It was twenty minutes past nine on a Saturday morning when the wonderful thing happened.  Precisely at his accustomed hour, in his accustomed suit of gray clothes, and with his silk hat a little on the back of his head, Mr. Weatherley walked into his office, pausing as usual to knock the ash from his cigar before he entered the clerks’ counting house.  Twelve young men gazed at him in frank and undiluted amazement.  As though absolutely unconscious of anything unusual, Mr. Weatherley grunted his “Good morning!” and passed on into the private room.  Arnold and Mr. Jarvis were busy sorting the letters which had arrived by the morning’s post.  Mr. Weatherley regarded them with an expression of mingled annoyance and surprise.

“What the devil are you doing, opening the letters before I get here?” he exclaimed.  “I’m punctual, am I not?  Twenty-two minutes past nine to the tick.  Get out of my chair, Jarvis!”

Mr. Jarvis rose with a promptitude which was truly amazing, considering that a second ago he had been sitting there as though turned to stone.  Mr. Weatherley was disposed to be irritable.

“What on earth are you both staring at?” he asked.  “Nothing wrong with my appearance, is there?  You get out into the warehouse, Jarvis, and wait until you’re sent for.  Chetwode, go and sit down at your desk.  I’ll be ready to dictate replies to these as soon as I’ve glanced them through.”

Mr. Jarvis made a slow retreat towards the door.  Every now and then he turned and looked back over his shoulder.

“You will allow me to say, sir,” he faltered, “that I—­that we all are glad to see you back.”

“See me back?” Mr. Weatherley repeated, frowning heavily.  “What the devil do you mean, sir?  Why, I was here till nearly six last evening, straightening out the muddle you’d got Coswell’s account into.”

Mr. Jarvis withdrew precipitately, closing the door behind him.  Mr. Weatherley glanced across the room to where Arnold was standing.

“I’m hanged if I can understand Jarvis lately,” he said.  “The fellow seems off his head.  See me back, indeed!  Talks as though I’d been away for a holiday.”

Arnold opened his lips and closed them again without speech.  Mr. Weatherley took up the letters and began to read them, at first in silence.  Presently he began to swear.

“Anything wrong, sir?” Arnold asked.

“Has every one taken leave of their senses?” Mr. Weatherley demanded, in a startled tone.  “These can’t be this morning’s letters.  They’re all about affairs I know nothing of.  They’re dated—­yes, they’re all dated July 1.  I was here yesterday—­I remember signing the cheques—­May 4, it was.  What the—­”

He stopped short.  The office boy had performed his duty.  Opposite to him stood the great calendar recording the date—­July 2 stared him in the face.  Mr. Weatherley put his hand to his forehead.

“Come here, Chetwode, quickly,” he begged.