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."