"Are you going into that all over again? To what end?"
"What does that man know of you? What does he know?"
"How can I tell what a half-witted man knows of me, or thinks he knows? Certainly he knows nothing to my discredit."
"Rodney--don't."
"Don't what?"
"You know! You do know! I can see in your eyes you know! Please go!"
"Sweetheart!"
"Don't--speak to me--like that--now. Go!"
"You surely are not in earnest. You cannot wish me to leave you before this extraordinary misunderstanding which has so inexplicably sprung up is cleared away. Tell me what is in your mind--frankly, all! I quite understand how this wretched man, Parker, may have turned your thoughts into unexpected currents and filled you with miserable doubts. I assure you he has upset me more than I care to tell you."
"I know that he upset you! I felt you were upset when I was so close to you. I can see it now."
If for the moment he was disconcerted--and the lady's manner was disconcerting--he slurred it over with creditable skill.
"Come, Gladys; let's try to get back to where we were--to perfect understanding. Tell me your doubts, no matter how insoluble they may seem to you. I promise you I'll solve them."
"I'm sure you will; I feel you could solve anything, but I am afraid of your solution."
Before he had an inkling of her intention she had passed rapidly across the floor and from the room.
"Gladys!" he exclaimed.
But it was too late; she had gone. He stood staring at the door through which she had vanished, irresolute. Should he follow her, possibly to her bedroom, and entreat her for a hearing? For once in his life he had been taken wholly unawares; he had not suspected that this Gladys was in the Gladys he had known. Often a man lives to a ripe old age, ignorant how many women are contained in the one woman he knows best. Then, as if unwittingly, his fingers strayed to the pocket in which were the proceeds of the cheque he had cashed while Gladys, without in the cab, had supposed him to have gone into the bank for his letter-case. Apparently the touch decided him; often a little thing brought him to an instant decision. Without making any further effort to gain the lady's ear, he buttoned his coat across his chest, took his hat and stick from off the table, and quietly left the house.
CHAPTER XXV
STELLA'S BETROTHAL FEAST
That evening Rodney Elmore was at a dinner given at a famous restaurant in honour of his engagement to Stella Austin, quite a different sort of meal from that at which he had assisted at the Misses Claughton's house in Kensington. If in his manner there was an unusual touch of nervousness, it was not unbecoming; the bride that was to be was not entirely herself. He met her as, with her father and mother, she entered the hall. She said to him, as he fell in by her side:
"I did hope, Rodney, that you would have come to fetch me."
"My dear, it's only by the skin of my teeth that I've got here myself!
Do you think that I wouldn't have come if I could?"
She said nothing in reply, but as she passed towards the ladies'
cloak-room there was a look on her face which almost suggested tears.
Her mother's manner, as she greeted him, was not too genial:
"So you are here? Well, I suppose that's something!"
Mr. Austin, as he deposited his hat and coat with the attendant, seemed very much in the same key.
"We should have been here some minutes ago, only Stella would have it you were coming to fetch her; we should have been waiting for you still if she had had her way. How was it you didn't come? She's quite disappointed; rather a pity that the evening should have begun with a misunderstanding of that sort."
Rodney drew the gentleman aside.
"I take it, Mr. Austin, that you haven't heard the news?"
"To what news do you refer?"
"It is now stated that my uncle did not commit suicide, but was murdered."
"But I thought the coroner's jury had returned a verdict of suicide."
"That is so; but this afternoon a man named Parker gave himself up to the police, on his own confession, as having murdered my uncle. You will understand that I--I have had rather a trying day."
"On his confession? Is the man a lunatic?"
"That's just it; he is, yet it seems only too likely that--he did what he says he did."
"But how came he to make his confession in your presence? Do you know the man?"
"Not I; he's an entire stranger to me; but I'll tell you all about it later. I don't want you to say anything to the ladies or anyone; I only mention it to you because I want you to understand how it is that I am not in such--such good fettle as I might be for an occasion of this kind; and also because I want you, if needs be, to help me with Stella."
"My dear boy, of course I will. It is only natural that, at a time like this, a girl should think that there's nothing of much consequence except her own affairs; but I'll stand by you, never fear.
I rather wish that the whole thing had been postponed, but Stella wouldn't hear of it. There's Tom not at all himself; he wanted Mary Carmichael to come, and Stella wanted her to come, in fact, we all wanted her to come, but she hasn't. I've been told nothing, but I can see there's some trouble there. Altogether the evening doesn't look as if it were going to be quite such a merry one as I had hoped it would have been; however, we must make the best of it. Cheer up, lad; put your troubles behind you for this night only."
That was a prescription which at any rate the prescriber's son did not seem at all disposed to follow, as Rodney quickly learnt when Tom appeared a little tardily. Tom's naturally good-humoured face wore an expression of unwonted gloom, and there was that in his air and general bearing which accorded ill with a time of feasting and making merry.
"You know, old chap, I oughtn't to be here, I really didn't. I shall queer the whole show. Unless I drink too much, and put my spirits up that way, I shall give everyone the hump; and when I start on that lay I'm apt to get my spirits up a bit too much, so I don't know that that will have a good effect either."
Rodney laughed as he put his hand on the speaker's shoulder.
"Why, Tom, what's wrong?"
"I don't know what's wrong, but something's wrong. I do know that.
When the governor told me about this kick-up to-night, I wrote to Mary and told her all about it, and asked her to come up, and so on, and said I'd run down to Brighton this morning to bring her up, and told her the train I'd come by, and asked her to meet me at the station.
She didn't meet me at the station--that was shock number one; and then when I got to the house, if you please, the servant didn't want to let me in--she wanted to make me believe that Mary was out. I wasn't taking that; I would go in, and I saw her old aunt--she's an old dear, she is. After a while, and she'd told no end of them, she owned up that Mary was in all the time she'd been telling them. She was up in her bedroom, and had given word that if I called she wouldn't see me.
You might have bowled me over with an old cork."
"The lady wasn't well."
"Her health was all right; the old girl owned as much. She said Mary was perfectly well, but beyond that she wouldn't say anything; and she made out that she couldn't; and she wouldn't send a message up, or a note, or anything. She said that she knew her niece well enough to be sure that that would be no use. But when she saw that I was set, she said that if I chose I might go up and try my luck. So, if you please, up I went, and rapped at her bedroom door."
"Summoned her to surrender, quite in the good old style; and she did?"