MR. WEATHERLEY'S DISAPPEARANCE
Arnold arrived at Tooley Street only a few minutes after his usual
time. He made his way at once into the private office and commenced
his work. At ten o'clock Mr. Jarvis came in. The pile of letters
upon Mr. 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.
Mr. Jarvis whistled softly.
"Seems to me you're getting pretty chummy with the governor," he
remarked; "or is it Mrs. Weatherley, eh?"
Arnold lifted his head and looked fixedly at Mr. Jarvis. The latter
suddenly remembered that he had come in to search among the letters
for some invoices. He busied himself for a moment or two, sorting
them out.
"Well, well," he said, "I hope the governor will soon be here,
anyway. There are a lot of things I want to ask him about this
morning."
A telephone bell at Arnold's desk began to ring. Arnold lifted the
receiver to his ear.
"Is that Mr. Weatherley's office?" a familiar voice inquired.
"Good morning, Mrs. Weatherley," he replied. "This is the office,
and I am Arnold Chetwode. We were just wondering what had become of
Mr. Weatherley."
"What had become of him?" the voice repeated. "But is he not there?"
"No sign of him at present," Arnold answered.
There was a short silence. Then Mrs. Weatherley spoke again.
"He left here," she said, "absurdly early--soon after seven, I think
it was--to motor up."
"Has the car returned?" Arnold asked.
"More than an hour ago," was the prompt reply.
"I can assure you that he has not been here," Arnold declared.
"You're speaking from Bourne End, I suppose?"
"Yes!"
"Will you please ask the chauffeur," Arnold suggested, "where he
left Mr. Weatherley?"
"Of course I will," she replied. "That is very sensible. You must
hold the line until I come back."
Arnold withdrew the receiver for a few minutes from his ear. Mr.
Jarvis had been listening to the conversation, his mouth open with
curiosity.
"Is that about the governor?" he asked.
Arnold nodded.
"It was Mrs. Weatherley speaking," he said. "It seems Mr. Weatherley
left Bourne End soon after seven o'clock this morning."
"Soon after seven o'clock?" Mr. Jarvis repeated.
"The car has been back there quite a long time," Arnold continued.
"Mrs. Weatherley has gone to make inquiries of the chauffeur."
"Most extraordinary thing," Mr. Jarvis muttered. "I can't say that
I've ever known the governor as late as this, unless he was ill."
Arnold put the receiver once more to his ear. In a moment or two
Mrs. Weatherley returned. Her voice was a little graver.
"I have spoken to the chauffeur," she announced. "He says that they
called first up in Hampstead to see if there were any letters, and
that afterwards he drove Mr. Weatherley over London Bridge and put
him down at the usual spot, just opposite to the London &
Westminster Bank. For some reason or other, as I dare say you know,"
she went on, "Mr. Weatherley never likes to bring the car into
Tooley Street. It was ten minutes past nine when he set him down and
left him there."
Arnold glanced at the clock.
"It is now," he said, "a quarter to eleven. The spot you speak of is
only two hundred yards away, but I can assure you that Mr.
Weatherley has not yet arrived."
Mrs. Weatherley began to laugh softly. Even down the wires, that
laugh seemed to bring with it some flavor of her own wonderful
personality.
"Will there be a paragraph in the evening papers?" she asked,
mockingly. "I think I can see it now upon all the placards:
'Mysterious disappearance of a city merchant.' Poor Samuel!"
Arnold found it quite impossible to answer her lightly. The fingers,
indeed, which held the receiver to his ear, were shaking a little.
"Mrs. Weatherley," he said, "can I see you to-day--as soon as
possible?"
"Why, of course you can, you silly boy," she laughed back. "I am
here all alone and I weary myself. Come by the next train or take a
taxicab. You can leave word for Mr, Weatherley, when he arrives,
that you have come by my special wish. He will not mind then."
"There is no sign of Mr. Weatherley at present," Arnold replied,
"and I could not leave here until I had seen him. I thought that
perhaps you might be coming up to town for something."
He could almost hear her yawn.
"Really," she declared, after a slight pause, "it is not a bad idea.
The sun will not shine to-day; there is a gray mist everywhere and
it depresses me. You will lunch with me if I come up?"
"If you please."
"I do please," she declared. "I think we will go to our own little
place--the Café André, and I will be there at half-past twelve. You
will be waiting for me?"
"Without a doubt," Arnold promised.
She began to laugh again.
"Without a doubt!" she mocked him. "You are a very stolid young man,
Arnold."
"To tell you the truth," he admitted, "I am a little bothered just
now. We want Mr. Weatherley badly, and I don't understand his
having been within a few hundred yards of the office nearly two
hours ago and not having turned up here."
"He will arrive," she replied confidently. "Have no fear of that.
There are others to whom accidents and adventures might happen, but
not, I think, to Mr. Samuel Weatherley. I am sorry that you are
bothered, though, Mr. Chetwode. I think that to console you I shall
wear one of my two new muslin gowns which have just arrived from
Paris."
"What is she talking about all this time?" Mr. Jarvis, who was
itching with curiosity, broke in.
"I am called away now," Arnold declared down the telephone. "I shall
be quite punctual. Good-bye!"
He heard her laugh again as he hung up the receiver.
"Well, well," Mr. Jarvis demanded, "what is it all about? Have you
heard anything?"
"Nothing of any importance, I am afraid," Arnold admitted. "Mrs.
Weatherley laughs at the idea of anything having happened to her
husband."
"If nothing has happened to him," Mr. Jarvis protested, "where is
he?"
"Is there any call he could have paid on the way?" Arnold suggested.
"I have never known him to do such a thing in his life," Mr. Jarvis
replied. "Besides, there is no business call which could take two
hours at this time of the morning."
They rang up the few business friends whom Mr. Weatherley had in the
vicinity, Guy's Hospital, the bank, and the police station. The
reply was the same in all cases. Nobody had seen or heard anything
of Mr. Weatherley. Arnold even took down his hat and walked
aimlessly up the street to the spot where Mr. Weatherley had left
the motor car. The policeman on duty had heard nothing of any
accident. The shoe-black, at the top of the steps leading down to
the wharves, remembered distinctly Mr. Weatherley's alighting at the
usual hour. Arnold returned to the office and sat down facing the
little safe which Mr. Weatherley had made over to him. After all, it
might be true, then, this thing which he had sometimes dimly
suspected. Beneath his very commonplace exterior, Mr. Weatherley had
carried with him a secret....
At half-past twelve precisely, Arnold stood upon the threshold of
the passage leading into André's Café. Already the people were
beginning to crowd into the lower room, a curious, cosmopolitan
mixture, mostly foreigners, and nearly all arriving in twos and
threes from the neighboring business houses. At twenty minutes to
one, Mr. Weatherley's beautiful car turned slowly into the narrow
street and drove up to the entrance. Arnold hurried forward to open
the door and Fenella descended. She came to him with radiant face, a
wonderful vision in her spotless white gown and French hat with its
drooping veil. Arnold, notwithstanding his anxieties, found it
impossible not to be carried away for the moment by a wave of
admiration. She laughed with pleasure as she looked into his eyes.
"There!" she exclaimed. "I told you that for a moment I would make
you forget everything."
"There is a good deal to forget, too," he answered.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"You are always so gloomy, my young friend," she said. "We will have
luncheon together, you and I, and I will try and teach you how to be
gay. Tell me, then," she went on, as they reached the landing and
she waited for Arnold to open the door leading into the private
room, "how is the little invalid girl this morning?"
"The little invalid girl is well," Arnold replied.
"She was not too tired yesterday, I hope?" Fenella asked.
"Not in the least," Arnold assured her. "We both of us felt that we
did not thank you half enough for our wonderful day."
"Oh, la, la!" Fenella exclaimed. "It was a whim of mine, that is
all. I liked having you both there. Some day you must come again,
and, if you are very good, I may let you bring the young lady,
though I'm not so sure of that. Do you know that my brother was
asking me questions about her until I thought my head would swim
last night?" she continued, curiously.
"Count Sabatini was very kind to her," Arnold remarked. "Poor little
girl, I am afraid she is going to have rather a rough time. She had
quite an alarming experience last night after our return."
"You must tell me all about it presently," Fenella declared. "Shall
we take this little round table near the window? It will be
delightful, that, for when we are tired with one another we can
watch the people in the street. Have you ever sat and watched the
people in the street, Arnold?"
"Not often," he answered, giving his hat to a waiter and following
her across the little room. "You see, there are not many people to
watch from the windows of where I live, but there is always the
river."
"A terribly dreary place," Fenella declared.
Arnold shook his head.
"Don't believe it," he replied. "Only a short time ago, the days
were very dark indeed. Ruth and I together did little else except
watch the barges come up, and the slowly moving vessels, and the
lights, and the swarms of people on Blackfriars Bridge. Life was all
watching then."
"One would weary soon," she murmured, "of being a spectator. You are
scarcely that now."
"There has been a great change," he answered simply. "In those days
I was very near starvation. I had no idea how I was going to find
work. Yet even then I found myself longing for adventures of any
sort,--anything to quicken the blood, to feel the earth swell
beneath my feet."
She was watching him with that curious look in her eyes which he
never wholly understood--half mocking, half tender.
"And after all," she murmured, "you found your way to Tooley Street
and the office of Mr. Samuel Weatherley."
She threw herself back in her chair and laughed so irresistibly that
Arnold, in a moment or two, found himself sharing her merriment.
"It is all very well," he said presently, "but I am not at all sure
that adventures do not sometimes come even to Tooley Street."
She shook her head.
"I shall never believe it. Tell me now about Mr. Weatherley? Was he
very sorry when he arrived for having caused you so much anxiety?"
"I have not yet seen Mr. Weatherley," Arnold replied. "Up till the
time when I left the office, he had not arrived."
She set down the glass which she had been in the act of raising to
her lips. For the first time she seemed to take this matter
seriously.
"What time was that?" she asked.
"Ten minutes past twelve."
She frowned.
"It certainly does begin to look a little queer," she admitted. "Do
you think that he has met with an accident?"
"We have already tried the hospitals and the police station," he
told her.
She looked at him steadfastly.
"You have an idea--you have some idea of what has happened," she
said.
"Nothing definite," Arnold replied, gravely. "I cannot imagine what
it all means, but I believe that Mr. Weatherley has disappeared."