answered.

She glanced half carelessly around, as though to see whether she
recognized any acquaintances. Arnold, however, was convinced that
she was simply anxious not to be overheard.

"Tell me," she inquired, "has my husband sent you here?"

Arnold admitted the fact.

"I have a message," he replied.

"For Mr. Rosario?"

"For Mr. Rosario."

"You have not seen anything of him yet, then?" she asked quickly.

"He has not been here," Arnold assured her. "I have kept my eyes
glued upon the door."

"Tell me the message quickly," she begged.

Arnold did not hesitate. Mr. Weatherley was his employer but this
woman was his employer's wife. If there were secrets between them,
it was not his concern. It seemed natural enough that she should
ask. It was certainly not his place to refuse to answer her
question.

"I was to tell him that on no account was he to lunch here to-day,"
Arnold said. "He was to go instead to the grill room at Prince's in
Piccadilly, and remain there until two o'clock."

Mrs. Weatherley made no remark. Her face was emotionless. Closely
though he was watching her, Arnold could not himself have declared
at that moment whether indeed this message had any import to her or
not.

"I find my husband's behavior exceedingly mysterious," she said
thoughtfully. "I cannot imagine how he became concerned in the
matter at all."

"I believe," Arnold told her, "that some one telephoned Mr.
Weatherley this morning. He was asked for privately several times
and he seemed very much disturbed by some message he received."

"Some one telephoned him," she repeated, frowning. "Now I wonder who
that person could be."

She sat quite still for a moment or two, looking through the
glass-paneled door. Then she shrugged her shoulders.

"In any case," she declared, "I am here to lunch and I am hungry. I
will not wait for Mr. Rosario. May I sit here?"

He called a waiter and the extra place was very soon prepared.

"If Mr. Rosario comes," she said, "we can see him from here. You can
then give him your message and he can please himself. I should like
some Omelette aux Champignons, please, and some red wine--nothing
more. Perhaps I will take some fruit later. And now, please, Mr.
Arnold Chetwode, will you listen to me?"

She undid her ermine cloak and laid aside her muff. The collection
of costly trifles which she had been carrying she threw carelessly
upon the table.

"Last night," she continued, softly, "we