With his forefinger--a fat, pudgy forefinger--he tapped upon a pane of glass, and an anxious errand boy bolted through the doorway.
"Tell Mr.Jarvis to step this way," his employer ordered.
Mr.Jarvis heard the message and came hurrying out.

He was an undersized man, with somewhat prominent eyes concealed by gold-rimmed spectacles.

He was possessed of extraordinary talents with regard to the details of the business, and was withal an expert and careful financier.

Hence his hold upon the confidence of his employer.
The latter addressed him with a curious and altogether unusual hesitation in his manner.
"Mr.Jarvis," he began, "there is a matter--a little matter--upon which I--er--wish to consult you." "Those American invoices--" "Nothing to do with business at all," Mr.Weatherley interrupted, ruthlessly.

"A little private matter." "Indeed, sir ?" Mr.Jarvis interjected.
"The fact is," Mr.Weatherley blundered on, with considerable awkwardness, for he hated the whole affair, "my wife--Mrs.
Weatherley, you know--is giving a party this evening--having some friends to dinner first, and then some other people coming to bridge.