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Updated: June 21, 2025
We were all out of the room for about five minutes, and when we came back he was gone. I think that he must have got up and walked away." "You don't think that I murdered him, then?" Mr. Weatherley inquired, anxiously. "Not you," Arnold assured him. "You stopped his hurting Mrs. Weatherley, though." Mr. Weatherley sighed. "I should like to have killed him," he admitted, simply.
It was a long street and there was a public-house at the corner, and I had a job somewhere, hadn't I, stacking cheeses? Look here, Chetwode, you must tell me all about it. You're my private secretary. You ought to know everything of that sort." "I'll make it all right with Mrs. Weatherley," Arnold promised. "We can't go into all these matters now." "Of course not of course not," Mr.
I got elected there well, never mind how but it's one thing to be a member of a club, and quite another to get to know the men there. You understand that, Mr. Jarvis." Mr. Jarvis, however, did not understand it. He could conceive of no spot in the city of London, or its immediate neighborhood, where Mr. Samuel Weatherley, head of the firm of Messrs.
Weatherley, had risen to his feet and walked as far as the window. On his way back to his place, he looked at the little safe which he had made over to his secretary. "You've got my papers there all right, Chetwode?" he asked. "Certainly, sir," Arnold answered. "I hope, however, we may never need to use them." Mr. Weatherley smiled. He was busy choosing another cigar.
Then he turned to Arnold with a queer little twinkle in his eyes. "By the bye," he asked, "you haven't heard Fenella hasn't told you of the last turn in fortune's wheel?" "I have seen little of Mrs. Weatherley lately," Arnold murmured. Sabatini leaned back in his place. His hollow eyes were lit now with laughter, his mouth twitched. The marks of his illness seemed almost to pass.
"Why, it seems as though he had gone away somewhere of his own accord. After all, it can't be an accident, or anything of that sort." Neither Arnold nor Mrs. Weatherley made any immediate reply. She pointed to the letter. "When did he write this?" she asked. "Last Thursday," Arnold replied; "less than a week ago." She sighed softly. "Really, it is most mysterious," she said.
Weatherley. He is a rich man and a prosperous man. There is no reason why he should sit in his office and gaze into the fire and look out of the window as though the place were full of shadows and he hated the sight of them. Yet that is what he does nowadays, Chetwode. What does it mean? I ask you frankly. Haven't you noticed yourself that his behavior is peculiar?"
There was the dead man and Isaac, Groves the butler, Fenella herself pale as death, her hands clasping at her bosom as though in pain. Arnold turned, shivering, away; his head sank into his hands. It seemed to him that poison had crept into those dreams. At precisely half-past nine the next morning, Mr. Weatherley entered his office in Tooley Street.
Weatherley's desk was as yet untouched. "Any idea where the governor is?" the cashier asked. "He's nearly half an hour late." Arnold glanced at the clock. "Mr. Weatherley is spending the week-end down the river," he said. "I dare say the trains up are a little awkward." Mr. Jarvis looked at him curiously. "How do you happen to know that?" "I was there yesterday for a short time," Arnold told him.
Weatherley left home exceedingly early this morning," she announced. "I believe that it was before half-past seven. Except that he called at the house in Hampstead for the letters, I have not heard of him since." "It is most mysterious," Mr. Jarvis declared. "The governor I beg your pardon, Mr. Weatherley is a gentleman of most punctual habits.
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