“Bridge, sir,” he repeated.  “Yes, I have played at—­I have played occasionally.”

“My wife is giving a small dinner-party this evening,” Mr. Weatherley continued, moving his umbrella from one hand to the other and speaking very rapidly, “bridge afterwards.  We happen to be a man short.  I was to have called at the club to try and pick up some one—­find I sha’n’t have time—­meeting at the Cannon Street Hotel to attend.  Would you—­er—­fill the vacant place?  Save me the trouble of looking about.”

It was out at last and Mr. Weatherley felt unaccountably relieved.  He felt at the same time a certain measure of annoyance with his junior clerk for his unaltered composure.

“I shall be very much pleased, sir,” he answered, without hesitation.  “About eight, I suppose?”

Again Mr. Weatherley’s relief was tempered with a certain amount of annoyance.  This young man’s savoir faire was out of place.  He should have imagined a sort of high-tea supper at seven o’clock, and been gently corrected by his courteous employer.  As it was, Mr. Weatherley felt dimly confident that this junior clerk of his was more accustomed to eight o’clock dinners than he was himself.

“A quarter to, to-night,” he replied.  “People coming for bridge afterwards, you see.  I live up Hampstead way—­Pelham Lodge—­quite close to the tube station.”

Mr. Weatherley omitted the directions he had been about to give respecting toilet, and turned away.  His youthful employee’s manners, to the last, were all that could be desired.

“I am much obliged to you, sir,” he said.  “I will take care to be punctual.”

Mr. Weatherley grunted and walked out into the street.  Here his behavior was a little singular.  He walked up toward London Bridge, exchanging greetings with a good many acquaintances on the way.  Opposite the London & Westminster Bank he paused for a moment and looked searchingly around.  Satisfied that he was unobserved, he stepped quickly into a very handsome motor car which was drawn up close to the curb, and with a sigh of relief sat as far back among the cushions as possible and held the tube to his mouth.

“Get along home,” he ordered, tersely.

* * * * *

Arnold Chetwode, after his interview with his employer, returned unruffled to his place.  Mr. Jarvis bustled in after him.  He was annoyed, but he wished to conceal the fact.  Besides, he still had an arrow in his quiver.  He came and stood over his subordinate.

“Congratulate you, I’m sure, Chetwode,” he said smoothly.  “First time any one except myself has been to the house since Mr. Weatherley’s marriage.”

Mr. Jarvis had taken the letters there one morning when his employer had been unwell, and had waited in the hall.  He did not, however, mention that fact.

“Indeed?” Chetwode murmured, with his eye upon his work.

“You understand, of course,” Mr. Jarvis continued, “that it will be an evening-dress affair.  Mrs. Weatherley has the name of being very particular.”