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"You are coming back!" she whispered, with a joy in her tone which amazed him. "I suppose I am," he admitted. "I like and admire Mrs. Weatherley's brother, Count Sabatini, and I have a genuine affection for Mrs. Weatherley, but I don't understand them. I don't understand these mysterious matters in which they seem mixed up."
I sent Hope to her dinner while I washed and made my patient comfortable. The room felt fresher and sweeter already; a bright fire burned in the polished grate; Hope had scoured the table and wiped the chairs, and the dirty quilt and valance had been sent to Mrs. Weatherley's to be washed. When Hope returned, and the sheets were aired, we re-made the bed. I had sent a message early to Mrs.
"Be off," he said, tersely. "I have queer humors sometimes lying here waiting for the end. Don't let it be your fate to excite one of them. You have had your escape." "What do you mean?" Arnold demanded. Isaac laughed hoarsely. "How many nights ago was it," he asked, "that you threw up a window in the man Weatherley's house the night Morris and I were there, seeking for Rosario?"
Weatherley's drawing-room there had been a note of incongruity. Here he seemed so thoroughly in accord with the air of masculine and cultivated refinement which dominated the atmosphere. He carried himself with the ease and dignity to which his race entitled him, but, apart from that, his manner had qualities which Arnold found particularly attractive.
He hung up his coat and hat and was preparing to enter Mr. Weatherley's room when the chief clerk saw him. Mr. Jarvis had been standing outside, superintending the unloading of several dray loads of American bacon. He laid his hand upon Arnold's shoulder. "One moment, Chetwode," he said. "I want to speak to you out here." Arnold followed him to a retired part of the warehouse. Mr.
"You found a burglar here, and, instead of securing him properly, you send up to me and go ringing up for doctors, and in the meantime the man calmly slips off through the window." Arnold made no reply. Mr. Weatherley's words seemed to come from a long way off. He was looking at Fenella. "The man was dead!" he muttered. She, too, was white, but she shook her head. "We thought so," she answered.
Weatherley's boudoir, the scandal and gossip will be a great deal worse than if you came forward and told the whole truth now." "I take my risk of that," Mr. Weatherley replied, coolly. "There isn't a soul except Groves who saw him, and Groves is my man. Now be so good as to get on with those letters, Chetwode, and consider the incident closed."
There aren't many things done here that I haven't a say in." "You may rely upon me," Arnold promised, slipping down from the barrel. "He's really quite a decent old chap, and if I can find out what's worrying him, and can help, I'll do it." Mr. Jarvis went back to his labors and Arnold made his way to Mr. Weatherley's room. His first knock remained unanswered.
He smoothed the letter out, switched on the electric reading light, and they all read it at the same time. It was written in Mr. Weatherley's familiar hand, every letter of which was perfectly distinct and legible. This is a record of certain instructions which I wish carried out in the event of my unexplained absence from business at any time.
"Do you know who he was?" Sabatini asked. "No one had any idea," Arnold answered. "I think that I was the only one who had ever seen him before. The night I dined at Mr. Weatherley's for the first time and met you, I was with Mrs. Weatherley in her room, and I saw that man steal up to the window as though he were going to break in." "This is most interesting," Sabatini declared.
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