Mr. Weatherley withdrew the cigar from his mouth.

“You did that, eh?”

“I did,” Arnold admitted.  “I made my way to the back, and I found a light in the room which presumably had been the kitchen.  From a chink in the boarded-up window I saw several men in the room, including the man whom we discovered in your wife’s boudoir, and who had been spirited away.  He was lying motionless upon the table, and one of the others was apparently trying to restore him.  When they found that it was useless, they took him off with them by the back way into Grove Lane.  I saw two of them enter a taxicab and the other two make off.”

“And what did you do then?” Mr. Weatherley asked.

“I went and told Count Sabatini what I had seen,” Arnold replied.

“And after that?”

“I went home.”

“You told no one else but Count Sabatini?” Mr. Weatherley persisted.

“No one,” Arnold answered.  “I bought a paper on my way to business this morning, and read what I have just read to you.”

“You haven’t been rushing about ringing up to give information, or anything of that sort?”

“I have done nothing,” Arnold asserted.  “I waited to lay the matter before you.”

Mr. Weatherley knocked the ash from his cigar, and, discovering that it was out, carefully relit it.

“Chetwode,” he said, “I have advanced you from something a little better than an office-boy, very rapidly, because it seemed to me that you had qualities.  The time has arrived to test them.  The secret of success in life is minding your own business.  I am going to ask you to mind your own business in this matter.”

“You mean,” Arnold asked, “that you do not wish me to give any information, to say anything about last night?”

“I do not wish my name, or the name of my wife, or the name of my house, to be associated with this affair at all,” Mr. Weatherley replied.  “Mrs. Weatherley would be very much upset and it is, besides, entirely unnecessary.”

Arnold hesitated for a moment.

“It is a serious matter, sir, if you will permit me to say so,” he said slowly.  “The man was murdered—­that seems to be clear—­and, from what you and I know, it certainly seems that he was murdered in your house.”

Mr. Weatherley shook his head.

“That is not my impression,” he declared.  “The man was found dead in Mrs. Weatherley’s boudoir, but there was no one in the house or apparently within reach who was either likely to have committed such a crime, or who even could possibly have done so.  On the other hand, there are this man’s companions, desperate fellows, no doubt, within fifty yards all the time.  My own impression is that he was killed first and then placed in the spot where he was found.  However that may be, I don’t want my house made the rendezvous of all the interviewers and sightseers in the neighborhood.  You and I will keep our counsel, Arnold Chetwode.”