Bones in London

Mr. Tibbetts giggled. At that moment the Being re-appeared.

Marguerite Whitland, chief and only stenographer to the firm of Schemes

Limited, and Bones beckoned her.

"Just cast your eye over this, young miss," he said. "What do youthink of it?"

The girl came round the group, looked at the picture, and nodded.

"Very nice," she said, and then she looked at the girl.

"Selling it for a charity," said Bones carelessly. "Some silly oldjosser will put it up in his drawing-room, I suppose. You know, Ham, dear old thing, I never can understand this hero-worship business. Andnow, my young and philanthropic collector, what do you want me to do?Give you permission? It is given."

"I want you to give me your autograph. Sign down there," – she pointedto a little space beneath the picture – "and just let me sell it forwhat I can get."

"With all the pleasure in life," said Bones.

He picked up his long plumed pen and splashed his characteristicsignature in the space indicated.

And then Miss Marguerite Whitland did a serious thing, an amazinglyaudacious thing, a thing which filled Bones's heart with horror anddismay.

Before Bones could lift the blotting pad, her forefinger had droppedupon the signature and had been drawn across, leaving nothing more thanan indecipherable smudge.

"My dear old typewriter!" gasped Bones. "My dear old miss! Confoundit all! Hang it all, I say! Dear old thing!"

"You can leave this picture, madam – "

"Miss," murmured Bones from force of habit. Even in his agitation hecould not resist the temptation to interrupt.

"You can leave this picture, Miss Stegg," said the girl coolly. "Mr.

Tibbetts wants to add it to his collection."

Miss Stegg said nothing.

She had risen to her feet, her eyes fixed on the girl's face, and, withno word of protest or explanation, she turned and walked swiftly fromthe office. Hamilton opened the door, noting the temporary suspensionof the undulatory motion.

When she had gone, they looked at one another, or, rather, they lookedat the girl, who, for her part, was examining the photograph. She tooka little knife from the desk before Bones and inserted it into thethick cardboard mount, and ripped off one of the layers of cardboard.And so Bones's photograph was exposed, shorn of all mounting. But, what was more important, beneath his photograph was a cheque on theThird National Bank, which was a blank cheque and bearing Bones'sundeniable signature in the bottom right-hand corner – the signature wasdecipherable through the smudge.

Bones stared.

"Most curious thing I've ever seen in my life, dear old typewriter," hesaid. "Why, that's the very banking establishment I patronise."

"I thought it might be," said the girl.

And then it dawned upon Bones, and he gasped.

"Great Moses!" he howled – there is no prettier word for it. "Thatnaughty, naughty, Miss Thing-a-me-jig was making me sign a blankcheque! My autograph! My sacred aunt! Autograph on a cheque…"

Bones babbled on as the real villainy of the attempt upon his financesgradually unfolded before his excited vision.

Explanations were to follow. The girl had seen a paragraph warningpeople against giving their autographs, and the police had evencirculated a rough description of two "well-dressed women" who, on onepretext or another, were securing from the wealthy, but the unwise, specimens of their signatures.

"My young and artful typewriter," said Bones, speaking with emotion,"you have probably saved me from utter ruin, dear old thing. Goodnessonly knows what might have happened, or where I might have beensleeping to-night, my jolly old Salvationist, if your beady little eyehadn't penetrated like a corkscrew through the back of that naughty oldlady's neck and read her evil intentions."

"I don't think it was a matter of my beady eye," said the girl, withoutany great enthusiasm for the description, "as my memory."

"I can't understand it," said Bones, puzzled. "She came in a beautifulcar – "

"Hired for two hours for twenty-five shillings," said the girl.

"But she was so beautifully dressed. She had a chinchilla coat – "

"Imitation beaver," said Miss Marguerite Whitland, who had fewillusions. "You can get them for fifteen pounds at any of the West Endshops."

It was a very angry Miss Bertha Stegg who made her way in some haste toPimlico. She shared a first-floor suite with a sister, and she burstunceremoniously into her relative's presence, and the elder Miss Stegglooked round with some evidence of alarm.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

She was a tall, bony woman, with a hard, tired face, and lacked most ofher sister's facial charm.

"Turned down," said Bertha briefly. "I had the thing signed, and thena – " (one omits the description she gave of Miss Marguerite Whitland, which was uncharitable) "smudged the thing with her fingers."

"She tumbled to it, eh?" said Clara. "Has she put the splits on you?"

"I shouldn't think so," said Bertha, throwing off her coat and her hat, and patting her hair. "I got away too quickly, and I came on by thecar."

"Will he report it to the police?"

"He's not that kind. Doesn't it make you mad, Clara, to think thatthat fool has a million to spend? Do you know what he's done? Madeperhaps a hundred thousand pounds in a couple of days! Wouldn't thatrile you?"

They discussed Bones in terms equally unflattering. They likened Bonesto all representatives of the animal world whose characteristics areextreme foolishness, but at last they came into a saner, calmer frameof mind.

Miss Clara Stegg seated herself on the frowsy sofa – indispensable to aPimlico furnished flat – and, with her elbow on one palm and her chin onanother, reviewed the situation. She was the brains of a littlecombination which had done so much to distress and annoy susceptiblefinanciers in the City of London. (The record of the Stegg sisters maybe read by the curious, or, at any rate, by as many of the curious ashave the entrée to the Record Department of Scotland Yard.)

The Steggs specialised in finance, and operated exclusively in highfinancial circles. There was not a fluctuation of the market whichMiss Clara Stegg did not note; and when Rubber soared sky-high, orSteel Preferred sagged listlessly, she knew just who was going to beaffected, and just how approachable they were.

During the War the Stegg sisters had opened a new department, so tospeak, dealing with Government contracts, and the things which theyknew about the incomes of Government contractors the average surveyorof taxes would have given money to learn.

"It was my mistake, Bertha," she said at last, "though in a sense itwasn't. I tried him simply, because he's simple. If you worksomething complicated on a fellow like that, you're pretty certain toget him guessing."

She went out of the room, and presently returned with four ordinaryexercise-books, one of which she opened at a place where a page wascovered with fine writing, and that facing was concealed by a sheet ofletter-paper which had been pasted on to it. The letter-paper bore theembossed heading of Schemes Limited, the epistle had reference to arequest for an autograph which Bones had most graciously granted.

The elder woman looked at the signature, biting her nether lip.

"It is almost too late now. What is the time?" she asked.

"Half-past three," replied her sister.