time. I thought, perhaps," he added, "that you might have heard what
happened."

Mr. Weatherley had reached the limits of his patience. He struck the
table with his clenched fist. For a moment anger triumphed over his
state of nervous excitability.

"Heard?" he cried. "Heard what? What the devil should I hear down
here? If you've anything to tell, why don't you tell it me? Why do
you stand there looking like a--"

Mr. Weatherley was suddenly frightened. He understood from Arnold's
expression that something serious had happened.

"My God!" he exclaimed. "Mrs. Weatherley--my wife--"

"Mrs. Weatherley is quite well," Arnold assured him quickly. "It is
Mr. Rosario."

"What of him? What about Rosario?"

"He is dead," Arnold announced. "You will read all about it in the
evening papers. He was murdered--just as he was on the point of
entering the Milan Grill Room."

Mr. Weatherley began to shake. He looked like a man on the verge of
a collapse. He was still, however, able to ask a question.

"By whom?"