozenges. He returned three to the box, and laid it on the seat; the other four he placed beside it. Taking an envelope out of an inner pocket of his jacket, he tore off a corner. In it he placed the four tabloids, carefully folded it, and put it in his waistcoat pocket. Then he balanced the cap of the box on the arm of the seat beside his uncle; the box itself he placed between the fingers of his uncle's left hand, with--in it--the other three tabloids. So tightly were the fingers clenched that Rodney had to use force to open them sufficiently to enable him to insert the box. Then, seating himself opposite, he looked his uncle carefully over with an artist's eye for detail. In his present attitude, with that open box with its tell-tale contents held tightly between his stiffened fingers, it seemed to Rodney that a coroner would be bound to instruct his jury that suicide was the only possible explanation of Graham Patterson's death. Having satisfied himself on which point, he withdrew to the opposite end of the carriage, being, in spite of himself, conscious of a feeling that the dead man's too immediate neighbourhood was not a thing to be desired.
Seated in his original place, he took out his white cambric handkerchief, and with it delicately wiped his fingers, having an uncomfortable notion that something disagreeable had adhered to them which it would be better to remove. Then he set himself to consider the position. A great smoker of cigarettes, absent-mindedly and as a matter of course he took out his case, and was about to light one when it occurred to him that it might be a dangerous thing to do. It was not a smoking carriage; if, when the discovery was made, it smelt strongly of smoke--and nothing lingers like a cigarette--it might be shown that his uncle had not been smoking, and the question might arise--who had? He returned the case to his pocket. As he did so the train rushed past a signal-box. He remembered reading of the strange things which signalmen see in trains as they rushed past them. When his uncle was found, exhaustive inquiries would be set on foot. Quite conceivably some signalman had seen them struggling, or something which had piqued his curiosity as it had caught his eye. His uncle would be found alone. The signalman's story might suggest that at one period of the journey someone had been in the carriage with him. What had become of that someone? The mere question might start a hue and cry. Rodney recalled, with quite a little sense of shock, that his uncle had been partly pushed into the carriage by an official on the Brighton platform. Graham Patterson was a noticeable-looking person; he must have presented a striking spectacle as he had come hurrying along the platform. When discovery came about, the official would recollect the incident and recognise him beyond a doubt.
Had he noticed that somebody was already in the carriage when he was thrusting the fat man in? Rodney was compelled to admit that the probabilities were that he had. So far as he himself was concerned, Rodney recalled the whole sequence of events. How he had rushed up to the ticket inspector just as the Pullman was moving; how the man, slamming the gate in his face, had informed him that another train was due to start in ten minutes. The young gentleman had a suspicion that the fellow had looked him up and down as he was explaining. There were others about who might also have looked him up and down. Rodney had an uneasy feeling that, in his way, he was perhaps as noticeable a figure as his uncle--so tall, so upright, so well groomed, so handsome, with something about his appearance which almost amounted to an air of distinction. He had walked a few paces to another platform, as directed; the man at the gate, in his turn, had looked him up and down as he clipped his ticket; he had strolled leisurely along the platform, which he had had almost entirely to himself; when he reached a carriage which he thought would suit him, he stood for a second or two at the open door--as he remembered, right in front of the official who, later, had helped his uncle in. He sat up very straight as that little fact came back to him. He remembered very well eyeing the man, whom, certainly, he would know again anywhere. No doubt the man had eyed him, and had his likeness in his mind's eye. The fellow had seen him enter the compartment and shut the door; a few minutes later he had opened the door again to admit his uncle, well knowing that he was already within. The accident might prove very awkward for the nephew later on; no one could have appreciated the possibilities of the position more clearly than he did.
As he pondered the matter he was inclined to think that he had made a mistake in doing what he had done. Such a fuss is made about a thing of that sort that, in any event, one runs a risk. Had he had more time to appreciate exactly what would be the nature of the risk in his own case he might have--hesitated. If he had he would have been deposed from his cousin's good graces, and--to adopt her sire's rather melodramatic language--have been "branded as a felon," so that he would not have been much better off. Looking at it philosophically the result of what he had done was this: that whereas, if he had let his uncle have his own way, ruin was certain, as things were he had at least a fighting chance of postponing the evil day--perhaps to an indefinite period. More; in the meanwhile he could have a rattling good time. And he would have it. He smiled as he made himself that promise.
All the same, though he smiled, he realised that if he proposed to have a good time he must not continue to take his ease where he was--with his uncle on the seat at the other end. If he seriously wished the world to take it for granted that Graham Patterson had committed suicide, he must not be found in the same compartment. That was sure. He had been told by someone, or had read somewhere, that every express train, though assumed to be "non-stopping," stopped at least once, because a signal was against it, or at least slowed down sufficiently to enable an agile passenger, with safety, to alight. So far that train had neither stopped nor slowed. His watch told him that it was about twenty to ten--ten minutes ago his uncle had been alive. It seemed longer ago than that. He had a fair knowledge of the line by daylight; it was different at night. Objects--even stations--were difficult to distinguish. He peered through the open window without thrusting out his head. They seemed to be running through open country, possibly on the top of the ballast. He could make out lights, though they were few and far between; they seemed to be passing a number of trees, with a big building beyond. They crashed through a station--it was Earlswood; they had just passed Earlswood Asylum. Immediately they would be on the new part of the line, which avoids the South-Eastern station at Redhill. There was no station between this and Purley. He might leave the train anywhere with comparative safety if it would only slow a little. To attempt to alight while it was moving at that rate through the darkness would be equivalent to committing suicide. At the best he could not hope to avoid serious injury. He must wait--till it slowed.
The whistle on the engine sounded; the train began to slow. Instantly he was leaning forward, his fingers on the handle, which was inside the door. The train slowed still more; it entered a tunnel, slowing all the while; in the heart of the tunnel it stopped--dead. The gods were on his side. Yet not for an instant did he lose his presence of mind. The signal was against them--that was why they had stopped. Was it on the left or the right? On the signal side the guard would possibly have his head out of the carriage with an eye for it; possibly some of the passengers might be observing it also. It would be fatal to get out on that side; his door would be seen opening; he might be seen to alight; he would be jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire; all sorts of consequences might accrue. He looked out of his own window; there was no signal in front or behind. Then it was on the other side, on the left, against the wall of the tunnel. He looked on to the six-foot way. He could see the whole length of the train; not a sign of a head at any of the windows. He had already turned the handle, opening the door just wide enough he stepped on to the footboard, closed the door, and dropped on to the permanent way. He had left his uncle to continue his journey alone. Lest his upstanding figure might be visible to someone, he crouched as close as he could to the ground. The train began to move very slowly. The door of the compartment next to that which he had just left was opened, a figure came on to the footboard, closed the door, sprang on to the ballast while the train was already in motion. For a moment Rodney was the victim of a gruesome delusion; to him it was as if the door of his own compartment had been opened; as if Graham Patterson had alighted at his side. He pressed the tips of his fingers into his palms to keep himself from exclaiming.
The train went slowly rumbling by; who looked out of the windows Rodney neither knew nor cared. He was conscious of the guard's van passing, then the train had gone. He could see the tail lights moving quicker and quicker through the darkness. He himself continued motionless. He had realised by now that it was not his uncle who had alighted; that it was the door of the next compartment which had been opened. He could not believe that his own movements had been observed. He doubted if they could have been seen by a person who had not actually got his head out at the moment--even by his next door neighbour. He was certain that no head had been out. The thing had been a coincidence--a strange one, but nothing more. Someone also had reasons for wishing to quit the train in an unusual manner; someone who was unaware that he was out already. The chances were that he had not been noticed; that, if he kept quite still, he would not be noticed. The stranger would blunder along without ever becoming cognisant of his near neighbourhood; whichever way the stranger went, he would go the other.
Now that the train had left, it was very still in the tunnel; the air was close, full of smoke, which was bad both for the throat and the eyes. Something had dropped once or twice on Rodney's shoulder. He had heard that it was sometimes damp in tunnels; possibly it was moisture dropping from the brickwork overhead. He would have liked to move so as to avoid it, but was reluctant to make a sound--till the stranger had moved. He wondered what the stranger was doing; silence continued for what seemed to him to be a preternatural length of time. Possibly, less fortunate than himself, the stranger had been hurt in alighting, which explained the stillness. If that were so, his own position might be difficult. If he moved first the stranger might claim his help, might make a fuss if he refused it--such a fuss that the fact that he had left the train would be discovered.
Still not a sound. Momentarily the situation was becoming more delicate. He could not remain crouched down like that for ever, with big drops of something falling on to his shoulder. What should he do? The question was answered for him.
"Caught you!"
The words were whispered close to his ear. He stood straight up suddenly, startled half out of his wits. His impulse was to fly--anywhere, anyhow. Then that wonderful presence of mind of his, which never left him long, came back; he realised that haste on his part might involve disaster. He stood bolt upright, quite still, with fists clenched, prepared for anything.
Something came; fingers were laid upon his coat-sleeve. He showed no sign of resenting their coming, their touch was so soft that it hardly suggested danger. A voice came to him through the darkness, the one which had so startled him by whispering in his ear.
"That was a capital idea of yours--capital."
To Rodney's acute sense of hearing there seemed to be a curious quality in the voice; he was not sure if it belonged to a man or a woman. It came again.
"Have you ever been in a tunnel before? I haven't."
The last two words were spoken with a snigger which was certainly a man's, though he still felt that the voice itself might be either masculine or feminine. He had a fastidious taste in voices; apart from the circumstances under which he heard it, that one affected him unpleasantly. It continued, and his distaste grew.
"Do you know that our getting out here in the tunnel has proved something which I have always held as an article of faith; that I have cat's eyes--positively? Isn't it droll? I can see you--not plainly, but sufficiently well. Now I dare say you can't see me at all!"
Rodney could not; he did not believe that the stranger could see him. Darkness was about them like a wall.
"Come!"
He felt the fingers which had rested on his sleeve slipped under his arm.
"I will guide you; let me turn you round. We will go this way, towards the signal. You see?--it is set at danger. Some people would say that we are in rather a dangerous position."
Again that unpleasantly sounding snigger.
"I hope you're not feeling nervous; you needn't. That signal is not far off, and when we reach it we are out in the open. I know exactly where we are; this is Redhill tunnel. Not only can I see in the dark, dimly, but still see, but I also have, in a curious degree, the bump of locality. With me it amounts almost to an additional sense. I always know where I am, even when I am in a strange place; in a place in which I have been before I have an incredible perception of my surroundings. For three years I lived quite close to this--in Earlswood Asylum, as a patient."
Earlswood Asylum! Then the creature was a lunatic. That explained the singularity of his voice, of his manner, his proceedings. An idea came into Rodney's head. The creature was small; he felt, as he moved beside him with his hand under his arm, that he probably did not reach to his shoulder. It would be easy to leave him in the tunnel. Who cares what happens to a lunatic?
"I shouldn't if I were you; it wouldn't pay."
The words were so apposite that, despite himself, Rodney started. He had not spoken. Could the creature read what was passing through his brain?
"There are times when I can read people's thoughts just as plainly as if they had spoken them out loud, even when I can't see their faces--really! Isn't it odd? Oh, I am quite gifted. My argument always has been that, in a general way, a lunatic is merely abnormal, nothing more. At intervals a cloud settles on my brain; I can see, I can feel it coming; then, for an indefinite period, I am on the lap of the gods. When it passes my senses are more acute than other people's--abnormally acute, I know it as a fact. Now you see, as I told you, we are out in the open--look! the stars are shining. Look back at the tunnel; isn't it a horror of blackness? Like the horror I know. If we scramble up that bank we shall probably find a gap in the hedge at the top; platelayers often do leave a gap in a hedge close to the wall of a tunnel that they may descend to the line. As I told you, here's our gap; now, over the fence, and the rest is easy sailing."
It seemed to Rodney that since he had quitted the train something must have happened to him mentally; it was as if, all at once, he were playing a part in a dream. In silence, without offering the least remonstrance, he had suffered the stranger to pilot him out of the tunnel, up the steep bank beyond--to dominate him wholly. Now, except that they seemed to be standing in an open space of considerable size, he had not the dimmest notion of their whereabouts; but to the stranger it all seemed plain.
"That big building on our right's an orphanage--St. Anne's; I believe we're on their ground. If we keep straight on to our left we shall come to the high road, from which it is only a few minutes to Redhill station, whence we shall continue our journey to town. Quite an interesting episode this has been, has it not? I am indebted to you for much entertainment. I have seldom had so much enjoyment in a train, Mr. Elmore."
The creature knew his name! How? Who was he? What did it mean? Again he was conscious of an impulse to take him by the throat and--resolve the question in his own fashion. How came the creature to know his name? Although he had uttered no articulate sound, he had his answer.
"The explanation is simple, explanations often are. I heard your uncle address you by your name in a most audible tone of voice just towards the close. Most people have no idea how thin the partition really is which divides one compartment from another. Do you know I have heard that in some instances it is made of papier-mâché--fancy! You can always hear if a conversation is taking place in an adjoining compartment--it is surprising how much you can hear if you try, especially if your hearing is as good as mine is--that's another of my gifts. I had my ear glued to the partition most of the time. Of course, I could not hear everything--and I should very much have liked to see, but I gathered enough to enable me to form a general idea, particularly when you began to use violence towards your uncle and to hurl him back into his seat--it amounted to hurling. You see, I was his side. And, of course, when you both raised your voices I could hear a very great deal. I was not in the least surprised at the silence which followed. I understood--oh, I understood! At least, I think I understood. It was perfectly plain that only one person was left in the compartment who counted, and, of course, I knew that was you. I said to myself: 'Now, I wonder how long he'll stay there all alone? He's sure to take advantage of the first opportunity of getting out if the train stops or slows, and if he gets out I'll get out too.' Wasn't it lucky that it stopped in a tunnel, and that, therefore, we were both of us able to get out without being observed? Quite a stroke of fortune! Here we are, right on the high road, with the station a little more than a stone's throw in front of us."
Rodney listened to what the stranger had to say as, side by side, they tramped across the uneven ground with feelings which he would not have found it easy to clothe with words. Beyond all doubt this was a lunatic; but of what an uncomfortable kind! He had been wiser to have acted on his first impulse and to have left him in the tunnel. Now it was too late; it would not be the same thing to--leave him there. Yet, if he continued in his company, how should he muzzle him? With what would he make him dumb? By what means could he keep him from blurting out the whole story to the first person they might meet? Once more, though he had uttered not a syllable, there came an answer.
"You run no risk of my blabbing, I am not that kind of person--at least, while the cloud is yet afar off. Afterwards, believe me, no one pays any heed to what I say. I play the part of audience only. I am not, like you, one of Nature's criminals; but I am indifferent, which is about the same. What A does to B is A's business and B's, not mine; that I always shall maintain. Here we are at the station. It's been altered since my time; they've given it a new front. When is the next train to town?"
He put the question quite naturally to a porter who was standing about.
"Ten-forty; nearly half an hour to wait--that is if she is punctual, which she's not always of a Sunday night."
The stranger addressed himself to Elmore.
"That, perhaps, is fortunate, since that will enable me to offer you a little refreshment, of which I dare say both of us stand in need."
Rodney, always speechless, walked beside the stranger to the refreshment bar. Now he could see him plainly. A notion which had been fluttering at the back of his head took flight; there was no suggestion of a detective police official about him. He was shorter even than he had imagined, probably scarcely over five feet high; a mean-looking, ill-shapen fellow, with one shoulder higher than the other, which gave him an appearance of being one-sided. Badly dressed in an ill-fitting suit of rusty dark-grey tweed, clumsily shod, tie disarranged, doubtful collar, old tweed hat shaped like a billycock, about him the air of one who was not over fond of soap and water. Probably between fifty and sixty, a round, hairless, wizened face, all wrinkles, flat, snub nose, curiously small mouth--Rodney wondered if the peculiarity of his voice was owing to its coming through so small an aperture; queer, big, oval, ugly eyes--small pupils floating in a sea of yellow. The young gentleman was conscious of what an ill-assorted couple they must appear. He would have liked very much to put a termination to the association then and there, but--he could not, it was too late.
The stranger on his part seemed sublimely unaware of there being anything odd in their companionship. He gave his order to the young lady on the other side of the counter.
"One brandy, two Scotch whiskies, and a small soda divided."
The young lady looked as if she was not quite sure that she had caught what he said.
"I beg your pardon."
"I said one brandy, two Scotch whiskies, and a small soda divided. You've quite right, there are only two of us; I take brandy and whisky together--I'm a lunatic."
Two young men at the other end, with whom the young lady had been talking, looked at each other and smiled. The young lady also smiled, under the apparent impression that, somewhere, there was a joke.
"It is rather unusual, isn't it?"
"Not at all--with lunatics."
It was not easy for standers-by to decide whether or not he was in earnest. Rodney was in doubt; indeed, the man's words and manner started him wondering to what extent, in all he had been saying, the fellow had been "pulling his leg."
The young lady passed three glasses to their side of the counter. The stranger, taking two, emptied one into the other. He held it up towards Rodney.
"Your very good health, and the next time we meet may you afford me as much entertainment."
Swallowing the contents of the glass at a single gulp, he replaced it on the counter.
"The same again, miss; one brandy, one Scotch whisky; lunatics don't take long over a drop like that."
She looked at him doubtfully for a moment; then gave him what he ordered, saying, as she passed him the glasses:
"Two shillings, please."
As again he emptied one into the other he nodded to Rodney.
"Pay her; I've no money--lunatics never have."
Rodney drank what was in his glass, placed a florin on the counter, and left the place without a word. Hardly had he reached the door when he found the little man again at his side. He commenced pacing up and down the dimly lit platform; the little man paced also, two of his short steps being the equivalent of one of Rodney's strides. He asked himself if he could do nothing to shake the fellow off; with his usual singular intuition the other replied to his unspoken thought.
"Not nice, being in the company of one who knows as much as I do? Perhaps not; yet I don't see why. I'm incapable of giving evidence; if I weren't I wouldn't say a word to spoil the fun; I am as good as a dead man. You'll have a dead man for constant companion--why not me?"
Again he gave vent to the snigger which so jarred on the young man's nerves. When the train entered the station they were still pacing to and fro; Rodney not having yet uttered a single word. The little man followed him into the empty first-class compartment which he had selected, saying as he drew the door to behind him:
"Isn't it confiding of me to trust myself alone in a carriage with you--after what has happened? But I am not in the least afraid. I am sure you won't care to repeat your experiment to-night. And I shall find it so amusing to sit and watch you, and see what is passing through your mind; because, do you know, it will all be just as plain to me as if you said everything aloud."
While crediting the stranger with unusual perceptive powers, Rodney doubted if in his assertion he did not go too far. If he had the dimmest insight into the tangled network of thought with which the young man's brain was filled, then he was a marvel indeed. Elmore, leaning back in his seat, remained perfectly still, with his face towards the window, to all outward seeming as oblivious of the other's presence and occasional remarks as if he were not there. When they reached Croydon a person approached the carriage window whom the stranger plainly recognised; a pleasant-faced, brown-skinned and brown-haired young man with a slight moustache, with something in his bearing and expression which suggested reserve. Coming into the carriage, he said to the stranger, as he sat beside him, half smilingly, half chidingly:
"So it is you, is it? I hope you've enjoyed your little trip."
The stranger seemed to regard his coming with an air of not altogether pleased surprise.
"You're a most extraordinary man."
The other replied:
"One has to be a little that way if one is responsible for you."
The new-comer's good-humoured curtness seemed to disturb the stranger's equilibrium.
"Responsible for me, indeed! Upon my word, you are the most extraordinary man."
In his own fashion the stranger introduced the new-comer to Rodney.
"This is Dr. Emmett, my medical attendant. I left him behind me in Brighton because I am sick and tired of his society; yet here he is at Croydon before I am. How he does these things I do not understand. He's a most extraordinary man."
Then, also after his own fashion, he made Rodney known to the new-comer.
"Emmett, this is a valued friend of mine, whom I have met for the first time to-night. I know all about him, except his voice; and, do you know, he's never spoken once."
Rodney, observing the new-comer, perceived, from something which was in the glance he gave him in exchange for his, that the position had altered. Rising, he moved out of the carriage, still without a word. The stranger made as if to follow him, but the doctor put out a detaining hand. The train started just as Rodney, having gained the platform, was closing the door. The last he saw of the interior of the compartment was that the stranger seemed to be warmly expostulating with his medical attendant. At Redhill Rodney had got into the front part of the train--which was for London Bridge--because he felt that between the City and Notting Hill he might have an opportunity of shaking the stranger off. Now, as the London Bridge coaches glided out of the station, he passed to the Victoria half of the train, which awaited an engine, lower down the platform. The doctor's fortuitous arrival on the scene had saved him, at least temporarily, from what might have been a serious predicament.
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 considerabledéshabillé.
"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.