The Lighted Way | Page 2

get to know the men
there. You understand that, Mr. Jarvis."
Mr. Jarvis, however, did not understand it. He could conceive of no
spot in the city of London, or its immediate neighborhood, where Mr.
Samuel Weatherley, head of the firm of Messrs. Weatherley & Co.,
could find himself among his social superiors. He knew the capital of
the firm, and its status. He was ignorant of the other things which
counted--as ignorant as his master had been until he had paid a business
visit a few years ago, in search of certain edibles, to an island in the
Mediterranean Sea. He was to have returned in triumph to Tooley
Street and launched upon the provision-buying world a new cheese of
astounding quality and infinitesimal price--instead of which he brought
home a wife.
"Anything I can do, sir," began Mr. Jarvis, a little vaguely,--
"My idea was," Mr. Weatherley proceeded, "that one of my own young
men--there are twelve of them in there, aren't there?" he added, jerking
his head in the direction of the office--"might do. What do you think?"
Mr. Jarvis nodded thoughtfully.

"It would be a great honor, sir," he declared, "a very great honor
indeed."
Mr. Weatherley did not contradict him. As a matter of fact, he was of
the same opinion.
"The question is which," he continued.
Mr. Jarvis began to understand why he had been consulted. His fingers
involuntarily straightened his tie.
"If I could be of any use personally, sir,--"
His employer shook his head.
"My wife would expect me to bring a single man, Jarvis," he said, "and
besides, I don't suppose you play bridge."
"Cards are not much in my line," Mr. Jarvis admitted, "not having, as a
rule, the time to spare, but I can take a hand at loo, if desired."
"My wife's friends all play bridge," Mr. Weatherley declared, a little
brusquely. "There's only one young man in the office, Jarvis, who, from
his appearance, struck me as being likely."
"Mr. Stephen Tidey, of course, sir," the confidential clerk agreed.
"Most suitable thing, sir, and I'm sure his father would accept it as a
high compliment. Mr. Stephen Tidey Senior, sir, as you may be aware,
is next on the list for the shrievalty. Shall I call him out, sir?"
Mr. Weatherley looked through the glass and met the glance, instantly
lowered, of the young man in question. Mr. Stephen Tidey Junior was
short and stout, reflecting in his physique his aldermanic father. His
complexion was poor, however, his neck thick, and he wore a necktie
of red silk drawn through a diamond ring. There was nothing in his
appearance which grated particularly upon Mr. Weatherley's sense of
seemliness. Nevertheless, he shook his head. He was beginning to
recognize his wife's point of view, even though it still seemed strange

to him.
"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
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