Arnold was puzzled, but he murmured a word of assent.

“In case this should happen,” Mr. Weatherley went on, “and I have not time to communicate with any of you, I am leaving in your possession these two letters.  One is addressed jointly to you and Mr. Jarvis, and the other to Messrs. Turnbull & James, Solicitors, Bishopsgate Street Within.  Now I give these letters into your charge.  We shall lock them up together in this small safe which I told you you could have for your own papers,” Mr. Weatherley continued, rising to his feet and crossing the room.  “There you are, you see.  The safe is empty at present, so you will not need to go to it.  I am locking them up,” he added, taking a key from his pocket, “and there is the key.  Now you understand?”

“But surely, sir,” Arnold began,—­

“The matter is quite simple,” Mr. Weatherley interrupted, sharply.  “To put it plainly, if I am missing at any time, if anything should happen to me, or if I should disappear, go to that safe, take out the letters, open your own and deliver the other.  That is all you have to do.”

“Quite so, sir,” Arnold replied.  “I understand perfectly.  I see that there is none for Mrs. Weatherley.  Would you wish any message to be sent to her?”

Mr. Weatherley was silent for a moment.  A boy passed along the pavement with a bundle of evening papers.  Mr. Weatherley tapped at the window.

“Hurry out and get me a Star, Chetwode,” he ordered.

Arnold obeyed him and returned a few moments later with a paper in his hand.  Mr. Weatherley spread out the damp sheet under the electric light.  He studied it for a few moments intently, and then folded it up.

“It will not be necessary for you, Chetwode,” he said, “to communicate with my wife specially.”

The accidental arrangement of his employer’s coat and hat upon the rack suddenly struck Arnold.

“Why, I don’t believe that you have been out to lunch, sir!” he exclaimed.

Mr. Weatherley looked as though the idea were a new one to him.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I completely forgot.  Help me on with my coat, Chetwode.  There is nothing more to be done to-day.  I will call and get some tea somewhere on my way home.”

He rose to his feet, a little heavily.

“Tell them to get me a taxicab,” he directed.  “I don’t feel much like walking to-day, and they are not sending for me.”

Arnold sent the errand-boy off to London Bridge.  Mr. Weatherley stood before the window looking out into the murky atmosphere.

“I hope, Chetwode,” he said, “that I haven’t said anything to make you believe that there is anything wrong with me, or to give you cause for uneasiness.  This journey of which I spoke may never become necessary.  In that case, after a certain time has elapsed, we will destroy those letters.”

“I trust that it never may become necessary to open them, sir,” Arnold remarked.