appen to me, or if I should disappear, go to that safe, take out
the letters, open your own and deliver the other. That is all you
have to do."

"Quite so, sir," Arnold replied. "I understand perfectly. I see that
there is none for Mrs. Weatherley. Would you wish any message to be
sent to her?"

Mr. Weatherley was silent for a moment. A boy passed along the
pavement with a bundle of evening papers. Mr. Weatherley tapped at
the window.

"Hurry out and get me a _Star_, Chetwode," he ordered.

Arnold obeyed him and returned a few moments later with a paper in
his hand. Mr. Weatherley spread out the damp sheet under the
electric light. He studied it for a few moments intently, and then
folded it up.

"It will not be necessary for you, Chetwode," he said, "to
communicate with my wife specially."

The accidental arrangement of his employer's coat and hat upon the
rack suddenly struck Arnold.

"Why, I don't believe that you have been out to lunch, sir!" he
exclaimed.

Mr. Weatherley looked as though the idea were a new one to him.

"To tell you the truth," he said, "I completely forgot. Help me on
with my coat, Chetwode. There is nothing more to be done to-day. I
will call and get some tea somewhere on my way home."

He rose to his feet, a little heavily.

"Tell them to get me a taxicab," he directed. "I don't feel much
like walking to-day, and they are not sending for me."

Arnold sent the errand-boy off to London Bridge. Mr. Weatherley
stood before the window looking out into the murky atmosphere.

"I hope, Chetwode," he said, "that I haven't said anything to make
you believe that there is anything wrong with me, or to give you
cause for uneasiness. This journey of which I spoke may never become
necessary. In that case, after a certain time has elapsed, we will
destroy those letters."

"I trust that it never may become necessary to open them, sir,"
Arnold remarked.

"As regards what I said to you about the Count," Mr. Weatherley
continued, after a moment's hesitation, "remember who I am that
give you the advice, and who you are that receive it. Your
bringing-up, I should imagine, has been different. Still, a young
man of your age has to make up his mind what sort of a life he means
to lead. I suppose, to a good many people," he went on,
reflectively, "my life would seem a common, dull, plodding affair.
Somehow or other, I didn't seem to find it so until--until lately.
Still, there it is. I suppose I hav