A Master of Deception
Copyright© 2025 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 22: Philip Walter Augustus Parker
The four of them went together to the bank, which was within a minute’s walk. There, the necessary forms being quickly gone through, a sum of two thousand pounds was credited to Miss Patterson, power being given to Rodney Elmore to draw on her account for such sums as were needed for the proper conduct of the business, it being tacitly understood that he would draw only such sums as were needed for the business. That matter being settled, they separated; Mr. Andrews and Mr. Parmiter going their own ways, Miss Patterson and Mr. Elmore departing together in a cab to lunch. The cab had not gone very far before the young gentleman made a discovery.
“I’ve left my letter-case on the table in the bank?”
“Your letter-case? Did you? What a nuisance; I never noticed it. Are you sure it was on the table?”
“Quite; I remember distinctly; it was under a blotting-pad. What an idiot I am! I’m frightfully sorry, but I’m afraid I shall have to go back and get it.”
“Of course, we will go back.”
The cab returned to the bank. The lady remained inside; the gentleman passed through the great swing doors--through first one pair, then a second--it was impossible to see from the street what was taking place beyond. Once in the bank, the young gentleman said nothing about his letter-case--it had apparently passed from his memory altogether; but he presented at the counter a cheque for a thousand pounds, with his own signature attached. He took it in tens and fives, and a hundred pounds in gold. If the paying clerk thought it was rather an odd way of taking so large a sum, he made no comment. He came back through the swing doors with a letter-case held in his hand.
“I’ve got it,” he explained.
He emphatically had, though she understood one thing and he meant another. When they had gone some little distance in the direction of lunch she observed:
“I wish I were not in mourning. I’ve half a mind to go back and change.”
He observed her critically--he was holding one of her hands under cover of the apron.
“My dear Gladys, I can’t admit that you do look your best in mourning.”
“Do you think that I don’t know that?”
“But you look charming, all the same.”
“No, I don’t; I look a perfect fright.”
“I doubt if you could look a fright even if you tried; I’m certain you don’t look one now. In fact, the more I look at you the harder I find it to keep from kissing you.”
“I dare say! You’d better not.”
“That’s a truth of which I’m unpleasantly aware. Still, if you did look like anything distantly resembling a fright, I shouldn’t have that feeling so strong upon me, should I?”
“You’re not to talk like that in a hansom!”
“I’m merely explaining. I suggest that if you do feel like changing, you should lunch first, and change afterwards.”
“You’re coming back with me to Russell Square?”
“Rather!”
“I won’t wear mourning--people may say and think what they choose--I declare I won’t. Did you ever see anything like that letter?”
“It was by way of being a curiosity.”
“But, Rodney, he said you were--he said you were all sorts of things! What did he mean?”
“Your father was one of those not uncommon men who always use much stronger language than the occasion requires--it was a habit of his. For instance, when, in spite of his very positive commands, I showed an inclination to continue your acquaintance, he as good as told me I was a murderer--he said that it was his positive conviction that for the sake of a five-pound note I’d murder you.”
“Did he really?”
“He did. And I dare say that when you showed no desire to cut me dead, he said one or two nice things to you.”
“Oh, he did--several. He made out that I was everything that was bad.”
“There you are--that’s the kind of man he was.”
“But didn’t he say something about a policeman--and giving you in charge?”
“I am sure that he would have given me in charge to twenty policemen if he could, and that nothing would have pleased him better than to have had me sent to penal servitude for life.”
“What I can’t make out is--why did he dislike you so?”
“My dear, I’m afraid the explanation is simple--too simple. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I’ve a notion--a very strong one--that he didn’t like you. He regarded you as a nuisance; you know how he kept you in the background as long as he could; you interfered with the sort of life he liked to live; you were in his way.”
“He certainly never at any period of his life or mine, showed himself over-anxious for my company.”
“When you did become installed in town, he had formed his own plans for your future. What precisely was the arrangement between them I don’t pretend to know; but I dare say I shall find out before long--it won’t need much to induce Wilkes to give himself away; but I am persuaded that it was his intention that you should become Mrs. Stephen Wilkes.”
“But what makes you think so? It seems to me so monstrous. Fancy me as Mrs. Stephen Wilkes!”
“Thank you, I’d rather not. It’s only a case of intuition, I admit, but I’m convinced I’m right, and one day I may be able to give you chapter and verse. He was not over-fond of me to begin with, but when you appeared on the scene, and he saw that his best laid plans bade fair to gang agley, he suddenly began to develop a feeling towards me which ended as it has done. It’s not a pretty one, but there’s my explanation. But, sweetheart, that page is ended; let’s turn it over and never look back at it; and all the rest of the volume--let’s try our best to make it happy reading.”
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