And so it was with Phillip.
From petty thefts in his father’s offices he gradually and swiftly descended to greater villanies, until at last, as we have seen, even coolly-planned murder did not shock or retard him in his life of crime.
Like an apple, he was only getting sufficiently ripe to fall into the hands of justice, and, as will be seen in due course of time, he met with his proper deserts.
Weak and pale, Phillip sat in his father’s counting-house, in which were busily engaged dozens of industrious clerks.
He had sauntered through the offices with a supercilious air, and to those who politely bade him “good morrow” he only returned a contemptuous look, as if they were so much dirt, and beneath his notice.
As usual, he was elegantly dressed, and a servant assisted him into his father’s private office, where he lounged in a capacious chair, and toyed with a pet spaniel.
Old Redgill had been informed of his son’s wound, but up to the present time knew nothing as to what had occasioned it, for Phillip did not, in truth, in his own words, “he would not condescend” to live in his father’s house, but kept up a small but elegant “establishment” of his own, where wine parties, card playing, and magnificent suppers were the order of the night.
After a time old Redgill, the famous East India merchant, entered, and the father and son spoke of many things.
“But you have never told me how you got that sword thrust, Phillip,” said the father, in a very anxious tone. “I suppose you and some gay spark fell out on the road and had a pass or two at some roadside inn? I know your proud spirit, my son, and your headstrong valour.”
Phillip smiled faintly in a patronizing way, as if “a pass or two” with gay sparks was an every-day occurrence, although his own heart told him that he was one of the greatest cowards and villains unhung.