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THE LIGHTED WAY
by
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
Author of _Havoc_, _Peter Ruff and the Double-Four_,
_The Master Mummer_, etc.
With Illustrations by A. B. Wenzell
Boston
Little, Brown, and Company
1912
[Illustration: Her head sank upon his shoulder, her hands
clasped his. FRONTISPIECE. _See page 354_.]
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 SHIP COMES IN
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Her head sank upon his shoulder, her hands clasped his (Frontispiece)
"I was waiting here for you," he explained
The eyes of every one were turned toward the wall
"For myself," he declared, "I remain"
"Where is this man?" he demanded
Mrs. Weatherley and the cashier looked over his shoulder
CHAPTER 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.