The Lighted Way Part 61

"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 a.s.sured 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."

"Of course not--of course not," Mr. Weatherley agreed. "You're quite right, Chetwode. A time for everything, eh? How's the little lady you brought down to Bourne End?"

"She's very well, thank you, sir," Arnold replied.

"Now it's a queer thing," Mr. Weatherley continued, "but only yesterday--or was it the day before--I was trying to think whom she reminded me of. It couldn't have been my brother-in-law, could it, Chetwode. Did you ever fancy that she was like Sabatini?"

"I had noticed it, sir," Arnold admitted, with a little start.

"There is a likeness."

"I'm glad you agree with me," Mr. Weatherley declared, approvingly.

"Splendid fellow, Sabatini," he continued,--"full of race to his finger-tips. Brave as a lion, too, but unscrupulous. He'd wring a man's neck who refused to do what he told him. Yet do you know, Chetwode, he wouldn't take money from me? He was desperately hard up one day, I know, and I offered him a cheque, but he only shook his head. 'You can look after Fenella,' he said. 'That's all you've got to do. One in the family is enough.' The night after, he played baccarat with Rosario and he won two thousand pounds. Clever fellow--Sabatini. I wish I wasn't so frightened of him. You know the sort of feeling he gives me, Chetwode?" Mr. Weatherley continued.

"He always makes me feel that I'm wearing the wrong clothes or doing the wrong thing. I'm never really at my ease when he's about. But I like him--I like him very much indeed."

Arnold had turned a little away. He was beginning to feel the strain of the situation.

"I wish Fenella would come," Mr. Weatherley wandered on. "I don't seem to be able to get on with my work this morning, since you told me she was coming down. Queer thing, although I was with her last evening, you know, Chetwode, I feel, somehow, as though I'd been away from her for weeks and weeks. I can't remember exactly how long--there's such a buzzing in my head when I try. What do you do when you have a buzzing in your head, Chetwode?"

"I generally try and rest in an easy-chair," Arnold replied.

"I'll try that, too," Mr. Weatherley decided, rising to his feet.

"It's a--most extraordinary thing, Chetwode, but my knees are shaking. Hold me up--catch hold of me, quick!"

Arnold half carried him to the easy-chair. The horn of the automobile sounded outside.

"Mrs. Weatherley is here, sir," Arnold whispered.

Mr. Weatherley opened his eyes.

"Good!" he murmured. "Let me sit up."

There was a moment's pause. Arnold moved to the door and held it open. They heard the swish of her skirts as she came through the outer office, and the heavier footsteps of the doctor who followed.

Mr. Weatherley tried vainly to rise to his feet. He held out his arms. Fenella hastened towards him.

"Fenella, I couldn't help it," her husband gasped. "I had to kill him--he told me he was waiting there for you. My hands are quite clean now. Chetwode told me that he got up and walked away, but that's all nonsense. I struck him right over the skull."

She fell on her knees by his side.

"You dear, brave man," she murmured. "I believe you saved my life."

He smiled. His face was suddenly childlike. He was filled with an infinite content.

"I think," he said, "that I should like--to go home now--if this other gentleman and Chetwode will kindly help me out. You see, I haven't been here since May 4, and to-day is July 2. I think I must have overslept myself. And that idiot Jarvis was opening the letters when I arrived! Yes, I'm quite ready."

They helped him out to the carriage. He stepped in and took his usual place without speaking again. The car drove off, Fenella holding his hand, the doctor sitting opposite.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

COUNTERCLAIMS

There was nothing about their att.i.tude or appearance which indicated the change. Their chairs were so close together that they almost touched. Her white, ringless hand lay in his. Through the wide-open window of their tiny sitting-room they looked down upon the river as they had sat and watched it so many evenings before. Yet the change was unmistakable. Arnold no longer guessed at it--he felt it. The old days of their pleasant comrades.h.i.+p had gone. There were reserves in everything she said. Sometimes she shrank from him almost as though he were a stranger. The eyes that grew bright and still danced with pleasure at his coming, were almost, a moment later, filled with apprehension as she watched him.

"Tell me again," he begged, "what the doctor really said! It sounds too good to be true."

"So I thought," she agreed, "but I haven't exaggerated a thing. He a.s.sured me that there was no risk, no pain, and that the cure was certain. I am to go to the hospital in three weeks' time."

"You don't mind it?"

"Why should I?" she answered. "The last time," she continued, "it was in France. I remember the white stone corridors, the white room, and the surgeons all dressed in white. Do you know, they say that I shall be out again in a fortnight."

He nodded.

"I can see you already," he declared, "with a gold-headed stick and a fascinating limp like Marguerite de Vallieres."

She smiled very faintly but said nothing. Somehow, it was hard to make conversation. Ruth was unusually pale, even for her. The eyes which followed that line of yellow lights were full of trouble.

"Tell me," he begged presently, "you have something on your mind, I am sure. There is nothing you are keeping from me?"

"Have I not enough," she asked, "to make me anxious?"

"Naturally," he admitted, "and yet, after all, you have only seen your father once in your life."

"But I am sure that I could have loved him so much," she murmured.

"He seems to have come and gone in a dream."

"This morning's report was more hopeful," he reminded her. "There is every chance that he may live."