Mr. Weatherley went deadly pale.
"Does she know?" he moaned.
"She knows that some one was hurt," Arnold said. "As a matter of fact," he continued, "I don't think the man could have been dead. We were all out of the room for about five minutes, and when we came back he was gone. I think that he must have got up and walked away."
"You don't think that I murdered him, then?" Mr. Weatherley inquired, anxiously.
"Not you," Arnold assured him. "You stopped his hurting Mrs. Weatherley, though."
Mr. Weatherley sighed.
"I should like to have killed him," he admitted, simply. "Fenella and Sabatini, too, her brother,—they both laugh at me. They're a little inclined to be romantic and they think I'm a queer sort of a stick. I could never make out why she married me," he went on, confidentially. "Of course, they were both stoneybroke at the time and I put up a decent bit of money, but it isn't money, after all, that buys a woman like Fenella."
"I'm sure she will be very pleased to see you again, sir," Arnold said.
"Do you think she will, Chetwode? Do you think she will?" Mr. Weatherley demanded, anxiously. "Has she missed me while I have been—where the devil have I been, Chetwode? You must tell me—tell me quick! She'll be here directly and she'll want to know. I can't remember. It was a long street and there was a public-house at the corner, and I had a job somewhere, hadn't I, stacking cheeses? Look here, Chetwode, you must tell me all about it. You're my private secretary. You ought to know everything of that sort."
"I'll make it all right with Mrs. Weatherley," Arnold promised. "We can't go into all these matters now."