Bones in London

Presently Bones threw down the paper.

"Nothing, absolutely nothing," he said, and walked to the door of theouter office, knocked upon it, and disappeared into the sanctum of thelady whom Bones never referred to except in terms of the deepestrespect as his "young typewriter!"

"Young miss," he said, pausing deferentially at the door, "may I comein?"

She smiled up at him – a proceeding which was generally sufficient tothrow Bones into a pitiful condition of incoherence. But this morningit had only the effect of making him close his eyes as though to shutout a vision too radiant to be borne.

"Aren't you well, Mr. Tibbetts?" she asked quickly and anxiously.

"It's nothing, dear old miss," said Bones, passing a weary andhypocritical hand across his brow. "Just a fit of the jolly oldstaggers. The fact is, I've been keeping late hours – in fact, dearyoung miss," he said huskily, "I have been engaged in a wicked oldpursuit – yes, positively naughty…"

"Oh, Mr. Tibbetts" – she was truly shocked – "I'm awfully sorry! Youreally shouldn't drink – you're so young…"

"Drink!" said the hurt and astounded Bones. "Dear old slanderer!

Poetry!"

He had written sufficient poetry to make a volume – poems which aboundedin such rhymes as "Marguerite," "Dainty feet," "Sweet," "Hard to beat,"and the like. But this she did not know.

By this time the girl was not only accustomed to these periodicalembarrassments of Bones, but had acquired the knack of switching theconversation to the main line of business.

"There's a letter from Mr. de Vinne," she said.

Bones rubbed his nose and said, "Oh!"

Mr. de Vinne was on his mind rather than on his conscience, for Mr. deVinne was very angry with Bones, who, as he had said, had "niped" inand had cost Mr. de Vinne £17,500.

"It is not a nice letter," suggested the girl.

"Let me see, dear young head-turner," said Bones firmly.

The letter called him "Sir," and went on to speak of the writer's yearsof experience as a merchant of the City of London, in all of which, said the writer, he had never heard of conduct approaching in infamythat of Augustus Tibbetts, Esquire.

"It has been brought to my recollection" (wrote the infuriated Mr. deVinne) "that on the day you made your purchase of Browns, I dined atthe Kingsway Restaurant, and that you occupied a table immediatelybehind me. I can only suppose that you overheard a perfectlyconfidential" (heavily underscored) "conversation between myself and afellow-director, and utilised the information thus disgracefullyacquired."

"Never talk at meals, dear old typewriter," murmured Bones. "Awfullybad for your jolly young tum – for your indigestion, dear youngkeytapper."

The letter went on to express the writer's intention of takingvengeance for the "dishonest squeeze" of which he had been the victim.

Bones looked at his secretary anxiously. The censure of Mr. de Vinneaffected him not at all. The possible disapproval of this lady filledhim with dire apprehension.

"It's not a nice letter," said the girl. "Do you want me to answer it?"

"Do I want you to answer it?" repeated Bones, taking courage. "Ofcourse I want you to answer it, my dear old paper-stainer anddecorator. Take these words."

He paced the room with a terrible frown.

"Dear old thing," he began.

"Do you want me to say 'Dear old thing'?" asked the girl.

"No, perhaps not, perhaps not," said Bones. "Start it like this: 'Mydear peevish one – "

The girl hesitated and then wrote down: "Dear Sir."

"'You are just showing your naughty temper,'" dictated Bones, and addedunnecessarily, "t-e-m-p-e-r."

It was a practice of his to spell simple words.

"You are just showing your naughty temper," he went on, "and I simplyrefuse to have anything more to do with you. You're being simplydisgusting. Need I say more?" added Bones.

The girl wrote: "Dear Sir, – No useful purpose would be served either inreplying to your letter of to-day's date, or re-opening the discussionon the circumstances of which you complain."

Bones went back to his office feeling better. Hamilton left early thatafternoon, so that when, just after the girl had said "Good night," andBones himself was yawning over an evening paper, and there came a rapat the door of the outer office, he was quite alone.

"Come in!" he yelled, and a young man, dressed in deep mourning, eventually appeared through the door sacred to the use of MissMarguerite Whitland.

"I'm afraid I've come rather late in the day."

"I'm afraid you have, dear old thing," said Bones. "Come and sit down, black one. Deepest sympathy and all that sort of thing."

The young man licked his lips. His age was about twenty-four, and hehad the appearance of being a semi-invalid, as, indeed, he was.

"It's rather late to see you on this matter," he said, "but your namewas only suggested to me about an hour ago."

Bones nodded. Remember that he was always prepared for a miracle, evenat closing time.

"My name is Siker," said the visitor.

"And a jolly good name, too," said Bones, dimly conscious of the factthat he had heard this name mentioned before.

"You probably saw the account of my father's death. It was in thismorning's newspaper, though he died last week," said Mr. Siker.

Bones screwed up his forehead.

"I remember that name," he said. "Now, let me think. Why, ofcourse – Siker's Detective Agency."

It was the young man's turn to nod.

"That's right, sir," he said. "John Siker was my father. I'm his onlyson."

Bones waited.

"I've heard it said, Mr. Tibbetts," said the young man – "at least, ithas been represented to me – that you are on the look-out for likelybusinesses that show a profit."

"That's right," agreed Bones; "that show me a big profit," he added.

"Well, Siker's Detective Agency has made two thousand a year clear fortwenty years," said the young man. "We've got one of the best lists ofclients in the kingdom, and almost every big business man in the Cityis on our list. With a little more attention than my father has beenable to give to it for the last two years, there's a fortune in it."