“So here you are at last, young man!” he exclaimed.  “Where the dickens have you been to all this while?  Come in—­come in at once!  Do you see the time?”

“I am very sorry indeed, sir,” Arnold replied.  “I can assure you that I have not wasted a moment that I know of.”

“Then what in the name of goodness did you find to keep you occupied all this time?” Mr. Weatherley demanded, pushing him through into the office and closing the door behind them.  “Did you see Mr. Rosario?  Did you give him the message?”

“I had no opportunity, sir,” Arnold answered gravely.

“No opportunity?  What do you mean?  Didn’t he come to the Milan?  Didn’t you see him at all?”

“He came, sir,” Arnold admitted, “but I was not able to see him in time.  I thought, perhaps,” he added, “that you might have heard what happened.”

Mr. Weatherley had reached the limits of his patience.  He struck the table with his clenched fist.  For a moment anger triumphed over his state of nervous excitability.

“Heard?” he cried.  “Heard what?  What the devil should I hear down here?  If you’ve anything to tell, why don’t you tell it me?  Why do you stand there looking like a—­”

Mr. Weatherley was suddenly frightened.  He understood from Arnold’s expression that something serious had happened.

“My God!” he exclaimed.  “Mrs. Weatherley—­my wife—­”

“Mrs. Weatherley is quite well,” Arnold assured him quickly.  “It is Mr. Rosario.”

“What of him?  What about Rosario?”

“He is dead,” Arnold announced.  “You will read all about it in the evening papers.  He was murdered—­just as he was on the point of entering the Milan Grill Room.”

Mr. Weatherley began to shake.  He looked like a man on the verge of a collapse.  He was still, however, able to ask a question.

“By whom?”

“The murderer was not caught,” Arnold told him.  “No one seems to have seen him clearly, it all took place so quickly.  He stole out of some corner where he must have been hiding, and he was gone before anyone had time to realize what was happening.”

Mr. Weatherley had been standing up all this time, clutching nervously at his desk.  He suddenly collapsed into his easy-chair.  His face was gray, his mouth twitched as though he were about to have a stroke.

“My God!” he murmured.  “Rosario dead!  They had him, after all!  They—­killed him!”

“It was a great shock to every one,” Arnold went on.  “Mrs. Weatherley arrived about a quarter of an hour before it occurred.  I understood that she was expecting to lunch with him, but when I told her why I was there she came and sat at my table.  She was sitting there when it happened.  She was very much upset indeed.  I was detained looking after her.”

Mr. Weatherley looked at him narrowly.

“I am sorry that she was there,” he said.  “She is not strong.  She ought not to be subjected to such shocks.”