“I shouldn’t allow these things to worry me, if I were you, sir,” Arnold suggested respectfully.  “If there is anything which you don’t understand, I should ask for an explanation.  Mrs. Weatherley is much too kind and generous to wish you to be worried, I am sure.”

Then the side of the man with which Arnold wholly sympathized showed itself suddenly.  At the mention of his wife’s name an expression partly fatuous, partly beatific, transformed his homely features.  He was looking at her picture which stood always opposite him.  He had the air of an adoring devotee before some sacred shrine.

“You are quite right, Chetwode,” he declared, “quite right, but I am always very careful not to let my wife know how I feel.  You see, the Count Sabatini is her only relative, and before our marriage they were inseparable.  He was an exile from Portugal and it seems to me these foreigners hang on together more than we do.  I am only too glad for her to be with him as much as she chooses.  It is just a little unfortunate that his friends should sometimes be—­well, a trifle distasteful, but—­one must put up with it.  One must put up with it, eh?  After all, Rosario was a man very well spoken of.  There was no reason why he shouldn’t have come to my house.  Plenty of other men in my position would have been glad to have entertained him.”

“Certainly, sir,” agreed Arnold.  “I believe he went a great deal into society.”

“And, no doubt,” Mr. Weatherley continued, eagerly, “he had many enemies.  In the course of his commercial career, which I believe was an eventful one, he would naturally make enemies....  By the bye, Chetwode, speaking of blackmail—­that blackmail rumor, eh?  You don’t happen to have heard any particulars?”

“None at all, sir,” replied Arnold.  “I don’t suppose anything is really known.  It seems a probable solution of the affair, though.”

Mr. Weatherley nodded thoughtfully.

“It does,” he admitted.  “I can quite imagine any one trying it on and Rosario defying him.  Just the course which would commend itself to such a man.”

“The proper course, no doubt,” Arnold remarked, “although it scarcely turned out the best for poor Mr. Rosario.”

Mr. Weatherley distinctly shivered.

“Well, well,” he declared, “you had better take out those invoices, and ask Jarvis to see me at once about Budden & Williams’ account....  God bless my soul alive, why, here’s Mrs. Weatherley!”

A car had stopped outside and both men had caught a vision of a fur-clad feminine figure crossing the pavement.  Mr. Weatherley’s fingers, busy already with his tie, were trembling with excitement.  His whole appearance was transformed.

“Hurry out and meet her, Chetwode!” he exclaimed.  “Show her the way in!  This is the first time in her life she has been here of her own accord.  Just as we were speaking about her, too!”