COUNT SABATINI VISITS
There was an air of subdued excitement about the offices of Messrs.
Samuel Weatherley & Company from nine until half-past on the
following morning. For so many years his clerks had been accustomed
to see Mr. Weatherley stroll in somewhere about that time, his cigar
in his mouth, his silk hat always at the same angle, that it seemed
hard for them to believe that this morning they would not hear the
familiar footstep and greeting. Every time a shadow passed the
window, heads were eagerly raised. The sound of the bell on the
outside door brought them all to their feet. They were all on tiptoe
with expectation. The time, however, came and passed. The letters
were all opened, and Mr. Jarvis and Arnold were occupying the
private office. Already invoices were being distributed and orders
entered up. The disappearance of Mr, Weatherley was a thing
established.
Mr. Jarvis was starting the day in a pessimistic frame of mind.
"You may take my word for it, Chetwode," he said solemnly to his
companion, after he had finished going through the letters, "that we
shall never see the governor again."
Arnold was startled.
"Have you heard anything?" he asked.
Mr. Jarvis admitted gloomily that he had heard nothing.
"It's my belief that nothing more will be heard," he added, "until
his body's found."
"Rubbish!" Arnold declared. "Mr. Weatherley wasn't the sort of man
to commit suicide."
Mr. Jarvis looked around the office as though he almost feared that
the ghost of his late employer might be listening.
"It is my belief," he said impressively, "that we none of us knew
the sort of man Mr. Weatherley was, or rather the sort of man he has
become since his marriage."
"I don't see what marriage with Mrs. Weatherley could have had to do
with his disappearance," Arnold remarked.
Mr. Jarvis looked foolishly wise from behind his gold-rimmed
spectacles.
"You haven't had the opportunity of watching the governor as I have
since his marriage," he declared. "Take my advice, Chetwode. You are
not married, I presume?"
"I am not," Arnold assured him.
"Nor thinking of it?"
"Nor thinking of it," Arnold repeated.
"When the time comes," Mr. Jarvis said, "don't you go poking about
in any foreign islands or places. If only the governor had left
those smelly European cheeses to take care of themselves, he'd be
sitting here in his chair at this moment, smoking a cigar and
handing me out the orders. You and I are, so to speak, in a
confidential position now, Chetwode, and I am able to say things to
you about which I might have hesitated before. Do you know how much
the governor has spent during the last year?"
"No idea," Arnold replied. "Does it matter?"
"He has spent," Mr. Jarvis announced, solemnly, "close upon ten
thousand pounds."
"It sounds like a good deal," Arnold admitted, "but I expect he had
saved it."
"Of course he had saved it," Mr. Jarvis admitted; "but what has that
to do with it? One doesn't save money for the pleasure of spending
it. Never since my connection with the firm has Mr. Weatherley
attempted to spend anything like one half of his income."
"Then I should think it was quite time he began," Arnold declared.
"You are not going to suggest, I suppose, that financial
embarrassments had anything to do with Mr. Weatherley's
disappearance?"
Mr. Jarvis started. To him the suggestion sounded sacrilegious.
"My dear Chetwode," he said, "you must indeed be ignorant of the
resources of the firm when you make such a suggestion! I simply
wished to point out that after his marriage Mr. Weatherley
completely changed all his habits. It is not well for a man of his
age to change his habits.... God bless my soul, here is an
automobile stopping outside. If it should be Mr. Weatherley come
back!"
They both hurried eagerly to the window. The automobile, however,
which had drawn up outside, was larger and more luxurious than Mr.
Weatherley's. Count Sabatini, folding up his newspaper, made a
leisurely descent. The cashier looked at him curiously.
"Wonder who it is," he remarked. "Looks like some sort of a
foreigner."
"It is Mrs. Weatherley's brother," Arnold told him.
Mr. Jarvis was deeply interested. A moment later a card was brought
in.
"Gentleman wishes to see Mr. Chetwode."
"You can show him in," Arnold directed.
Sabatini was already upon the threshold. He carried his gray Homburg
hat in his hand; he seemed to bring with him a subtle atmosphere of
refinement. The perfection of his clothes, the faint perfume from
his handkerchief, his unusual yet unnoticeable tie--these things
were a cult to himself. The little array of clerks, through whose
ranks he had passed, stared after him in wonder.
"How are you, my young friend?" he asked, smiling at Arnold.
"Immersed in business, I suppose?"
"We are very busy, naturally," Arnold answered. "Please come in and
sit down."
Sabatini laid his hat and stick upon the table and commenced
leisurely to draw off his gloves.
"This is Mr. Jarvis, who has been Mr. Weatherley's right-hand man
for a great many years," Arnold said, introducing him; "Count
Sabatini, Mr. Weatherley's brother-in-law."
Mr. Jarvis shook hands solemnly.
"I am glad to know you, sir," he declared. "I have not had the
pleasure of seeing much of Mrs. Weatherley, but my connection with
the firm is a very old one."
"Is there any news," asked Sabatini, "of our esteemed friend?"
Mr. Jarvis shook his head mournfully.
"There is no news," he announced. "I am afraid, sir, that it will
be a long time before we do hear any news. If your business is with
Mr. Chetwode, Count Sabatini," he added, "I will ask you to excuse
me. I have plenty to do in the warehouse. If there is any
information I can give you on behalf of your sister or yourself, I
shall be very happy to come back if you will send for me."
He bustled out, closing the door after him. Sabatini looked around
with a faint smile, as though his surroundings amused him. He then
carefully deposited his gloves with his hat, selected the most
comfortable chair, and seated himself.
"So this is where the money is coined, eh?" he remarked. "It is
fortunate that I have discovered the place, for I need some."
Arnold smiled.
"We haven't had time to do much coining yet."
"Supposing I want five hundred pounds, could I have it?" Sabatini
asked.
Arnold shook his head.
"Certainly not," he replied, "unless you had cheeses to sell us for
it, or bacon. Messrs. Weatherley & Company are provision merchants,
not money-lenders."
"You have the control of the finances, haven't you?"
"To a certain extent, I have," Arnold admitted.
"Now how much is there in that safe, I wonder?" Sabatini asked.
"About thirteen hundred pounds--perhaps even more than that," Arnold
told him.
Sabatini withdrew the hand which had been fumbling in his pocket.
Arnold looked suddenly into the muzzle of a small, shining revolver.
"It was very foolish of you to give me that information," Sabatini
said. "You have not forgotten our long conversation, I trust? I
expounded to you most carefully the creed of my life. Five hundred
pounds, if you please," he added, politely.
"Not one ha'penny," Arnold answered, seating himself upon the table
and folding his arms.
"I'll give you until I count three," Sabatini announced, in a still,
cold voice.
"You can give me as long as you like," Arnold retorted, pleasantly.
Sabatini very deliberately counted three and pulled the trigger of
his revolver. There was a slight click. He looked down the muzzle of
the weapon and, with a little sigh, thrust it back into his pocket.
"This appears to be one of my failures," he declared. "Lend me five
shillings, then," he added. "I really came out without any silver
and I must keep up my reputation. I positively cannot leave this
office without loot of some sort."
Arnold handed his visitor two half-crowns, which the latter put
gravely into his pocket.
"Come and lunch with me to-day at my rooms," he invited. "Lady
Blennington and Fenella will be there. If you bring with you a
sufficient appetite, you may get value for your five shillings. It
is the only way you will ever get it back."
"Then I must resign myself to being robbed," Arnold answered. "We
haven't time, nowadays, for luncheon parties. On the whole, I think
I should be justified in putting the amount down to petty cash. I
might even debit Mrs. Weatherley's account with it."
Sabatini took out his cigarette case.
"You will forgive me?" he said. "In your offices, I believe, it is
not the custom, but I must confess that I find your atmosphere
abominable. Last night I saw Fenella. She told me of your
disagreement with her and your baseless suspicions. Really,
Chetwode, I am surprised at you."
"'Suspicions' seems scarcely the word," Arnold murmured.
Sabatini sighed.
"You are such a hideously matter-of-fact person," he declared.
"Fenella should have seen your attitude from the humorous point of
view. It would have appealed to me very much indeed."
"I am sorry if your sister misunderstood anything that I said,"
Arnold remarked, a little awkwardly.
"My dear fellow," Sabatini continued, "there seems to have been very
little ground for misunderstanding. Fenella was positively hurt. She
says that you seem to look upon us as a sort of adventurer and
adventuress--people who live by their wits, you understand, from
hour to hour, without character or reputation. She is quite sure, in
her own mind, that you believe Mr. Weatherley's absence to be due to
our secret and criminal machinations."
"I am sorry," Arnold replied, "if anything I said to your sister has
given her that impression. The fact remains, however, that Mrs.
Weatherley has declined to give me any explanation of various
incidents which were certainly more than bewildering. One cannot
help feeling," he went on, after a moment's hesitation, "that if my
friendship were of any account to your sister--which, of course, it
isn't--she would look at the matter differently."
"My dear Chetwode," Sabatini declared, "my sympathies are entirely
with you. The trouble of it is, of course, that the explanations
which you demand will probably leave you only the more bewildered.
When I came to London," he continued, watching the smoke from his
cigarette, "I said to myself, 'In this great black city all hopes of
adventure must be buried. Fenella will become a model wife of the
_bourgeoisie_. I myself, if I stay, shall probably become director
of some city company where they pay fees, give up baccarat for
bridge, imbibe whiskey and soda instead of the wine of my country;
perhaps, even--who knows?--I may take to myself a wife and live in a
villa.' On the contrary, other things have happened. Even here the
earth has trembled a little under our feet. Even now we listen for
the storm."
"You talk to me always in parables," Arnold protested. "How am I to
understand what you mean?"
"You have reason, my young friend," Sabatini admitted calmly. "Ask
your questions."
"First of all, then, you know where Mr. Weatherley is!"
Sabatini made a wry face.
"Let us leave this respectable Weatherley out of the case for a
moment," he said. "To tell you the truth, I am weary of him. I would
speak of ourselves--of my sister and myself and those others. You
cannot deny that however wicked you may think us we are at least
interesting."
"Have you come here to make fun of me?" Arnold asked quietly.
"Not in the least," Sabatini assured him. "On the contrary, I have
come to make friends. My sister is penitent. We have decided to
take your discretion for granted. I am here to explain. You want to
understand all these things which seem to you so mysterious. Well,
ask your questions. What is it that you wish to know?"
"Nothing," Arnold replied. "I have come to the conclusion that
I was wrong to speak to your sister as I did. I have a great
responsibility here which will occupy all my thoughts. I am going to
devote myself to work. The other things do not interest me any
longer."
Sabatini smiled.
"My young friend," he murmured, "you may say that to yourself, but
it is not true. It is not life for you to buy these articles of food
at one price and sell them for another; to hold the profit in your
hand and smile. That is what life means in Tooley Street. You could
do it for a little time, perhaps, but not for very long."
"It may seem absurd to you," Arnold protested, "but it's my duty for
the present, anyhow, and I am going to do it. I shall have to work
ten hours a day and I shall have no time for dreams. I am going to
stay in the atmosphere I have to live in."
Sabatini shook his head.
"You must have relaxation."
"I can find it," Arnold replied. "I can find it without going so far
afield."
Sabatini was silent for a moment. He was a man of few expressions,
but he seemed a little disappointed.
"Will you do your duty any the less zealously, do you think," he
asked, "because you have friends who take an interest in you?"
Arnold was suddenly conscious of the ungraciousness of his
attitude.
"You don't understand!" he exclaimed, a little desperately. "Your
world wasn't made for me. I haven't any place in it. My work is
here. I can't allow myself always to be distracted. Your sister is
the most wonderful person I ever met, and it is one of the greatest
pleasures I have ever known to talk to her, even for a few minutes,
but I am more at peace with myself and with the world when I am away
from her."
There was a gleam of approval in Sabatini's dark eyes. He nodded
thoughtfully.
"It is well spoken. My sister chose to marry Samuel Weatherley, and
the women of our race have been famous throughout history for their
constancy. Must you, my dear young friend, go and hide your head in
the sand because a woman is beautiful and chooses to be kind to you?
Fenella values your friendship. You have done her a service and you
have done me a service. A few nights ago it amused me to feed your
suspicions. This morning I feel otherwise. We do not choose, either
of us, that you should think of us quite in the way you are thinking
now."
Arnold hesitated no longer then. He came and stood by his visitor.
"Since you insist, then," he declared, "I will ask you the questions
which I should have asked your sister. That is what you desire?"
"Assuredly," Sabatini assented.
"First then, who killed Rosario?"
"There is a certain directness about your methods," Sabatini said
suavely, "which commends itself to me. No one could mistake you for
anything but an Englishman."
"Tell me who killed Rosario!" Arnold repeated.
"As you will," Sabatini replied. "Rosario was murdered by a
Portuguese Jew--a man of the name of Isaac Lalonde."