A Master of Deception

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.

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."