LOVERS PARTING
Inspector Harlow having gone, with Mr. Parker as close companion, the
lovers being again alone together, it was pretty plain that they were
conscious that, since entering the house, the situation had materially
changed. Rodney, try how he might, could not erase from his mind, so
quickly as he wished, the impression that he had been assisting at
some hideous nightmare. He had supposed, at the sight of the little
man, that his accuser had come into the room. His nerves were strained
in the expectation that every moment the charge would be made. Even as
the instants passed, and he began to see the drift of the tale which
the man was telling, inventing it as he went on, he had a feeling that
he was only playing with him as a cat does with a mouse, and that,
just when it seemed least likely, he would right-about-face and,
perhaps with that diabolical snigger of his, place the onus of the
guilt on him. Now that the fellow had actually gone, a self-accused
prisoner in the inspector's charge, the feeling that he was still
taking part in some fantastic drama seemed stronger than ever.
Gladys, on her side, when at last she broke the curious silence, which
prevailed longer than either of them supposed after they had been left
together, quickly showed that she was obsessed by a mood in which he
did not know her, in which, as it were, she had slipped out of his
reach.
"Rodney, do you think that what that man said is true?"
"He seemed to give chapter and verse for most of it."
"But if it's true--dad didn't take his own life!"
"If it's true."
"But don't you see what a difference that makes?"
"Of course it makes a difference; but in what sense do you mean?"
"In every sense--every sense! Do you think--that while he's being
buried--I should be here--if I had known that he was murdered? He was
my father."
"In any case he was that."
"Not in any case, not in any case! I may have got him all wrong! I may
have misjudged! I may--I don't know what I mayn't have done. There's
the letter!"
"What letter?"
"To Mr. Wilkes. You said, when he wrote it, he was mad, and that
taking his own life proved it. I thought so. But, if he didn't take
his own life, what then?" Rodney made an effort to regain his
self-possession, and partially succeeded.
"My dear Gladys, the whole business is a bad one, whichever way you
look at it. We are to be married on Monday."
"Monday? Married--to you?"
The knowledge of women on which he was apt to pride himself ought to
have warned him that this was not the same girl as the one with whom
he had come back from lunch in the cab. But at the moment he was not
yet quite himself; his perception was at fault. He made a mistake.
"My dear Gladys, you are perfectly well aware that the arrangement, as
it stands at present, is that we are to be married on Monday. I was
merely about to suggest that, as it would seem that this whole
unfortunate affair is likely to prove too much, we should be married
to-morrow instead, and then we shall be able to get out of this
unpleasant atmosphere at the earliest possible moment."
"Stop! stop!"
She shouted at rather than spoke to him.
"Perhaps I shall not be married to you at all."
He stared at her in genuine amazement.
"Gladys! What are you talking about? What do you mean?"
"I don't know what I mean; I almost hope I never may know."
"My dear child; that wretched man."
"Have you ever seen him before?"
"Seen whom?"
"You know quite well. That--wretched man."
"So far as I'm aware, never in my life. What makes you ask such a
question?"
"Are you sure? Do you swear it?"
"How can a man swear to a thing like that? But I do swear that, to the
best of my knowledge and belief, I have never seen him before."
"Then how came it that he knew you so well?"
"Knew me so well? Gladys! What are you dreaming about? Why, he never
even addressed me by name."
"No, I noticed that; but he addressed you all the same. Most of what
he said was especially addressed to you, as if he knew that you would
understand."
"What are you driving at?"
"What's more, he saw that I was afraid of you."
"Afraid? You? Why, you could hardly have snuggled closer."
"That was because I was afraid to let you know how afraid of you I
was."
"Gladys! Has that creature turned your brain?"
"I--I don't know. Oh, if I could only say a few words to dad--if I
only could!"
"What would they be?"
"I would--ask him--how--he died."
"You have two stories offered for your choice. Are you content with
neither?"
"Rodney, if my father were standing here now, and his spirit may be,
would you tell me, in his presence, that you don't know why he
disliked you?"
"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.