The Lighted Way E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

A mystery story that involves the revolution in Portugal. Arnold Chetwode never intended to become involved in international intrigue. Arnold, a gently born young man in impecunious circumstances, toils as a lowly, ill-paid clerk in the prosperous London firm run by Mr. Weatherley, he is industrious but common merchant. A surprising invitation puts him at the right time and place to be a witness to a public murder. His employer and employer’s family are involved in the aftermath. Even Ruth, the poor invalid who befriended him when he was penniless. Full of descriptions of London settings, society, restaurants, country houses, and early motorcars, the novel careens back and forth between politics and romance. The reader is kept in complete mystery until the whole story is explained.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. AN INVITATION TO DINNER

II. RUTH

III. ARNOLD SCENTS MYSTERY

IV. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW

V. AN UNUSUAL ERRAND

VI. THE GLEAM OF STEEL

VII. “ROSARIO IS DEAD!”

VIII. THE DUTIES OF A SECRETARY

IX. A STRAINED CONVERSATION

X. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

XI. AN INTERRUPTED LUNCHEON

XII. JARVIS IS JUSTLY DISTURBED

XIII. CASTLES IN SPAIN

XIV. SABATINI’S DOCTRINES

XV. THE RED SIGNET RING

XVI. AN ADVENTURE

XVII. THE END OF AN EVENING

XVIII. DISCUSSING THE MYSTERY

XIX. IN THE COUNTRY

XX. WOMAN’S WILES

XXI. ARNOLD SPEAKS OUT

XXII. THE REFUGEE’S RETURN

XXIII. TROUBLE BREWING

XXIV. ISAAC AT BAY

XXV. MR. WEATHERLEY’S DISAPPEARANCE

XXVI. ARNOLD BECOMES INQUISITIVE

XXVII. THE LETTERS IN THE SAFE

XXVIII. TALK OF TREASURE SHIPS

XXIX. COUNT SABATINI VISITS

XXX. SOME QUESTIONS ANSWERED

XXXI. A LUNCHEON-PARTY

XXXII. ISAAC IN HIDING

XXXIII. SABATINI’S DAUGHTER

XXXIV. CLOSE TO TRAGEDY

XXXV. MR. WEATHERLEY RETURNS

XXXVI. COUNTERCLAIMS

XXXVII. THE SHIPS COME IN

I. AN INVITATION TO DINNER

Mr. Samuel Weatherley, sole proprietor of the firm of Samuel Weatherley & Co., wholesale provision merchants, of Tooley Street, London, paused suddenly on his way from his private office to the street. There was something which until that second had entirely slipped his memory. It was not his umbrella, for that, neatly tucked up, was already under his arm. Nor was it the Times, for that, together with the supplement, was sticking out of his overcoat pocket, the shape of which it completely ruined. As a matter of fact, it was more important than either of these–it was a commission from his wife.

Very slowly he retraced his steps until he stood outside the glass-enclosed cage where twelve of the hardest-worked clerks in London bent over their ledgers and invoicing. With his forefinger–a fat, pudgy forefinger–he tapped upon a pane of glass, and an anxious errand boy bolted through the doorway.

“Tell Mr. Jarvis to step this way,” his employer ordered.

Mr. Jarvis heard the message and came hurrying out. He was an undersized man, with somewhat prominent eyes concealed by gold-rimmed spectacles. He was possessed of extraordinary talents with regard to the details of the business, and was withal an expert and careful financier. Hence his hold upon the confidence of his employer.

The latter addressed him with a curious and altogether unusual hesitation in his manner.

“Mr. Jarvis,” he began, “there is a matter–a little matter–upon which I–er–wish to consult you.”

“Those American invoices–”

“Nothing to do with business at all,” Mr. Weatherley interrupted, ruthlessly. “A little private matter.”

“Indeed, sir?” Mr. Jarvis interjected.

“The fact is,” Mr. Weatherley blundered on, with considerable awkwardness, for he hated the whole affair, “my wife–Mrs. Weatherley, you know–is giving a party this evening–having some friends to dinner first, and then some other people coming to bridge. We are a man short for dinner. Mrs. Weatherley told me to get some one at the club–telephoned down here just an hour ago.”

Mr. Weatherley paused. Mr. Jarvis did his best to grasp the situation, but failed. All that he could do was to maintain his attitude of intelligent interest.

“I don’t know any one at the club,” continued his employer, irritably. “I feel like a fish out of water there, and that’s the truth, Mr. Jarvis. It’s a good club. 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 & Co., could find himself among his social superiors. He knew the capital of the firm, and its status. He was ignorant of the other things which counted–as ignorant as his master had been until he had paid a business visit a few years ago, in search of certain edibles, to an island in the Mediterranean Sea. He was to have returned in triumph to Tooley Street and launched upon the provision-buying world a new cheese of astounding quality and infinitesimal price–instead of which he brought home a wife.

“Anything I can do, sir,” began Mr. Jarvis, a little vaguely,–

“My idea was,” Mr. Weatherley proceeded, “that one of my own young men–there are twelve of them in there, aren’t there?” he added, jerking his head in the direction of the office–“might do. What do you think?”

Mr. Jarvis nodded thoughtfully.

“It would be a great honor, sir,” he declared, “a very great honor indeed.”

Mr. Weatherley did not contradict him. As a matter of fact, he was of the same opinion.

“The question is which,” he continued.

Mr. Jarvis began to understand why he had been consulted. His fingers involuntarily straightened his tie.

“If I could be of any use personally, sir,–”

His employer shook his head.

“My wife would expect me to bring a single man, Jarvis,” he said, “and besides, I don’t suppose you play bridge.”

“Cards are not much in my line,” Mr. Jarvis admitted, “not having, as a rule, the time to spare, but I can take a hand at loo, if desired.”

“My wife’s friends all play bridge,” Mr. Weatherley declared, a little brusquely. “There’s only one young man in the office, Jarvis, who, from his appearance, struck me as being likely.”

“Mr. Stephen Tidey, of course, sir,” the confidential clerk agreed. “Most suitable thing, sir, and I’m sure his father would accept it as a high compliment. Mr. Stephen Tidey Senior, sir, as you may be aware, is next on the list for the shrievalty. Shall I call him out, sir?”

Mr. Weatherley looked through the glass and met the glance, instantly lowered, of the young man in question. Mr. Stephen Tidey Junior was short and stout, reflecting in his physique his aldermanic father. His complexion was poor, however, his neck thick, and he wore a necktie of red silk drawn through a diamond ring. There was nothing in his appearance which grated particularly upon Mr. Weatherley’s sense of seemliness. Nevertheless, he shook his head. He was beginning to recognize his wife’s point of view, even though it still seemed strange to him.

“I wasn’t thinking of young Tidey at all,” he declared, bluntly. “I was thinking of that young fellow at the end of the desk there–chap with a queer name–Chetwode, I think you call him.”

Mr. Jarvis, human automaton though he was, permitted himself an exclamation of surprise.

“Young Chetwode! Surely you’re not in earnest, sir!”

“Why not?” Mr. Weatherley demanded. “There’s nothing against him, is there?”

“Nothing against him, precisely,” Mr. Jarvis confessed, “but he’s at the lowest desk in the office, bar Smithers. His salary is only twenty-eight shillings a week, and we know nothing whatever about him except that his references were satisfactory. It isn’t to be supposed that he would feel at home in your house, sir. Now, with Mr. Tidey, sir, it’s quite different. They live in a very beautiful house at Sydenham now–quite a small palace, in its way, I’ve been told.”

Mr. Weatherley was getting a little impatient.

“Send Chetwode out for a moment, anyway,” he directed. “I’ll speak to him here.”

Mr. Jarvis obeyed in silence. He entered the office and touched the young man in question upon the shoulder.

“Mr. Weatherley wishes to speak to you outside, Chetwode,” he announced. “Make haste, please.”

Arnold Chetwode put down his pen and rose to his feet. There was nothing flurried about his manner, nothing whatever to indicate on his part any knowledge of the fact that this was the voice of Fate beating upon his ear. He did not even show the ordinary interest of a youthful employee summoned for the first time to an audience with his chief. Standing for a moment by the side of the senior clerk in the middle of the office, tall and straight, with deep brown hair, excellent features, and the remnants of a healthy tan still visible on his forehead and neck, he looked curiously out of place in this unwholesome, gaslit building with its atmosphere of cheese and bacon. He would have been noticeably good-looking upon the cricket field or in any gathering of people belonging to the other side of life. Here he seemed almost a curiously incongruous figure. He passed through the glass-paned door and stood respectfully before his employer. Mr. Weatherley–it was absurd, but he scarcely knew how to make his suggestion–fidgetted for a moment and coughed. The young man, who, among many other quite unusual qualities, was possessed of a considerable amount of tact, looked down upon his employer with a little well-assumed anxiety. As a matter of fact, he really was exceedingly anxious not to lose his place.

“I understood from Mr. Jarvis that you wished to speak to me, sir,” he remarked. “I hope that my work has given satisfaction? I know that I am quite inexperienced but I don’t think that I have made any mistakes.”

Mr. Weatherley was, to tell the truth, thankful for the opening.

“I have had no complaints, Chetwode,” he admitted, struggling for that note of condescension which he felt to be in order. “No complaints at all. I was wondering if you–you happened to play bridge?”

Once more this extraordinary young man showed himself to be possessed of gifts quite unusual at his age. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did he show the least surprise or amusement.

“Bridge, sir,” he repeated. “Yes, I have played at–I have played occasionally.”

“My wife is giving a small dinner-party this evening,” Mr. Weatherley continued, moving his umbrella from one hand to the other and speaking very rapidly, “bridge afterwards. We happen to be a man short. I was to have called at the club to try and pick up some one–find I sha’n’t have time–meeting at the Cannon Street Hotel to attend. Would you–er–fill the vacant place? Save me the trouble of looking about.”

It was out at last and Mr. Weatherley felt unaccountably relieved. He felt at the same time a certain measure of annoyance with his junior clerk for his unaltered composure.

“I shall be very much pleased, sir,” he answered, without hesitation. “About eight, I suppose?”

Again Mr. Weatherley’s relief was tempered with a certain amount of annoyance. This young man’s savoir faire was out of place. He should have imagined a sort of high-tea supper at seven o’clock, and been gently corrected by his courteous employer. As it was, Mr. Weatherley felt dimly confident that this junior clerk of his was more accustomed to eight o’clock dinners than he was himself.

“A quarter to, to-night,” he replied. “People coming for bridge afterwards, you see. I live up Hampstead way–Pelham Lodge–quite close to the tube station.”

Mr. Weatherley omitted the directions he had been about to give respecting toilet, and turned away. His youthful employee’s manners, to the last, were all that could be desired.

“I am much obliged to you, sir,” he said. “I will take care to be punctual.”

Mr. Weatherley grunted and walked out into the street. Here his behavior was a little singular. He walked up toward London Bridge, exchanging greetings with a good many acquaintances on the way. Opposite the London & Westminster Bank he paused for a moment and looked searchingly around. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he stepped quickly into a very handsome motor car which was drawn up close to the curb, and with a sigh of relief sat as far back among the cushions as possible and held the tube to his mouth.

“Get along home,” he ordered, tersely.

* * * * *

Arnold Chetwode, after his interview with his employer, returned unruffled to his place. Mr. Jarvis bustled in after him. He was annoyed, but he wished to conceal the fact. Besides, he still had an arrow in his quiver. He came and stood over his subordinate.

“Congratulate you, I’m sure, Chetwode,” he said smoothly. “First time any one except myself has been to the house since Mr. Weatherley’s marriage.”

Mr. Jarvis had taken the letters there one morning when his employer had been unwell, and had waited in the hall. He did not, however, mention that fact.

“Indeed?” Chetwode murmured, with his eye upon his work.

“You understand, of course,” Mr. Jarvis continued, “that it will be an evening-dress affair. Mrs. Weatherley has the name of being very particular.”

He glanced covertly at the young man, who was already immersed in his work.

“Evening dress,” Chetwode remarked, with a becoming show of interest. “Well, I dare say I can manage something. If I wear a black coat and a white silk bow, and stick a red handkerchief in underneath my waistcoat, I dare say I shall be all right. Mr. Weatherley can’t expect much from me in that way, can he?”

The senior clerk was secretly delighted. It was not for him to acquaint this young countryman with the necessities of London life. He turned away and took up a bundle of letters.

“Can’t say, I’m sure, what the governor expects,” he replied, falsely. “You’ll have to do the best you can, I suppose. Better get on with those invoices now.”

Once more the office resounded to the hum of its varied labors. Mr. Jarvis, dictating letters to a typist, smiled occasionally as he pictured the arrival of this over-favored young man in the drawing-room of Mrs. Weatherley, attired in the nondescript fashion which his words had suggested. One or two of the clerks ventured upon a chaffing remark. To all appearance, the person most absorbed in his work was the young man who had been singled out for such especial favor.

II. RUTH

In the topmost chamber of the last of a row of somber gray stone houses in Adam Street a girl with a thin but beautiful face and large, expectant eyes sat close to the bare, uncurtained window, from which it was possible to command a view of the street below. A book which she had apparently been reading had fallen neglected onto the floor. Steadfastly she watched the passers-by. Her delicate, expressive features were more than once illuminated with joy, only to be clouded, a moment later, with disappointment. The color came and went in her cheeks, as though, indeed, she were more sensitive than her years. Occasionally she glanced around at the clock. Time dragged so slowly in that great bare room with its obvious touch of poverty!

At last a tall figure came striding along the pavement below. This time no mistake was possible. There was a fluttering handkerchief from above, an answering wave of the hand. The girl drew a sigh of inexpressible content, moved away from the window and faced the door, with lifted head waiting for the sound of footsteps upon the stairs. They arrived at last. The door was thrown open. Arnold Chetwode came hastily across the room and gripped the two hands which were held out to him. Then he bent down and kissed her forehead.

“Dear little Ruth!” he exclaimed. “I hope you were careful crossing the landing?”

The girl leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were fixed anxiously upon his face. She completely ignored his question.

“The news at once!” she insisted. “Tell me, Arnold!”

He was a little taken aback.

“How did you know that I had any?”

She smiled delightfully.

“Know, indeed! I knew it directly I saw you, I knew it every time your foot touched the stairs. What is it, Arnold? The cheeses didn’t smell so bad to-day? Or you’ve had a rise? Quick! I must hear all about it.”

“You shall,” Arnold replied. “It is a wonderful story. Listen. Have you ever heard the fable of Dick Whittington?”

“Married his employer’s daughter, of course. What’s she like, Arnold? Have you seen her? 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?”

“I am going to dine with old Weatherley,” he announced.

The girl smiled, a little wistfully.

“How funny! But you will get a good dinner, won’t you, Arnold? Eat ever so much, dear. Yesterday I fancied that you were getting thin. I do wish I could see what you have in the middle of the day.”

“Little mother!” he laughed. “To-day I gorged myself on poached eggs. What did Isaac give you?”

“Mutton stew and heaps of it,” the girl replied, quickly. “To-night I shall have a bowl of milk as soon as you are gone. Have you everything you ought to have to wear, Arnold?”

“Everything,” he declared, rising to his feet with a sigh of relief. “It’s so long since I looked at my clothes that to tell you the truth I was a little bit anxious. They may be old-fashioned, but they came from a good man to start with.”

“What made Mr. Weatherley ask you?” she demanded.

“Wanted one of his clerks to fill up and found that I played bridge,” Arnold answered. “It’s rather a bore, isn’t it? But, after all, he is my employer.”

“Of course you must go and behave your very nicest. Tell me, when have you to start?”

“I ought to be changing in a quarter of an hour. What shall we do till then?”

“Whatever you like,” she murmured.

“I am coming to sit at the window with you,” he said. “We’ll look down at the river and you shall tell me stories about the ships.”

She laughed and took his hand as he dragged a chair over to her side. He put his arm around her and her head fell naturally back upon his shoulder. Her eyes sought his. He was leaning forward, gazing down between the curving line of lamp-posts, across the belt of black river with its flecks of yellow light. But Ruth watched him only.

“Arnie,” she whispered in his ear, “there are no fairy ships upon the river to-night.”

He smiled.

“Why not, little one? You have only to close your eyes.”

Slowly she shook her head.

“Don’t think that I am foolish, dear,” she begged. “To-night I cannot look upon the river at all. I feel that there is something new here–here in this room. The great things are here, Arnold. I can feel life hammering and throbbing in the air. We aren’t in a garret any longer, dear. It’s a fairy palace. Listen. Can’t you hear the people shout, and the music, and the fountains playing? Can’t you see the dusky walls fall back, the marble pillars, the lights in the ceiling?”

He turned his head. He found himself, indeed, listening, found himself almost disappointed to hear nothing but the far-off, eternal roar of the city, and the melancholy grinding of a hurdy-gurdy below. Always she carried him away by her intense earnestness, the bewitching softness of her voice, even when it was galleons full of treasure that she saw, with blood-red sails, coming up the river, full of treasure for them. To-night her voice had more than its share of inspiration, her fancies clung to her feverishly.

“Be careful, Arnold,” she murmured. “To-night means a change. There is something new coming. I can feel it coming in my heart.”

Her face was drawn and pale. He laughed down into her eyes.

“Little lady,” he reminded her, mockingly, “I am going to dine with my cheesemonger employer.”

She shook her head dreamily. She refused to be dragged down.

“There’s something beating in the air,” she continued. “It came into the room with you. Don’t you feel it? Can’t you feel that you are going to a tragedy? Life is going to be different, Arnold, to be different always.”

He drew himself up. A flicker of passion flamed in his own deep gray eyes.

“Different, child? Of course it’s going to be different. If there weren’t something else in front, do you think one could live? Do you think one could be content to struggle through this miserable quagmire if one didn’t believe that there was something else on the other side of the hill?”

She sighed, and her fingers touched his.

“I forgot,” she said simply. “You see, there was a time when I hadn’t you. You lifted me out of my quagmire.”

“Not high enough, dear,” he answered, caressingly. “Some day I’ll take you over to Berlin or Vienna, or one of those wonderful places. We’ll leave Isaac to grub along and sow red fire in Hyde Park. We’ll find the doctors. We shall teach you to walk again without that stick. No more gloominess, please.”

She pressed his hand tightly.

“Dear Arnold!” she whispered softly.

“Turn around and watch the river with me, little one,” he begged. “See the lights on the barges, how slowly they move. What is there behind that one, I wonder?”

Her eyes followed his finger without enthusiasm.

“I can’t look out of the room to-night, Arnold,” she said. “The fancies won’t come. Promise me one thing.”

“I promise,” he agreed.

“Tell me everything–don’t keep anything back.”

“On my honor,” he declared, smiling. “I will bring the menu of the dinner, if there is one, and a photograph of Mrs. Cheesemonger if I can steal it. Now I am going to help you back into your room.”

“Don’t bother,” she begged. “Open the door and I can get there quite easily.”

He set the door open and, crossing the bare stone landing, opened the door of another room, similar to his. They were somber apartments at the top of the deserted house, which had once been a nobleman’s residence. The doors were still heavy, though blistered with time and lack of varnish. There were the remains of paneling upon the wall and frescoes upon the ceiling.

“Come and see me before you go,” she pleaded. “I am all alone. Isaac has gone to a meeting somewhere.”

He promised and returned to his own apartment. With the help of a candle which he stuck upon the mantelpiece, and a cracked mirror, he first of all shaved, then disappeared for a few minutes behind a piece of faded curtain and washed vigorously. Afterwards he changed his clothes, putting on a dress suit produced from the trunk. When he had finished, he stepped back and laughed softly to himself. His clothes were well cut. His studs, which had very many times been on the point of visiting the pawnbroker’s, were correct and good. He was indeed an incongruous figure as he stood there and, with a candle carefully held away from him in his hand, looked at his own reflection. For some reason or other, he was feeling elated. Ruth’s words had lingered in his brain. One could never tell which way fortune might come!

He found her waiting in the darkness. Her long arms were wound for a moment around his neck, a sudden passion shook her.

“Arnold–dear Arnold,” she sobbed, “you are going into the storm–and I want to go! I want to go, too! My hands are cold, and my heart. Take me with you, dear!”

He was a little startled. It was not often that she was hysterical. He looked down into her convulsed face. She choked for a moment, and then, although it was not altogether a successful effort, she laughed.

“Don’t mind me,” she begged. “I am a little mad to-night. I think that the twilight here has got upon my nerves. Light the lamp, please. Light the lamp and leave me alone for a moment while you do it.”

He obeyed, fetching some matches from his own room and setting the lamp, when it was lit, on the table by her side. There were no tears left in her eyes now. Her lips were tremulous, but an unusual spot of color was burning in her cheeks. While he had been dressing, he saw that she had tied a piece of deep blue ribbon, the color he liked best, around her hair.

“See, I am myself now. Good night and good luck to you, Arnold! Eat a good dinner, mind, and remember your promise.”

“There is nothing more that I can do for you?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied. “Besides, I can hear Uncle Isaac coming.”

The door was suddenly opened. A thin, undersized man in worn black clothes, and with a somber hat of soft black felt still upon his head, came into the room. His dark hair was tinged with gray, he walked with a pronounced stoop. In his shabby clothes, fitting loosely upon his diminutive body, he should have been an insignificant figure, but somehow or other he was nothing of the sort. His thin lips curved into a discontented droop. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes shone with the brightness of the fanatic. Arnold greeted him familiarly.

“Hullo, Isaac!” he exclaimed. “You are just in time to save Ruth from being left all alone.”

The newcomer came to a standstill. He looked the speaker over from head to foot with an expression of growing disgust, and he spat upon the floor.

“What livery’s that?” he demanded.

Arnold laughed good-naturedly.

“Come, Isaac,” he protested, “I don’t often inflict it upon you, do I? It’s something that belongs to the world on the other side, you know. We all of us have to look over the fence now and then. I have to cross the borderland to-night for an hour or so.”

Isaac threw open the door by which he had entered.

“Get out of here,” he ordered. “If you were one of us, I’d call you a traitor for wearing the rags. As it is, I say that no one is welcomed under my roof who looks as you look now. Why, d–n it, I believe you’re a gentleman!”

Arnold laughed softly.

“My dear Isaac,” he retorted, “I am as I was born and made. You can’t blame me for that, can you? Besides,–”

He broke off suddenly. A little murmur from the girl behind reminded him of her presence. He passed on to the door.

“Good night, Isaac,” he said. “Look after Ruth. She’s lonely to-night.”

“I’ll look after her,” was the grim reply. “As for you, get you gone. There was one of your sort came to the meeting of Jameson’s moulders this afternoon. He had a question to ask and I answered him. He wanted to know wherein wealth was a sin, and I told him.”

Arnold Chetwode was young and his sense of humor triumphant. He turned on the threshold and looked into the shadowy room, dimly lit with its cheap lamp. He kissed his hands to Ruth.

“My dear Isaac,” he declared, lightly, “you are talking like an ass. I have two shillings and a penny ha’penny in my pocket, which has to last me till Saturday, and I earn my twenty-eight shillings a week in old Weatherley’s counting-house as honestly as you earn your wage by thundering from Labor platforms and articles in the Clarion. My clothes are part of the livery of civilization. The journalist who reports a Lord Mayor’s dinner has to wear them. Some day, when you’ve got your seat in Parliament, you’ll wear them yourself. Good night!”

He paused before closing the door. Ruth’s kiss came wafted to him from the shadows where her great eyes were burning like stars. Her uncle had turned his back upon him. The word he muttered sounded like a malediction, but Arnold Chetwode went down the stone steps blithely. It was an untrodden land, this, into which he was to pass.

III. ARNOLD SCENTS MYSTERY

From the first, nothing about that evening was as Arnold had expected. He took the tube to Hampstead station, and, the night being dry, he walked to Pelham Lodge without detriment to his carefully polished patent shoes. The neighborhood was entirely strange to him and he was surprised to find that the house which was pointed out to him by a policeman was situated in grounds of not inconsiderable extent, and approached by a short drive. Directly he rang the bell he was admitted not by a flamboyant parlormaid but by a quiet, sad-faced butler in plain, dark livery, who might have been major-domo to a duke. The house was even larger than he had expected, and was handsomely furnished in an extremely subdued style. It was dimly, almost insufficiently lit, and there was a faint but not unpleasant odor in the drawing-room which reminded him of incense. The room itself almost took his breath away. It was entirely French. The hangings, carpet and upholstery were all of a subdued rose color and white. Arnold, who was, for a young man, exceedingly susceptible to impressions, looked around him with an air almost of wonder. It was fortunate, perhaps, that the room was empty.

“Mr. and Mrs. Weatherley will be downstairs in one moment, sir,” the man announced. “Mr. Weatherley was a little late home from the city.”

Arnold nodded and stood upon the hearthrug, looking around him. He was quite content to spend a few moments alone, to admire the drooping clusters of roses, the elegance with which every article of furniture and appointment of the room seemed to fit into its place. Somehow or other, too, nothing appeared new. Everything seemed subdued by time into its proper tone. He began to wonder what sort of woman the presiding genius over such perfection could be. Then, with a quaint transition of thought, he remembered the little counting-house in Tooley Street, the smell of cheeses, and Mr. Weatherley’s half-nervous invitation. His lips twitched and he began to smile. These things seemed to belong to a world so far away.

Presently he heard footsteps outside and voices. The door was opened but the person outside did not immediately enter. Apparently she had turned round to listen to the man who was still some distance behind. Arnold recognized his employer’s voice.

“I am sorry that you are displeased, my dear Fenella, but I assure you that I did the best I could. It is true that the young man is in my office, but I am convinced that you will find him presentable.”

A peal of the softest and most musical laughter that Arnold had ever heard in his life effectually stopped Mr. Weatherley’s protestations. Yet, for all its softness and for all its music, there was a different note underneath, something a little bitter, unutterably scornful.

“My dear Samuel, it is true, without doubt, that you did your best. I do not blame you at all. It was I who was foolish to leave such a matter in your hands. It was not likely that among your acquaintances there was one whom I would have cared to welcome to my house. But that you should have gone to your employees–that, indeed, is funny! You do amuse me very much. Come.”

The door was pushed fully open now and a woman entered, at the sight of whom Arnold forgot all his feelings of mingled annoyance and amusement. She was of little over the medium height, exceedingly slim–a slimness which was accentuated by the fashion of the gown she wore. Her face was absolutely devoid of color, but her features were almost cameo-like in their sensitive perfection. Her eyes were large and soft and brown, her hair a Titian red, worn low and without ornament. Her dress was of pale blue satin, which somehow had the effect of being made in a single piece, without seam or joining. Her neck and throat, exquisitely white, were bare except for a single necklace of pearls which reached almost to her knees. The look in Arnold’s face, as she came slowly into the room, was one of frank and boyish admiration. The woman came towards him with a soft smile about her lips, but she was evidently puzzled. It was Mr. Weatherley who spoke. There was something almost triumphant in his manner.

“This is Mr. Chetwode, dear, of whom I was speaking to you,” he said. “Glad to see you, Chetwode,” he added, with ponderous condescension.

The woman laughed softly as she held out her hand.

“Are you going to pretend that you were deaf, to forgive me and be friends, Mr. Chetwode?” she asked, looking up at him. “One foggy day my husband took me to Tooley Street, and I did not believe that anything good could come out of the yellow fog and the mud and the smells. It was my ignorance. You heard, but you do not mind? I am sure that you do not mind?”

“Not a bit in the world,” Arnold answered, still holding the hand which she seemed to have forgotten to draw away, and smiling down into her upturned face. “I was awfully sorry to overhear but you see I couldn’t very well help it, could I?”

“Of course you could not help it,” she replied. “I am so glad that you came and I hope that we can make it pleasant for you. I will try and send you in to dinner with some one very charming.”

She laughed at him understandingly as his lips parted and closed again without speech. Then she turned away to welcome some other guests, who were at that moment announced. Arnold stood in the background for a few minutes. Presently she came back to him.

“Do you know any one here?” she asked.

“No one,” he answered.

She dropped her voice almost to a whisper. Arnold bent his head and listened with a curious pleasure to her little stream of words.

“It is a strange mixture of people whom you see here,” she said, “a mixture, perhaps, of the most prosaic and the most romantic. The Count Sabatini, whom you see talking to my husband, is my brother. He is a person who lives in the flood of adventures. He has taken part in five wars, he has been tried more than once for political offenses. He has been banished from what is really our native country, Portugal, with a price set upon his head. He has an estate upon which nothing grows, and a castle with holes in the roof in which no one could dwell. Yet he lives–oh, yes, he lives!”

Arnold looked across at the man of whom she was speaking–gaunt and olive-skinned, with deep-set eyes and worn face. He had still some share of his sister’s good looks and he held himself as a man of his race should.

“I think I should like your brother,” Arnold declared. “Will he talk about his campaigns?”

“Perhaps,” she murmured, “although there is one about which you would not care to hear. He fought with the Boers, but we will not speak of that. Mr. and Mrs. Horsman there I shall say nothing about. Imagine for yourself where they belong.”

“They are your husband’s friends,” he decided, unhesitatingly.

“You are a young man of great perceptions,” she replied. “I am going to like you, I am sure. Come, there is Mr. Starling standing by the door. What do you think of him?”

Arnold glanced across the room. Mr. Starling was apparently a middle-aged man–clean-shaven, with pale cheeks and somewhat narrow eyes.

“An American, without a doubt,” Arnold remarked.

“Quite right. Now the lady in the gray satin with the wonderful coiffure–she has looked at you already more than once. Her name is Lady Blennington, and she is always trying to discover new young men.”

Arnold glanced at her deliberately and back again at his hostess.

“There is nothing for me to say about her,” he declared.

“You are wonderful,” she murmured. “That is so exactly what one feels about Lady Blennington. Then there is Lady Templeton–that fluffy little thing behind my husband. She looks rather as though she had come out of a toy shop, does she not?”

“She looks nice,” Arnold admitted. “I knew–”

She glanced up at him and waited. Arnold, however, had stopped short.

“You have not yet told me,” he said, “the name of the man who stands alone near the door–the one with the little piece of red ribbon in his coat?”

It seemed to him that, for some reason, the presence of that particular person affected her. He was a plump little man, sleek and well-dressed, with black hair, very large pearl studs, black moustache and imperial. Mrs. Weatherley stood quite still for a moment. Perhaps, he thought, she was listening to the conversation around them.

“The man’s name is Rosario,” she replied. “He is a financier and a man of fashion. Another time you must tell me what you think of him, but I warn you that it will not be so easy as with those others, for he is also a man of schemes. I am sorry, but I must send you in now with Mrs. Horsman, who is much too amiable to be anything else but dull. You shall come with me and I will introduce you.”

Dinner was announced almost at that moment. Arnold, keen to enjoy, with all the love of new places and the enthusiasm of youth in his veins, found every moment of the meal delightful. They took their places at a round table with shaded lights artistically arranged, so that they seemed to be seated before a little oasis of flowers and perfumes in the midst of a land of shadows. He found his companion pleasant and sympathetic. She had a son about his age who was going soon into the city and about whom she talked incessantly. On his left, Lady Blennington made frank attempts to engage him in conversation whenever an opportunity arose. Arnold felt his spirits rise with every moment. He laughed and talked the whole of the time, devoting himself with very little intermission to one or the other of his two neighbors. Mr. Weatherley, who was exceedingly uncomfortable and found it difficult even to remember his few staple openings, looked across the table more than once in absolute wonder that this young man who, earning a wage of twenty-eight shillings a week, and occupying almost the bottom stool in his office, could yet be entirely and completely at his ease in this exalted company. More than once Arnold caught his hostess’s eye, and each time he felt, for some unknown reason, a little thrill of pleasure at the faint relaxing of her lips, the glance of sympathy which shone across the roses. Life was a good place, he thought to himself, for these few hours, at any rate. And then, as he leaned back in his place for a moment, Ruth’s words seemed suddenly traced with a finger of fire upon the dim wall. To-night was to be a night of mysteries. To-night the great adventure was to be born. He glanced around the table. There was, indeed, an air of mystery about some of these guests, something curiously aloof, something which it was impossible to put into words. The man Starling, for instance, seemed queerly placed here. Count Sabatini was another of the guests who seemed somehow to be outside the little circle. For minutes together he sat sometimes in grim silence. About him, too, there was always a curious air of detachment. Rosario was making the small conversation with his neighbor which the occasion seemed to demand, but he, too, appeared to talk as one who had more weighty matters troubling his brain. It was a fancy of Arnold’s, perhaps, but it was a fancy of which he could not rid himself. He glanced towards his employer and a curious feeling of sympathy stirred him. The man was unhappy and ill at ease. He had lost his air of slight pomposity, the air with which he entered his offices in the morning, strutted about the warehouse, went out to lunch with a customer, and which he somehow seemed to lose as the time came for returning to his home. Once or twice he glanced towards his wife, half nervously, half admiringly. Once she nodded back to him, but it was the nod of one who gathers up her skirts as she throws alms to a beggar. Then Arnold realized that his little fit of thoughtfulness had made a material difference to the hum of conversation. He remembered his duty and leaned over toward Lady Blennington.

“You promised to tell me more about some of these people,” he reminded her. “I am driven to make guesses all the time. Why does Mr. Starling look so much like an unwilling and impatient guest? And where is the castle of the Count Sabatini which has no roof?”

Lady Blennington sighed.

“This table is much too small for us to indulge in scandal,” she replied. “It really is such a pity. One so seldom meets any one worth talking to who doesn’t know everything there is that shouldn’t be known about everybody. About Count Sabatini, for instance, I could tell you some most amusing things.”

“His castle, perhaps, is in the air?” Arnold inquired.

“By no means,” Lady Blennington assured him.

“On the contrary, it is very much upon the rocks. Some little island near Minorca, I believe. They say that Mr. Weatherley was wrecked there and Sabatini locked him up in a dungeon and refused to let him go until he promised to marry his sister.”

“There are a good many men in the world, I should think,” Arnold murmured, “who would like to be locked up on similar conditions.”

She looked at him with a queer little smile.

“I suppose it is inevitable,” she declared. “You will have to go through it, too. She certainly is one of the loveliest women I ever saw. I suppose you are already convinced that she is entirely adorable?”

“She has been very kind to me,” Arnold replied.

“She would be,” Lady Blennington remarked, dryly. “Look at her husband. The poor man ought to have known better than to have married her, of course, but do you think that he looks even reasonably happy?”

Arnold was beginning to feel rather uncomfortable. He was conscious of a strong desire not to discuss his hostess. Yet his curiosity was immense. He asked one question.

“Tell me,” he said, “if she came from this little island in the Mediterranean, why does she speak English so perfectly?”

“She was educated in England,” Lady Blennington told him. “Afterwards, her brother took her to South America. She had some small fortune, I believe, but when she came back they were penniless. They were really living as small market gardeners when Mr. Weatherley found them.”

“You don’t like her,” he remarked. “I wonder why?”

Lady Blennington shook her head.

“One never knows,” she replied. “I admire her, if that is anything.”

“But you do not like her,” he persisted.

She shrugged her shoulders slightly.

“I am afraid it is true,” she agreed.

“You admit that and yet you are willing to be her guest?”

She smiled at him approvingly.

“If there is one masculine quality which I do appreciate,” she said, “it is directness. I come because I love bridge and because I love my fellow-creatures and because my own friends are none too numerous. With the exception of those worthy friends of our host and his wife who are seated upon your right–Mr. and Mrs. Horsman, I believe they are called–we are all of the same ilk. Mr. Starling no one knows anything about; Count Sabatini’s record is something awful.”

“But there is Rosario,” Arnold protested.

“Rosario goes into all the odd corners of the world,” she replied. “Sometimes the corners are respectable and sometimes they are not. It really doesn’t matter so far as he is concerned. Supposing, in return for all this information, you tell me something about yourself?”

“There isn’t anything to tell,” Arnold assured her. “I was asked here to fill up. I am an employee of Mr. Weatherley’s.”

She turned in her chair to look at him. Her surprise was obvious.

“Do you mean that you are his secretary, or something of that sort?” she demanded.

“I am a clerk in his office,” Arnold told her.

She was evidently puzzled, but she asked him no more questions. At that moment Mrs. Weatherley rose from her place. As she passed Arnold she paused for a moment.

“You are all coming in five minutes,” she said. “Before we play bridge, come straight to me. I have something to say to you.”

He bowed and resumed his seat, from which he had risen quickly at her coming. Mr. Weatherley motioned to him to move up to his side. His face now was a little flushed, but his nervousness had not disappeared. He was certainly not the same man whom one met at Tooley Street.

“Glad to see you’ve made friends with the wife, Chetwode,” he said. “She seems to have taken quite a fancy to you.”

“Mrs. Weatherley has been very kind,” Arnold answered.

“Enjoying yourself, I hope?” Mr. Weatherley asked.

“Very much indeed,” Arnold declared. “It has been quite a treat for me.”

Sabatini and Starling were talking earnestly together at the other side of the table. Rosario, bringing his wine down, came and sat at his host’s other side.

“Beautiful vintage, this, Mr. Weatherley,” he said. “Excellent condition, too.”

Mr. Weatherley, obviously pleased, pursued the subject. In a way, it was almost pathetic to see his pleasure in being addressed by one of his own guests. Arnold drew a little away and looked across the banks of roses. There was something fascinating to him in the unheard conversation of Sabatini and Starling, on the opposite side of the table. Everything they said was in an undertone and the inexpressive faces of the two men gave no indication as to the nature of their conversation. Yet the sense of something mysterious in this house and among these guests was growing all the time with Arnold.

IV. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW

Mr. Weatherley laid his hand upon his young companion’s arm as they crossed the hall on their way from the dining-room.

“We are going to play bridge in the music-room,” he announced. “Things are different, nowadays, than when I was a boy. The men and the women, too, have to smoke cigarettes all the time while they play cards. A bad habit, Chetwode! A very bad habit indeed! I’ve nothing to say against a good Havana cigar in the dining-room or the smoking-room, but this constant cigarette smoking sickens me. I can’t bear the smell of the things. Here we are. I don’t know what table my wife has put you at, I’m sure. She arranges all these things herself.”

Several guests who had arrived during the last few minutes were already playing at various tables. Mrs. Weatherley was moving about, directing the proceedings. She came across to them as soon as they entered, and, laying her hand upon Arnold’s arm, drew him on one side. There was a smile still upon her lips but trouble in her eyes. She looked over her shoulder a little nervously and Arnold half unconsciously followed the direction of her gaze. Rosario was standing apart from the others, talking earnestly with Starling.

“I want you to stay with me, if you please,” she said. “I am not sure where you will play, but there is no hurry. I myself shall not sit down at present. There are others to arrive.”

Her brother, who had been talking languidly to Lady Blennington, came slowly up to them.

“You, Andrea, will wait for the baccarat, of course?” she said. “I know that this sort of bridge does not amuse you.”

He answered her with a little shrug of the shoulders and, leaning towards her, spoke a few words in some tongue which Arnold did not at once recognize. She looked again over her shoulder at Rosario and her face clouded. She replied in the same tongue. Arnold would have moved away, but she detained him.

“You must not mind,” she said softly, “that my brother and I talk sometimes in our native language. You do not, by chance, know Portuguese, Mr. Chetwode?”

“Not a word,” he replied.