announced. "Make haste, please."

Arnold Chetwode put down his pen and rose to his feet. There was
nothing flurried about his manner, nothing whatever to indicate on
his part any knowledge of the fact that this was the voice of Fate
beating upon his ear. He did not even show the ordinary interest of
a youthful employee summoned for the first time to an audience with
his chief. Standing for a moment by the side of the senior clerk in
the middle of the office, tall and straight, with deep brown hair,
excellent features, and the remnants of a healthy tan still visible
on his forehead and neck, he looked curiously out of place in this
unwholesome, gaslit building with its atmosphere of cheese and
bacon. He would have been noticeably good-looking upon the cricket
field or in any gathering of people belonging to the other side of
life. Here he seemed almost a curiously incongruous figure. He
passed through the glass-paned door and stood respectfully before
his employer. Mr. Weatherley--it was absurd, but he scarcely knew
how to make his suggestion--fidgetted for a moment and coughed. The
young man, who, among many other quite unusual qualities, was
possessed of a considerable amount of tact, looked down upon his
employer with a little well-assumed anxiety. As a matter of fact, he
really was exceedingly anxious not to lose his place.

"I understood from Mr. Jarvis that you wished to speak to me, sir,"
he remarked. "I hope that my work has given satisfaction? I know
that I am quite inexperienced but I don't think that I have made any
mistakes."

Mr. Weatherley was, to tell the truth, thankful for the opening.