"I wasn't thinking of young Tidey at all," he declared, bluntly. "I
was thinking of that young fellow at the end of the desk there--chap
with a queer name--Chetwode, I think you call him."

Mr. Jarvis, human automaton though he was, permitted himself an
exclamation of surprise.

"Young Chetwode! Surely you're not in earnest, sir!"

"Why not?" Mr. Weatherley demanded. "There's nothing against him,
is there?"

"Nothing against him, precisely," Mr. Jarvis confessed, "but he's at
the lowest desk in the office, bar Smithers. His salary is only
twenty-eight shillings a week, and we know nothing whatever about
him except that his references were satisfactory. It isn't to be
supposed that he would feel at home in your house, sir. Now, with
Mr. Tidey, sir, it's quite different. They live in a very beautiful
house at Sydenham now--quite a small palace, in its way, I've been
told."

Mr. Weatherley was getting a little impatient.

"Send Chetwode out for a moment, anyway," he directed. "I'll speak
to him here."

Mr. Jarvis obeyed in silence. He entered the office and touched the
young man in question upon the shoulder.

"Mr. Weatherley wishes to speak to you outside, Chetwode," he