"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?"