Chapter 12: 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.”