He entered the office and touched the young man in question upon the shoulder.
"Mr.Weatherley wishes to speak to you outside, Chetwode," he 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.