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The Lighted Way by E. Phillips Oppenheim

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THE LIGHTED WAY

by

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

Author of _Havoc_, _Peter Ruff and the Double-Four_,
_The Master Mummer_, etc.

With Illustrations by A. B. Wenzell

Boston
Little, Brown, and Company

1912







[Illustration: Her head sank upon his shoulder, her hands
clasped his. FRONTISPIECE. _See page 354_.]





CONTENTS


I AN INVITATION TO DINNER
II RUTH
III ARNOLD SCENTS MYSTERY
IV THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
V AN UNUSUAL ERRAND
VI THE GLEAM OF STEEL
VII "ROSARIO IS DEAD!"
VIII THE DUTIES OF A SECRETARY
IX A STRAINED CONVERSATION
X AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
XI AN INTERRUPTED LUNCHEON
XII JARVIS IS JUSTLY DISTURBED
XIII CASTLES IN SPAIN
XIV SABATINI'S DOCTRINES
XV THE RED SIGNET RING
XVI AN ADVENTURE
XVII THE END OF AN EVENING
XVIII DISCUSSING THE MYSTERY
XIX IN THE COUNTRY
XX WOMAN'S WILES
XXI ARNOLD SPEAKS OUT
XXII THE REFUGEE'S RETURN
XXIII TROUBLE BREWING
XXIV ISAAC AT BAY
XXV MR. WEATHERLEY'S DISAPPEARANCE
XXVI ARNOLD BECOMES INQUISITIVE
XXVII THE LETTERS IN THE SAFE
XXVIII TALK OF TREASURE SHIPS
XXIX COUNT SABATINI VISITS
XXX SOME QUESTIONS ANSWERED
XXXI A LUNCHEON-PARTY
XXXII ISAAC IN HIDING
XXXIII SABATINI'S DAUGHTER
XXXIV CLOSE TO TRAGEDY
XXXV MR. WEATHERLEY RETURNS
XXXVI COUNTERCLAIMS
XXXVII THE SHIP COMES IN




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Her head sank upon his shoulder, her hands clasped his (Frontispiece)
"I was waiting here for you," he explained
The eyes of every one were turned toward the wall
"For myself," he declared, "I remain"
"Where is this man?" he demanded
Mrs. Weatherley and the cashier looked over his shoulder




CHAPTER I

AN INVITATION TO DINNER


Mr. Samuel Weatherley, sole proprietor of the firm of Samuel
Weatherley & Co., wholesale provision merchants, of Tooley Street,
London, paused suddenly on his way from his private office to the
street. There was something which until that second had entirely
slipped his memory. It was not his umbrella, for that, neatly tucked
up, was already under his arm. Nor was it the _Times_, for that,
together with the supplement, was sticking out of his overcoat
pocket, the shape of which it completely ruined. As a matter of
fact, it was more important than either of these--it was a
commission from his wife.

Very slowly he retraced his steps until he stood outside the
glass-enclosed cage where twelve of the hardest-worked clerks in
London bent over their ledgers and invoicing. 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. We are a man short for dinner. Mrs. Weatherley told me to
get some one at the club--telephoned down here just an hour ago."

Mr. Weatherley paused. Mr. Jarvis did his best to grasp the
situation, but failed. All that he could do was to maintain his
attitude of intelligent interest.

"I don't know any one at the club," continued his employer,
irritably. "I feel like a fish out of water there, and that's the
truth, Mr. Jarvis. It's a good club. I got elected there--well,
never mind how--but it's one thing to be a member of a club, and
quite another to 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 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.

"I have had no complaints, Chetwode," he admitted, struggling for
that note of condescension which he felt to be in order. "No
complaints at all. I was wondering if you--you happened to play
bridge?"

Once more this extraordinary young man showed himself to be
possessed of gifts quite unusual at his age. Not by the flicker of
an eyelid did he show the least surprise or amusement.

"Bridge, sir," he repeated. "Yes, I have played at--I have played
occasionally."

"My wife is giving a small dinner-party this evening," Mr.
Weatherley continued, moving his umbrella from one hand to the other
and speaking very rapidly, "bridge afterwards. We happen to be a man
short. I was to have called at the club to try and pick up some
one--find I sha'n't have time--meeting at the Cannon Street Hotel to
attend. Would you--er--fill the vacant place? Save me the trouble of
looking about."

It was out at last and Mr. Weatherley felt unaccountably relieved.
He felt at the same time a certain measure of annoyance with his
junior clerk for his unaltered composure.

"I shall be very much pleased, sir," he answered, without
hesitation. "About eight, I suppose?"

Again Mr. Weatherley's relief was tempered with a certain amount of
annoyance. This young man's _savoir faire_ was out of place. He
should have imagined a sort of high-tea supper at seven o'clock, and
been gently corrected by his courteous employer. As it was, Mr.
Weatherley felt dimly confident that this junior clerk of his was
more accustomed to eight o'clock dinners than he was himself.

"A quarter to, to-night," he replied. "People coming for bridge
afterwards, you see. I live up Hampstead way--Pelham Lodge--quite
close to the tube station."

Mr. Weatherley omitted the directions he had been about to give
respecting toilet, and turned away. His youthful employee's manners,
to the last, were all that could be desired.

"I am much obliged to you, sir," he said. "I will take care to be
punctual."

Mr. Weatherley grunted and walked out into the street. Here his
behavior was a little singular. He walked up toward London Bridge,
exchanging greetings with a good many acquaintances on the way.
Opposite the London & Westminster Bank he paused for a moment and
looked searchingly around. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he
stepped quickly into a very handsome motor car which was drawn up
close to the curb, and with a sigh of relief sat as far back among
the cushions as possible and held the tube to his mouth.

"Get along home," he ordered, tersely.

* * * * *

Arnold Chetwode, after his interview with his employer, returned
unruffled to his place. Mr. Jarvis bustled in after him. He was
annoyed, but he wished to conceal the fact. Besides, he still had an
arrow in his quiver. He came and stood over his subordinate.

"Congratulate you, I'm sure, Chetwode," he said smoothly. "First
time any one except myself has been to the house since Mr.
Weatherley's marriage."

Mr. Jarvis had taken the letters there one morning when his employer
had been unwell, and had waited in the hall. He did not, however,
mention that fact.

"Indeed?" Chetwode murmured, with his eye upon his work.

"You understand, of course," Mr. Jarvis continued, "that it will be
an evening-dress affair. Mrs. Weatherley has the name of being very
particular."

He glanced covertly at the young man, who was already immersed in
his work.

"Evening dress," Chetwode remarked, with a becoming show of
interest. "Well, I dare say I can manage something. If I wear a
black coat and a white silk bow, and stick a red handkerchief in
underneath my waistcoat, I dare say I shall be all right. Mr.
Weatherley can't expect much from me in that way, can he?"

The senior clerk was secretly delighted. It was not for him to
acquaint this young countryman with the necessities of London life.
He turned away and took up a bundle of letters.

"Can't say, I'm sure, what the governor expects," he replied,
falsely. "You'll have to do the best you can, I suppose. Better get
on with those invoices now."

Once more the office resounded to the hum of its varied labors. Mr.
Jarvis, dictating letters to a typist, smiled occasionally as he
pictured the arrival of this over-favored young man in the
drawing-room of Mrs. Weatherley, attired in the nondescript fashion
which his words had suggested. One or two of the clerks ventured
upon a chaffing remark. To all appearance, the person most absorbed
in his work was the young man who had been singled out for such
especial favor.




CHAPTER II

RUTH


In the topmost chamber of the last of a row of somber gray stone
houses in Adam Street a girl with a thin but beautiful face and
large, expectant eyes sat close to the bare, uncurtained window,
from which it was possible to command a view of the street below. A
book which she had apparently been reading had fallen neglected onto
the floor. Steadfastly she watched the passers-by. Her delicate,
expressive features were more than once illuminated with joy, only
to be clouded, a moment later, with disappointment. The color came
and went in her cheeks, as though, indeed, she were more sensitive
than her years. Occasionally she glanced around at the clock. Time
dragged so slowly in that great bare room with its obvious touch of
poverty!

At last a tall figure came striding along the pavement below. This
time no mistake was possible. There was a fluttering handkerchief
from above, an answering wave of the hand. The girl drew a sigh of
inexpressible content, moved away from the window and faced the
door, with lifted head waiting for the sound of footsteps upon the
stairs. They arrived at last. The door was thrown open. Arnold
Chetwode came hastily across the room and gripped the two hands
which were held out to him. Then he bent down and kissed her
forehead.

"Dear little Ruth!" he exclaimed. "I hope you were careful crossing
the landing?"

The girl leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were fixed anxiously
upon his face. She completely ignored his question.

"The news at once!" she insisted. "Tell me, Arnold!"

He was a little taken aback.

"How did you know that I had any?"

She smiled delightfully.

"Know, indeed! I knew it directly I saw you, I knew it every time
your foot touched the stairs. What is it, Arnold? The cheeses didn't
smell so bad to-day? Or you've had a rise? Quick! I must hear all
about it."

"You shall," Arnold replied. "It is a wonderful story. Listen. Have
you ever heard the fable of Dick Whittington?"

"Married his employer's daughter, of course. What's she like,
Arnold? Have you seen her? Did you save her life? When are you going
to see her again?"

Chetwode was already on his knees, dragging out an old trunk from
underneath the faded cupboard. Suddenly he paused with a gesture of
despair.

"Alas!" he exclaimed. "My dream fades away. Old Weatherley was
married only last year. Consequently, his daughter--"

"He can't have one," she interrupted, ruthlessly. "Tell me the news
at once?"

"I am going to dine with old Weatherley," he announced.

The girl smiled, a little wistfully.

"How funny! But you will get a good dinner, won't you, Arnold? Eat
ever so much, dear. Yesterday I fancied that you were getting thin.
I do wish I could see what you have in the middle of the day."

"Little mother!" he laughed. "To-day I gorged myself on poached
eggs. What did Isaac give you?"

"Mutton stew and heaps of it," the girl replied, quickly. "To-night
I shall have a bowl of milk as soon as you are gone. Have you
everything you ought to have to wear, Arnold?"

"Everything," he declared, rising to his feet with a sigh of relief.
"It's so long since I looked at my clothes that to tell you the
truth I was a little bit anxious. They may be old-fashioned, but
they came from a good man to start with."

"What made Mr. Weatherley ask you?" she demanded.

"Wanted one of his clerks to fill up and found that I played
bridge," Arnold answered. "It's rather a bore, isn't it? But, after
all, he is my employer."

"Of course you must go and behave your very nicest. Tell me, when
have you to start?"

"I ought to be changing in a quarter of an hour. What shall we do
till then?"

"Whatever you like," she murmured.

"I am coming to sit at the window with you," he said. "We'll look
down at the river and you shall tell me stories about the ships."

She laughed and took his hand as he dragged a chair over to her
side. He put his arm around her and her head fell naturally back
upon his shoulder. Her eyes sought his. He was leaning forward,
gazing down between the curving line of lamp-posts, across the belt
of black river with its flecks of yellow light. But Ruth watched him
only.

"Arnie," she whispered in his ear, "there are no fairy ships upon
the river to-night."

He smiled.

"Why not, little one? You have only to close your eyes."

Slowly she shook her head.

"Don't think that I am foolish, dear," she begged. "To-night I
cannot look upon the river at all. I feel that there is something
new here--here in this room. The great things are here, Arnold. I
can feel life hammering and throbbing in the air. We aren't in a
garret any longer, dear. It's a fairy palace. Listen. Can't you hear
the people shout, and the music, and the fountains playing? Can't
you see the dusky walls fall back, the marble pillars, the lights in
the ceiling?"

He turned his head. He found himself, indeed, listening, found
himself almost disappointed to hear nothing but the far-off, eternal
roar of the city, and the melancholy grinding of a hurdy-gurdy
below. Always she carried him away by her intense earnestness, the
bewitching softness of her voice, even when it was galleons full of
treasure that she saw, with blood-red sails, coming up the river,
full of treasure for them. To-night her voice had more than its
share of inspiration, her fancies clung to her feverishly.

"Be careful, Arnold," she murmured. "To-night means a change. There
is something new coming. I can feel it coming in my heart."

Her face was drawn and pale. He laughed down into her eyes.

"Little lady," he reminded her, mockingly, "I am going to dine with
my cheesemonger employer."

She shook her head dreamily. She refused to be dragged down.

"There's something beating in the air," she continued. "It came into
the room with you. Don't you feel it? Can't you feel that you are
going to a tragedy? Life is going to be different, Arnold, to be
different always."

He drew himself up. A flicker of passion flamed in his own deep gray
eyes.

"Different, child? Of course it's going to be different. If there
weren't something else in front, do you think one could live? Do you
think one could be content to struggle through this miserable
quagmire if one didn't believe that there was something else on the
other side of the hill?"

She sighed, and her fingers touched his.

"I forgot," she said simply. "You see, there was a time when I
hadn't you. You lifted me out of my quagmire."

"Not high enough, dear," he answered, caressingly. "Some day I'll
take you over to Berlin or Vienna, or one of those wonderful places.
We'll leave Isaac to grub along and sow red fire in Hyde Park. We'll
find the doctors. We shall teach you to walk again without that
stick. No more gloominess, please."

She pressed his hand tightly.

"Dear Arnold!" she whispered softly.

"Turn around and watch the river with me, little one," he begged.
"See the lights on the barges, how slowly they move. What is there
behind that one, I wonder?"

Her eyes followed his finger without enthusiasm.

"I can't look out of the room to-night, Arnold," she said. "The
fancies won't come. Promise me one thing."

"I promise," he agreed.

"Tell me everything--don't keep anything back."

"On my honor," he declared, smiling. "I will bring the menu of the
dinner, if there is one, and a photograph of Mrs. Cheesemonger if I
can steal it. Now I am going to help you back into your room."

"Don't bother," she begged. "Open the door and I can get there quite
easily."

He set the door open and, crossing the bare stone landing, opened
the door of another room, similar to his. They were somber
apartments at the top of the deserted house, which had once been a
nobleman's residence. The doors were still heavy, though blistered
with time and lack of varnish. There were the remains of paneling
upon the wall and frescoes upon the ceiling.

"Come and see me before you go," she pleaded. "I am all alone. Isaac
has gone to a meeting somewhere."

He promised and returned to his own apartment. With the help of a
candle which he stuck upon the mantelpiece, and a cracked mirror, he
first of all shaved, then disappeared for a few minutes behind a
piece of faded curtain and washed vigorously. Afterwards he changed
his clothes, putting on a dress suit produced from the trunk. When
he had finished, he stepped back and laughed softly to himself. His
clothes were well cut. His studs, which had very many times been on
the point of visiting the pawnbroker's, were correct and good. He
was indeed an incongruous figure as he stood there and, with a
candle carefully held away from him in his hand, looked at his own
reflection. For some reason or other, he was feeling elated. Ruth's
words had lingered in his brain. One could never tell which way
fortune might come!

He found her waiting in the darkness. Her long arms were wound for a
moment around his neck, a sudden passion shook her.

"Arnold--dear Arnold," she sobbed, "you are going into the
storm--and I want to go! I want to go, too! My hands are cold, and
my heart. Take me with you, dear!"

He was a little startled. It was not often that she was hysterical.
He looked down into her convulsed face. She choked for a moment, and
then, although it was not altogether a successful effort, she
laughed.

"Don't mind me," she begged. "I am a little mad to-night. I think
that the twilight here has got upon my nerves. Light the lamp,
please. Light the lamp and leave me alone for a moment while you do
it."

He obeyed, fetching some matches from his own room and setting the
lamp, when it was lit, on the table by her side. There were no tears
left in her eyes now. Her lips were tremulous, but an unusual spot
of color was burning in her cheeks. While he had been dressing, he
saw that she had tied a piece of deep blue ribbon, the color he
liked best, around her hair.

"See, I am myself now. Good night and good luck to you, Arnold! Eat
a good dinner, mind, and remember your promise."

"There is nothing more that I can do for you?" he asked.

"Nothing," she replied. "Besides, I can hear Uncle Isaac coming."

The door was suddenly opened. A thin, undersized man in worn black
clothes, and with a somber hat of soft black felt still upon his
head, came into the room. His dark hair was tinged with gray, he
walked with a pronounced stoop. In his shabby clothes, fitting
loosely upon his diminutive body, he should have been an
insignificant figure, but somehow or other he was nothing of the
sort. His thin lips curved into a discontented droop. His cheeks
were hollow and his eyes shone with the brightness of the fanatic.
Arnold greeted him familiarly.

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