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Updated: June 21, 2025
With one hand he clutched at the dressing-gown, the girdle of which was trailing behind him. "What is the meaning of this, Fenella?" he demanded. "Why am I fetched from my room in this manner? You, Chetwode? What are you doing here?" "I have brought Mrs. Weatherley home, sir," Arnold answered. "We noticed a light in her room and we made a discovery there.
Rosario can take care of himself. We must go back now to the bridge-room. My husband is annoyed with me for coming away again." Mr. Weatherley met them in the passage. He was distinctly irritable. "My dear Fenella!" he exclaimed. "Your guests do not understand your absence. Mr. Rosario is most annoyed and I cannot imagine what is the matter with Starling.
"I haven't told you very much about Mrs. Weatherley," he said, simply. "She is very wonderful and very beautiful. She was very kind to me, too." Ruth leaned forward in her chair; her eyes read what she strove yet hated to see. She threw herself suddenly back, covering her face with her hands. The strain was over. She began to weep. Mr. Weatherley laid down his newspaper with a grunt.
Weatherley taken you into partnership, or has some one of your disagreeable relatives found you out and been pouring money into your pockets?" "Neither," he replied. "As a matter of fact, there is no Mr. Weatherley just at present." "No Mr. Weatherley?" she repeated, wonderingly. "I don't understand." The slightly worn look came back to Arnold's face.
Did you save her life? When are you going to see her again?" Chetwode was already on his knees, dragging out an old trunk from underneath the faded cupboard. Suddenly he paused with a gesture of despair. "Alas!" he exclaimed. "My dream fades away. Old Weatherley was married only last year. Consequently, his daughter " "He can't have one," she interrupted, ruthlessly. "Tell me the news at once?"
A moment or two later, Mr. Weatherley arrived. He passed through the office and bestowed upon every one his customary salutation. At Arnold's desk he paused for a moment. "Feeling all right this morning, young man?" he inquired, striving after a note of patronage which somehow or other eluded him. "Quite well, thank you, sir." "You found the evening pleasant, I hope?
But that there's something gone wrong with Mr. Weatherley, no one would deny who sees him as he is now and knows him as he was a year or so ago. There's Johnson, the foreman packer, who's been here as long as I have; and Elwick, the carter; and Hümmel, in the export department; we've all been talking together about this." "He doesn't speculate, I suppose?" Arnold enquired. "Not a ha'penny," Mr.
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."
Within a week after these things came to light a letter addressed to the manager of one of the leading banking institutions of Toronto arrived from Mr. Marcus Weatherley. He wrote from New York, but stated that he should leave there within an hour from the time of posting his letter.
The "Come in!" which procured for him admittance at his second attempt sounded both flurried and startled. Mr. Weatherley had the air of one who has been engaged in some criminal task. He drew the blotting-paper over the letter which he had been writing as Arnold entered. "Oh! it's you, is it, Chetwode?" he remarked, with an air of relief. "So you're back, eh? Pleasant luncheon?"
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