Wallace Edgar
Bones in London

CHAPTER I
BONES AND BIG BUSINESS

There was a slump in the shipping market, and men who were otherwise decent citizens wailed for one hour of glorious war, when Kenyon Line Deferred had stood at 88 1/2, and even so poor an organization as Siddons Steam Packets Line had been marketable at 3 3/8.

Two bareheaded men came down the busy street, their hands thrust intotheir trousers pockets, their sleek, well-oiled heads bent in dejection.

No word they spoke, keeping step with the stern precision of soldiers.Together they wheeled through the open doors of the Commercial TrustBuilding, together they left-turned into the elevator, andsimultaneously raised their heads to examine its roof, as though in itspanelled ceiling was concealed some Delphic oracle who would answer theriddle which circumstances had set them.

They dropped their heads together and stood with sad eyes, regardingthe attendant's leisurely unlatching of the gate. They slipped forthand walked in single file to a suite of offices inscribed "PoleBrothers, Brokers," and, beneath, "The United Merchant Shippers'Corporation," and passed through a door which, in addition to thisdeclaration, bore the footnote "Private."

Here the file divided, one going to one side of a vast pedestal deskand one to the other. Still with their hands pushed deep into theirpockets, they sank, almost as at a word of command, each into hiscushioned chair, and stared at one another across the table.

They were stout young men of the middle thirties, clean-shaven andruddy. They had served their country in the late War, and had mademany sacrifices to the common cause. One had worn uniform and one hadnot. Joe had occupied some mysterious office which permitted and, indeed, enjoined upon him the wearing of the insignia of captain, buthad forbidden him to leave his native land. The other had earned alittle decoration with a very big title as a buyer of boots for Alliednations. Both had subscribed largely to War Stock, and a reminder oftheir devotion to the cause of liberty was placed to their credit everyhalf-year.

But for these, war, with its horrific incidents, its late hours, itsmidnight railway journeys by trains on which sleeping berths could notbe had for love or money, its food cards and statements of excessprofits, was past. The present held its tragedy so poignant as toovershadow that breathless terrifying moment when peace had come andfound the firm with the sale of the Fairy Line of cargo steamersuncompleted, contracts unsigned, and shipping stock which had livedlight-headedly in the airy spaces, falling deflated on the floor of thehouse.

The Fairy Line was not a large line. It was, in truth, a small line.It might have been purchased for two hundred thousand pounds, andnearly was. To-day it might be acquired for one hundred and fiftythousand pounds, and yet it wasn't.

"Joe," said the senior Mr. Pole, in a voice that came from hisvarnished boots, "we've got to do something with Fairies."

"Curse this War!" said Joe in cold-blooded even tones. "Curse theKaiser! A weak-kneed devil who might at least have stuck to it foranother month! Curse him for making America build ships, curse himfor – "

"Joe," said the stout young man on the other side of the table, shakinghis head sadly, "it is no use cursing, Joe. We knew that they werebuilding ships, but the business looked good to me. If Turkey hadn'tturned up her toes and released all that shipping – "

"Curse Turkey!" said the other, with great calmness. "Curse the Sultanand Enver and Taalat, curse Bulgaria and Ferdinand – "

"Put in one for the Bolsheviks, Joe," said his brother urgently, "and Ireckon that gets the lot in trouble. Don't start on Austria, or we'llfind ourselves cursing the Jugo-Slavs."

He sighed deeply, pursed his lips, and looked at his writing-padintently.

Joe and Fred Pole had many faults, which they freely admitted, such astheir generosity, their reckless kindness of heart, their willingnessto do their worst enemies a good turn, and the like. They had otherswhich they never admitted, but which were none the less patent to theirprejudiced contemporaries.

But they had virtues which were admirable. They were, for example, absolutely loyal to one another, and were constant in their mutualadmiration and help. If Joe made a bad deal, Fred never rested untilhe had balanced things against the beneficiary. If Fred in a weakmoment paid a higher price to the vendor of a property than he, aspromoter, could afford, it was Joe who took the smug vendor out todinner and, by persuasion, argument, and the frank expression of hisliking for the unfortunate man, tore away a portion of his ill-gottengains.

"I suppose," said Joe, concluding his minatory exercises, and reachingfor a cigar from the silver box which stood on the table midway betweenthe two, "I suppose we couldn't hold Billing to his contract. Have youseen Cole about it, Fred?"

The other nodded slowly.

"Cole says that there is no contract. Billing offered to buy theships, and meant to buy them, undoubtedly; but Cole says that if youtook Billing into court, the judge would chuck his pen in your eye."

"Would he now?" said Joe, one of whose faults was that he took thingsliterally. "But perhaps if you took Billing out to dinner, Fred – "

"He's a vegetarian, Joe" – he reached in his turn for a cigar, snippedthe end and lit it – "and he's deaf. No, we've got to find a sucker,Joe. I can sell the Fairy May and the Fairy Belle: they're littleboats, and are worth money in the open market. I can sell the wharfageand offices and the goodwill – "

"What's the goodwill worth, Fred?"

"About fivepence net," said the gloomy Fred. "I can sell all these, but it is the Fairy Mary and the Fairy Tilda that's breaking myheart. And yet, Joe, there ain't two ships of their tonnage to bebought on the market. If you wanted two ships of the same size andweight, you couldn't buy 'em for a million – no, you couldn't. I guessthey must be bad ships, Joe."

Joe had already guessed that.

"I offered 'em to Saddler, of the White Anchor," Fred went on, "and hesaid that if he ever started collecting curios he'd remember me. ThenI tried to sell 'em to the Coastal Cargo Line – the very ships for theNewcastle and Thames river trade – and he said he couldn't think of itnow that the submarine season was over. Then I offered 'em to youngTopping, who thinks of running a line to the West Coast, but he saidthat he didn't believe in Fairies or Santa Claus or any of that stuff."

There was silence.

"Who named 'em Fairy Mary and Fairy Tilda?" asked Joe curiously.

"Don't let's speak ill of the dead," begged Fred; "the man who had 'embuilt is no longer with us, Joe. They say that joy doesn't kill, butthat's a lie, Joe. He died two days after we took 'em over, and leftall his money – all our money – to a nephew."

"I didn't know that," said Joe, sitting up.

"I didn't know it myself till the other day, when I took the deed ofsale down to Cole to see if there wasn't a flaw in it somewhere. I'vewired him."

"Who – Cole?"

"No, the young nephew. If we could only – "

He did not complete his sentence, but there was a common emotion andunderstanding in the two pairs of eyes that met.

"Who is he – anybody?" asked Joe vaguely.

Fred broke off the ash of his cigar and nodded.

"Anybody worth half a million is somebody, Joe," he said seriously."This young fellow was in the Army. He's out of it now, running abusiness in the City – 'Schemes, Ltd.,' he calls it. Lots of peopleknow him – shipping people on the Coast. He's got a horrible nickname."

"What's that, Fred?"

"Bones," said Fred, in tones sufficiently sepulchral to be appropriate,"and, Joe, he's one of those bones I want to pick."

There was another office in that great and sorrowful City. It wasperhaps less of an office than a boudoir, for it had been furnished onthe higher plan by a celebrated firm of furnishers and decorators, whose advertisements in the more exclusive publications consisted of aset of royal arms, a photograph of a Queen Anne chair, and the boldsurname of the firm. It was furnished with such exquisite taste thatyou could neither blame nor praise the disposition of a couch or theset of a purple curtain.

The oxydized silver grate, the Persian carpets, the rosewood desk, withits Venetian glass flower vase, were all in harmony with the panelledwalls, the gentlemanly clock which ticked sedately on the Adammantelpiece, the Sheraton chairs, the silver – or apparently so – wallsconces, the delicate electrolier with its ballet skirts of purple silk.

All these things were evidence of the careful upbringing and artisticyearnings of the young man who "blended" for the eminent firm ofMessrs. Worrows, By Appointment to the King of Smyrna, His Majesty theEmperor – (the blank stands for an exalted name which had beenpainted out by the patriotic management of Worrows), and divers otherroyalties.

The young man who sat in the exquisite chair, with his boots elevatedto and resting upon the olive-green leather of the rosewoodwriting-table, had long since grown familiar with the magnificence inwhich he moved and had his being. He sat chewing an expensivepaper-knife of ivory, not because he was hungry, but because he wasbored. He had entered into his kingdom brimful of confidence and withunimagined thousands of pounds to his credit in the coffers of theMidland and Somerset Bank.

He had brought with him a bright blue book, stoutly covered andbrassily locked, on which was inscribed the word "Schemes."

That book was filled with writing of a most private kind and of afrenzied calculation which sprawled diagonally over pages, as forexample:

Buy up old houses… say 2,000 pounds.

Pull them down… say 500 pounds.

Erect erect 50 Grand Flats… say 10,000 pounds.

Paper, pante, windows, etc… say 1,000 pounds.

—

Total… 12,000 pounds.

50 Flats let at 80 pounds per annum. 40,000 lbs.

Net profit… say 50 per cent.

NOTE. – For good middel class familys steady steady people. By thismeans means doing good turn to working classes solving houseing problemand making money which can be distribbuted distribbutted to the poor.

Mr. Augustus Tibbetts, late of H.M. Houssa Rifles, was, as hisdoorplate testified, the Managing Director of "Schemes, Ltd." He was asevere looking young man, who wore a gold-rimmed monocle on his greycheck waistcoat and occasionally in his left eye. His face was of thatbrick-red which spoke of a life spent under tropical suns, and whenerect he conveyed a momentary impression of a departed militarism.

He uncurled his feet from the table, and, picking up a letter, read itthrough aloud – that is to say, he read certain words, skipped others, and substituted private idioms for all he could not or would nottrouble to pronounce.

"Dear Sir," (he mumbled), "as old friends of your dear uncle, and so onand so forth, we are taking the first opportunity of making widdlywiddly wee… Our Mr. Fred Pole will call upon you and place himselfwiddly widdly wee – tum tiddly um tum. – Yours truly."

Mr. Tibbetts frowned at the letter and struck a bell with unnecessaryviolence. There appeared in the doorway a wonderful man in scarletbreeches and green zouave jacket. On his head was a dull red tarbosh,on his feet scarlet slippers, and about his waist a sash of Orientalaudacity. His face, large and placid, was black, and, for all hissuggestiveness of the brilliant East, he was undoubtedly negroid.

The costume was one of Mr. Tibbetts's schemes. It was faithfullycopied from one worn by a gentleman of colour who serves the Turkishcoffee at the Wistaria Restaurant. It may be said that there was nospecial reason why an ordinary business man should possess a bodyguardat all, and less reason why he should affect one who had the appearanceof a burlesque Othello, but Mr. Augustus Tibbetts, though a businessman, was not ordinary.

"Bones" – for such a name he bore without protest in the limited circlesof his friendship – looked up severely.

"Ali," he demanded, "have you posted the ledger?"

"Sir," said Ali, with a profound obeisance, "the article was toocopious for insertion in aperture of collection box, so it wastransferred to the female lady behind postal department counter."

Bones leapt up, staring.

"Goodness gracious, Heavens alive, you silly old ass – you – you haven'tposted it – in the post?"

"Sir," said Ali reproachfully, "you instructed posting volume in exactformula. Therefore I engulfed it in wrappings and ligatures of string, and safely delivered it to posting authority."

Bones sank back in his chair.

"It's no use – no use, Ali," he said sadly, "my poor uncivilized savage,it's not your fault. I shall never bring you up to date, my poor sillyold josser. When I say 'post' the ledger, I mean write down all themoney you've spent on cabs in the stamp book. Goodness gracious alive!You can't run a business without system, Ali! Don't you know that, mydear old image? How the dooce do you think the auditors are to knowhow I spend my jolly old uncle's money if you don't write it down, hey?Posting means writing. Good Heavens" – a horrid thought dawned onhim – "who did you post it to?"

"Lord," said Ali calmly, "destination of posted volume is yourlordship's private residency."

All's English education had been secured in the laboratory of anEnglish scientist in Sierra Leone, and long association with thatlearned man had endowed him with a vocabulary at once impressive andrecondite.

Bones gave a resigned sigh.

"I'm expecting – " he began, when a silvery bell tinkled.

It was silvery because the bell was of silver. Bones looked up, pulleddown his waistcoat, smoothed back his hair, fixed his eye-glass, andtook up a long quill pen with a vivid purple feather.

"Show them in," he said gruffly.

"Them" was one well-dressed young man in a shiny silk hat, who, whenadmitted to the inner sanctum, came soberly across the room, balancinghis hat.

"Ah, Mr. Pole – Mr. Fred Pole." Bones read the visitor's card with thescowl which he adopted for business hours. "Yes, yes. Be seated, Mr.Pole. I shall not keep you a minute."

He had been waiting all the morning for Mr. Pole. He had been weavingdreams from the letter-heading above Mr. Pole's letter.

Ships … ships … house-flags … brass-buttoned owners…

He waved Mr. Fred to a chair and wrote furiously. This franticpressure of work was a phenomenon which invariably coincided with thearrival of a visitor. It was, I think, partly due to nervousness andpartly to his dislike of strangers. Presently he finished, blotted thepaper, stuck it in an envelope, addressed it, and placed it in hisdrawer. Then he took up the card.

"Mr. Pole?" he said.

"Mr. Pole," repeated that gentleman.

"Mr. Fred Pole?" asked Bones, with an air of surprise.

"Mr. Fred Pole," admitted the other soberly.

Bones looked from the card to the visitor as though he could notbelieve his eyes.

"We have a letter from you somewhere," he said, searching the desk.

"Ah, here it is!" (It was, in fact, the only document on the table.)

"Yes, yes, to be sure. I'm very glad to meet you."

He rose, solemnly shook hands, sat down again and coughed. Then hetook up the ivory paper-knife to chew, coughed again as he detected thelapse, and put it down with a bang.

"I thought I'd like to come along and see you, Mr. Tibbetts," said Fredin his gentle voice; "we are so to speak, associated in business."

"Indeed?" said Bones. "In-deed?"

"You see, Mr. Tibbetts," Fred went on, with a sad smile, "your lamenteduncle, before he went out of business, sold us his ships. He died amonth later."

He sighed and Bones sighed.

"Your uncle was a great man, Mr. Tibbetts," he said, "one of thegreatest business men in this little city. What a man!"

"Ah!" said Bones, shaking his head mournfully.

He had never met his uncle and had seldom heard of him. Saul Tibbettswas reputedly a miser, and his language was of such violence that theinfant Augustus was invariably hurried to the nursery on such rareoccasions as old Saul paid a family visit. His inheritance had come toBones as in a dream, from the unreality of which he had not yetawakened.

"I must confess, Mr. Tibbetts," said Fred, "that I have often hadqualms of conscience about your uncle, and I have been on the point ofcoming round to see you several times. This morning I said to mybrother, 'Joe,' I said, 'I'm going round to see Tibbetts.' Forgive thefamiliarity, but we talk of firms like the Rothschilds and the Morganswithout any formality."

"Naturally, naturally, naturally," murmured Bones gruffly.

"I said: 'I'll go and see Tibbetts and get it off my chest. If hewants those ships back at the price we paid for them, or even less, heshall have them.' 'Fred,' he said, 'you're too sensitive forbusiness.' 'Joe,' I said, 'my conscience works even in businesshours.'"

A light dawned on Bones and he brightened visibly.

"Ah, yes, my dear old Pole," he said almost cheerily, "I understand.You diddled my dear old uncle – bless his heart – out of money, and youwant to pay it back. Fred" – Bones rose and extended his knucklyhand – "you're a jolly old sportsman, and you can put it there!"

"What I was going to say – " began Fred seriously agitated.

"Not a word. We'll have a bottle on this. What will youhave – ginger-beer or cider?"

Mr. Fred suppressed a shudder with difficulty.

"Wait, wait, Mr. Tibbetts," he begged; "I think I ought to explain. Wedid not, of course, knowingly rob your uncle – "

"No, no, naturally," said Bones, with a facial contortion which passedfor a wink. "Certainly not. We business men never rob anybody. Ali, bring the drinks!"

"We did not consciously rob him," continued Mr. Fred desperately, "butwhat we did do – ah, this is my confession!"

"You borrowed a bit and didn't pay it back. Ah, naughty!" said Bones."Out with the corkscrew, Ali. What shall it be – a cream soda ornon-alcoholic ale?"

Mr. Fred looked long and earnestly at the young man.

"Mr. Tibbetts," he said, and suddenly grasped the hand of Bones, "Ihope we are going to be friends. I like you. That's my peculiarity – Ilike people or I dislike them. Now that I've told you that we boughttwo ships from your uncle for one hundred and forty thousand poundswhen we knew – yes, positively knew – they were worth at least twentythousand pounds more – now I've told you this, I feel happier."

"Worth twenty thousand pounds more?" said Bones thoughtfully.

Providence was working overtime for him, he thought.

"Of anybody's money," said Fred stoutly. "I don't care where you go,my dear chap. Ask Cole – he's the biggest shipping lawyer in thiscity – ask my brother, who, I suppose, is the greatest shippingauthority in the world, or – what's the use of asking 'em? – askyourself. If you're not Saul Tibbetts all over again, if you haven'tthe instinct and the eye and the brain of a shipowner – why, I'm aDutchman! That's what I am – a Dutchman!"

He picked up his hat and his lips were pressed tight – a gesture and agrimace which stood for grim conviction.

"What are they worth to-day?" asked Bones, after a pause.

"What are they worth to-day?" Mr. Fred frowned heavily at the ceiling."Now, what are they worth to-day? I forget how much I've spent on'em – they're in dock now."

Bones tightened his lips, too.

"They're in dock now?" he said. He scratched his nose. "Dear old Fred

Pole," he said, "you're a jolly old soul. By Jove that's not bad!

'Pole' an' 'soul' rhyme – did you notice it?"

Fred had noticed it.

"It's rum," said Bones, shaking his head, "it is rum how things getabout. How did you know, old fellow-citizen, that I was going in forshippin'?"

Mr. Fred Pole did not know that Bones was going in for shipping, but hesmiled.

"There are few things that happen in the City that I don't know," headmitted modestly.

"The Tibbetts Line," said Bones firmly, "will fly a house-flag ofpurple and green diagonally – that is, from corner to corner. Therewill be a yellow anchor in a blue wreath in one corner and a capital Tin a red wreath in the other."

"Original, distinctly original," said Fred in wondering admiration.

"Wherever did you get that idea?"

"I get ideas," confessed Bones, blushing, "some times in the night, sometimes in the day. The fleet" – Bones liked the sound of the wordand repeated it – "the fleet will consist of the Augustus, theSanders– a dear old friend of mine living at Hindhead – thePatricia– another dear old friend of mine living at Hindhead, too – infact, in the same house. To tell you the truth, dear old Fred Pole, she's married to the other ship. And there'll be the Hamilton,another precious old soul, a very, very, very, very dear friend of minewho's comin' home shortly – "

"Well, what shall we say, Mr. Tibbetts?" said Fred, who had an earlyluncheon appointment. "Would you care to buy the two boats at the sameprice we gave your uncle for them?"

Bones rang his bell.

"I'm a business man, dear old Fred," said he soberly. "There's no timelike the present, and I'll fix the matter —now!"

He said "now" with a ferociousness which was intended to emphasize hishard and inflexible business character.

Fred came into the private office of Pole & Pole after lunch that day, and there was in his face a great light and a peace which was almostbeautiful.

But never beamed the face of Fred so radiantly as the countenance ofthe waiting Joe. He lay back in his chair, his cigar pointing to theceiling.

"Well, Fred?" – there was an anthem in his voice.

"Very well, Joe." Fred hung up his unnecessary umbrella.

"I've sold the Fairies!"

Joe said it and Fred said it. They said it together. There was thesame lilt of triumph in each voice, and both smiles vanished at theidentical instant.

"You've sold the Fairies!" they said.

They might have been rehearsing this scene for months, so perfect wasthe chorus.

"Wait a bit, Joe," said Fred; "let's get the hang of this. Iunderstand that you left the matter to me."

"I did; but, Fred, I was so keen on the idea I had that I had to nip inbefore you. Of course, I didn't go to him as Pole & Pole – "

"To him? What him?" asked Fred, breathing hard.

"To What's-his-name – Bones."

Fred took his blue silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed hisface.

"Go on, Joe," he said sadly

"I got him just before he went out to lunch. I sent up the United

Merchant Shippers' card – it's our company, anyway. Not a word about

Pole & Pole."

"Oh, no, of course not!" said Fred.

"And, my boy," – this was evidently Joe's greatest achievement, for hedescribed the fact with gusto – "not a word about the names of theships. I just sold him two steamers, so and so tonnage, so and soclassification – "

"For how much?"

Fred was mildly curious. It was the curiosity which led a certainpolitical prisoner to feel the edge of the axe before it beheaded him.

"A hundred and twenty thousand!" cried Joe joyously. "He's starting afleet, he says. He's calling it the Tibbetts Line, and bought a coupleof ships only this morning."

Fred examined the ceiling carefully before he spoke.

"Joe," he said, "was it a firm deal? Did you put pen to paper?"

"You-bet-your-dear-sweet-life," said Joe, scornful at the suggestionthat he had omitted such an indispensable part of the negotiation.

"So did I, Joe," said Fred. "Those two ships he bought were the twoFairies."

There was a dead silence.

"Well," said Joe uneasily, after a while, "we can get a couple ofships – "

"Where, Joe? You admitted yesterday there weren't two boats in theworld on the market."

Another long silence.

"I did it for the best, Fred."

Fred nodded

"Something must be done. We can't sell a man what we haven't got.Joe, couldn't you go and play golf this afternoon whilst I wangle thismatter out?"

Joe nodded and rose solemnly. He took down his umbrella from the pegand his shiny silk hat from another peg, and tiptoed from the room.

From three o'clock to four Mr. Fred Pole sat immersed in thought, andat last, with a big, heavy sigh, he unlocked his safe, took out hischeque-book and pocketed it.

Bones was on the point of departure, after a most satisfactory day'swork, when Fred Pole was announced.

Bones greeted him like unto a brother – caught him by the hand at thevery entrance and, still holding him thus, conducted him to one of hisbeautiful chairs.

"By Jove, dear old Fred," he babbled, "it's good of you, oldfellow – really good of you! Business, my jolly old shipowner, waitsfor no man. Ali, my cheque-book!"

"A moment – just a moment, dear Mr. Bones," begged Fred. "You don'tmind my calling you by the name which is already famous in the City?"

Bones looked dubious.

"Personally, I prefer Tibbetts," said Fred.

"Personally, dear old Fred, so do I," admitted Bones.

"I've come on a curious errand," said Fred in such hollow tones that

Bones started. "The fact is, old man, I'm – "

He hung his head, and Bones laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

"Anybody is liable to get that way, my jolly old roysterer," he said."Speakin' for myself, drink has no effect upon me – due to my jolly oldnerves of iron an' all that sort of thing."

"I'm ashamed of myself," said Fred.

"Nothing to be ashamed of, my poor old toper," said Bones honestly inerror. "Why, I remember once – "

"As a business man, Mr. Tibbetts," said Fred bravely, "can you forgivesentiment?"

"Sentiment! Why, you silly old josser, I'm all sentiment, dear oldthing! Why, I simply cry myself to sleep over dear old CharlesWhat's-his-name's books!"

"It's sentiment," said Fred brokenly. "I just can't – I simply can'tpart with those two ships I sold you."

"Hey?" said Bones.

"They were your uncle's, but they have an association for me and mybrother which it would be – er – profane to mention. Mr. Tibbetts, letus cry off our bargain."

Bones sniffed and rubbed his nose.

"Business, dear old Fred," he said gently. "Bear up an' play the man,as dear old Francis Drake said when they stopped him playin' cricket.Business, old friend. I'd like to oblige you, but – "

He shook his head rapidly

Mr. Fred slowly produced his cheque-book and laid it on the desk withthe sigh of one who was about to indite his last wishes.

"You shall not be the loser," he said, with a catch in his voice, forhe was genuinely grieved. "I must pay for my weakness. What is fivehundred pounds?"

"What is a thousand, if it comes to that, Freddy?" said Bones."Gracious goodness, I shall be awfully disappointed if you back out – Ishall be so vexed, really."

"Seven hundred and fifty?" asked Fred, with pleading in his eye.

"Make it a thousand, dear old Fred," said Bones; "I can't add upfifties."

So "in consideration" (as Fred wrote rapidly and Bones signed morerapidly) "of the sum of one thousand pounds (say £1,000), the contractas between &c., &c.," was cancelled, and Fred became again thepractical man of affairs.

"Dear old Fred," said Bones, folding the cheque and sticking it in hispocket, "I'm goin' to own up – frankness is a vice with me – that I don'tunderstand much about the shippin' business. But tell me, my jolly oldmerchant, why do fellers sell you ships in the mornin' an' buy 'em backin the afternoon?"

"Business, Mr. Tibbetts," said Fred, smiling, "just big business."

Bones sucked an inky finger.

"Dinky business for me, dear old thing," he said. "I've got a thousandfrom you an' a thousand from the other Johnny who sold me two ships.Bless my life an' soul – "

"The other fellow," said Fred faintly – "a fellow from the United

Merchant Shippers?"

"That was the dear lad," said Bones.

"And has he cried off his bargain, too?"

"Positively!" said Bones. "A very, very nice, fellow. He told me Icould call him Joe – jolly old Joe!"

"Jolly old Joe!" repeated Fred mechanically, as he left the office, andall the way home he was saying "Jolly old Joe!"

CHAPTER II
HIDDEN TREASURE

Mrs. Staleyborn's first husband was a dreamy Fellow of a Learned

University.

Her second husband had begun life at the bottom of the ladder as athree-card trickster, and by strict attention to business and theexercise of his natural genius, had attained to the proprietorship of abucket-shop.

When Mrs. Staleyborn was Miss Clara Smith, she had been housekeeper toProfessor Whitland, a biologist who discovered her indispensability, and was only vaguely aware of the social gulf which yawned between theyoungest son of the late Lord Bortledyne and the only daughter ofAlbert Edward Smith, mechanic. To the Professor she was Miss H.Sapiens– an agreeable, featherless plantigrade biped of the genusHomo. She was also thoroughly domesticated and cooked like an angel,a nice woman who apparently never knew that her husband had a Christianname, for she called him "Mr. Whitland" to the day of his death.

The strain and embarrassment of the new relationship with her masterwere intensified by the arrival of a daughter, and doubled when thatdaughter came to a knowledgeable age. Marguerite Whitland had theinherent culture of her father and the grace and delicate beauty whichhad ever distinguished the women of the house of Bortledyne.

When the Professor died, Mrs. Whitland mourned him in all sincerity.

She was also relieved. One-half of the burden which lay upon her had been lifted; the second half was wrestling with the binomial theorem at

Cheltenham College.

She had been a widow twelve months when she met Mr. Cresta Morris, and,if the truth be told, Mr. Cresta Morris more fulfilled her conceptionas to what a gentleman should look like than had the Professor. Mr.Cresta Morris wore white collars and beautiful ties, had a large goldwatch-chain over what the French call poetically a gilet de fantasie,but which he, in his own homely fashion, described as a "fancy weskit."He smoked large cigars, was bluff and hearty, spoke to the widow – hewas staying at Harrogate at the time in a hydropathic establishment – ina language which she could understand. Dimly she began to realize thatthe Professor had hardly spoken to her at all.

Mr. Cresta Morris was one of those individuals who employed avocabulary of a thousand words, with all of which Mrs. Whitland waswell acquainted; he was also a man of means and possessions, heexplained to her. She, giving confidence for confidence, told of thehouse at Cambridge, the furniture, the library, the annuity of threehundred pounds, earmarked for his daughter's education, but mistakenlyleft to his wife for that purpose, also the four thousand three hundredpounds invested in War Stock, which was wholly her own.

Mr. Cresta Morris became more agreeable than ever. In three monthsthey were married, in six months the old house at Cambridge had beendisposed of, the library dispersed, as much of the furniture as Mr.Morris regarded as old-fashioned sold, and the relict of ProfessorWhitland was installed in a house in Brockley.

It was a nice house – in many ways nicer than the rambling old buildingin Cambridge, from Mrs. Morris's point of view. And she was happy in atolerable, comfortable kind of fashion, and though she was whollyignorant as to the method by which her husband made his livelihood, shemanaged to get along very well without enlightenment.

Marguerite was brought back from Cheltenham to grace the newestablishment and assist in its management. She shared none of hermother's illusions as to the character of Mr. Cresta Morris, as thatgentleman explained to a very select audience one January night.

Mr. Morris and his two guests sat before a roaring fire in thedining-room, drinking hot brandies-and-waters. Mrs. Morris had gone tobed; Marguerite was washing up, for Mrs. Morris had the "servant'smind," which means that she could never keep a servant.

The sound of crashing plates had come to the dining-room andinterrupted Mr. Morris at a most important point of his narrative. Hejerked his head round.

"That's the girl," he said; "she's going to be a handful."

"Get her married," said Job Martin wisely.

He was a hatchet-faced man with a reputation for common-sense. He hadanother reputation which need not be particularized at the moment.

"Married?" scoffed Mr. Morris. "Not likely!"

He puffed at his cigar thoughtfully for a moment, then:

"She wouldn't come in to dinner – did you notice that? We are not goodenough for her. She's fly! Fly ain't the word for it. We always findher nosing and sneaking around."

"Send her back to school," said the third guest.

He was a man of fifty-five, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven, who hadliterally played many parts, for he had been acting in a touringcompany when Morris first met him – Mr. Timothy Webber, a man notunknown to the Criminal Investigation Department.

"She might have been useful," Mr. Morris went on regretfully, "veryuseful indeed. She is as pretty as a picture, I'll give her that due.Now, suppose she – "

Webber shook his head.

"It's my way or no way," he said decidedly. "I've been a monthstudying this fellow, and I tell you I know him inside out."

"Have you been to see him?" asked the second man.

"Am I a fool?" replied the other roughly. "Of course I have not beento see him. But there are ways of finding out, aren't there? He isnot the kind of lad that you can work with a woman, not if she's aspretty as paint."

"What do they call him?" asked Morris.

"Bones," said Webber, with a little grin. "At least, he has letterswhich start 'Dear Bones,' so I suppose that's his nickname. But he'sgot all the money in the world. He is full of silly ass schemes, andhe's romantic."

"What's that to do with it?" asked Job Martin, and Webber turned with adespairing shrug to Morris.

"For a man who is supposed to have brains – " he said, but Morrisstopped him with a gesture.

"I see the idea – that's enough."

He ruminated again, chewing at his cigar, then, with a shake of hishead —

"I wish the girl was in it."

"Why?" asked Webber curiously.

"Because she's – " He hesitated. "I don't know what she knows aboutme. I can guess what she guesses. I'd like to get her into somethinglike this, to – to – " He was at a loss for a word.

"Compromise?" suggested the more erudite Webber.

"That's the word. I'd like to have her like that!" He put his thumbdown on the table in an expressive gesture.

Marguerite, standing outside, holding the door-handle hesitating as towhether she should carry in the spirit kettle which Mr. Morris hadordered, stood still and listened.

The houses in Oakleigh Grove were built in a hurry, and at best werenot particularly sound-proof. She stood fully a quarter of an hourwhilst the three men talked in low tones, and any doubts she might havehad as to the nature of her step-father's business were dispelled.

Again there began within her the old fight between her loyalty to hermother and loyalty to herself and her own ideals. She had livedthrough purgatory these past twelve months, and again and again she hadresolved to end it all, only to be held by pity for the helpless womanshe would be deserting. She told herself a hundred times that hermother was satisfied in her placid way with the life she was living, and that her departure would be rather a relief than a cause foruneasiness. Now she hesitated no longer, and went back to the kitchen, took off the apron she was wearing, passed along the side-passage, upthe stairs to her room, and began to pack her little bag.

Her mother was facing stark ruin. This man had drawn into his handsevery penny she possessed, and was utilizing it for the furtherance ofhis own nefarious business. She had an idea – vague as yet, but latertaking definite shape – that if she might not save her mother from thewreck which was inevitable, she might at least save something of herlittle fortune.

She had "nosed around" to such purpose that she had discovered herstep-father was a man who for years had evaded the grip of anexasperated constabulary. Some day he would fall, and in his fallbring down her mother.

Mr. Cresta Morris absorbed in the elaboration of the great plan, wasreminded, by the exhaustion of visible refreshment, that certain of hisinstructions had not been carried out.

"Wait a minute," he said. "I told that girl to bring in the kettle athalf-past nine. I'll go out and get it. Her royal highness wouldn'tlower herself by bringing it in, I suppose!"

He found the kettle on the kitchen table, but there was no sign ofMarguerite. This was the culmination of a succession of "slights"which she had put on him, and in a rage he walked along the passage, and yelled up the stairs:

"Marguerite!"

There was no reply, and he raced up to her room. It was empty, butwhat was more significant, her dresses and the paraphernalia whichusually ornamented her dressing-table had disappeared.

He came down a very thoughtful man.

"She's hopped," he said laconically. "I was always afraid of that."

It was fully an hour before he recovered sufficiently to bring his mindto a scheme of such fascinating possibilities that even hisstep-daughter's flight was momentarily forgotten

* * * * *

On the following morning Mr. Tibbetts received a visitor.

That gentleman who was, according to the information supplied by Mr.Webber, addressed in intimate correspondence as "Dear Bones," wassitting in his most gorgeous private office, wrestling with a letter tothe eminent firm of Timmins and Timmins, yacht agents, on a matter of aluckless purchase of his.

"DEAR SIRS GENENTLEMEN" (ran the letter. Bones wrote as he thought, thought faster than he wrote, and never opened a dictionary save todecide a bet) – "I told you I have told you 100000 times that the yachtLuana I bought from your cleint (a nice cleint I must say!!!) is afrord fruad and a swindel. It is much two too big. 2000 pounds wasa swindel outraygious!! Well I've got it got it now so theres theirsno use crying over split milk. But do like a golly old yaght-sellerget red of it rid of it. Sell it to anybody even for a 1000 pounds.I must have been mad to buy it but he was such a plausuble chap…"

This and more he wrote and was writing, when the silvery bell announceda visitor. It rang many times before he realized that he had sent hisfactotum, Ali Mahomet, to the South Coast to recover from asniffle – the after-effects of a violent cold – which had beenparticularly distressing to both. Four times the bell rang, and fourtimes Bones raised his head and scowled at the door, muttering violentcriticisms of a man who at that moment was eighty-five miles away.

Then he remembered, leapt up, sprinted to the door, flung it open withan annoyed:

"Come in! What the deuce are you standing out there for?"

Then he stared at his visitor, choked, went very red, choked again, andfixed his monocle.

"Come in, young miss, come in," he said gruffly. "Jolly old bell's outof order. Awfully sorry and all that sort of thing. Sit down, won'tyou?"

In the outer office there was no visible chair. The excellent Alipreferred sitting on the floor, and visitors were not encouraged.

"Come into my office," said Bones, "my private office."

The girl had taken him in with one comprehensive glance, and a littlesmile trembled on the corner of her lips as she followed the harassedfinancier into his "holy of holies."

"My little den," said Bones incoherently. "Sit down, jolly old – youngmiss. Take my chair – it's the best. Mind how you step over thattelephone wire. Ah!"

She did catch her feet in the flex, and he sprang to her assistance.

"Upsy, daisy, dear old – young miss, I mean."

It was a breathless welcome. She herself was startled by the warmth ofit; he, for his part, saw nothing but grey eyes and a perfect mouth, sensed nothing but a delicate fragrance of a godlike presence.

"I have come to see you – " she began.

"Jolly good of you," said Bones enthusiastically. "You've no idea howfearsomely lonely I get sometimes. I often say to people: 'Look me up, dear old thing, any time between ten and twelve or two and four; don'tstand on ceremony – '"

"I've come to see you – " she began again.

"You're a kind young miss," murmured Bones, and she laughed.

"You're not used to having girls in this office, are you?"

"You're the first," said Bones, with a dramatic flourish, "that everburst tiddly-um-te-um!"

To be mistaken for a welcome visitor – she was that, did she but guessit – added to her natural embarrassment.

"Well," she said desperately, "I've come for work."

He stared at her, refixing his monocle.

"You've come for work my dear old – my jolly old – young miss?"

"I've come for work," she nodded.

Bones's face was very grave.

"You've come for work." He thought a moment; then: "What work? Ofcourse," he added in a flurry, "there's plenty of work to do! Believeme, you don't know the amount I get through in this sanctum – that'sLatin for 'private office' – and the wretched old place is nevertidy – never! I am seriously thinking" – he frowned – "yes, I am veryseriously thinking of sacking the lady who does the dusting. Why, doyou know, this morning – "

Her eyes were smiling now, and she was to Bones's unsophisticated eyes, and, indeed, to eyes sophisticated, superhumanly lovely.

"I haven't come for a dusting job," she laughed.

"Of course you haven't," said Bones in a panic. "My dear old lady – my precious – my young person, I should have said – of course you haven't!

You've come for a job – you've come to work! Well, you shall have it!

Start right away!"

She stared.

"What shall I do?" she asked.

"What would I like you to do?" said Bones slowly. "What aboutscheming, getting out ideas, using brains, initiative, bright – " Hetrailed off feebly as she shook her head.

"Do you want a secretary?" she asked, and Bones's enthusiasm rose tothe squeaking point.

"The very thing! I advertised in this morning's Times. You saw theadvertisement?"

"You are not telling the truth," she said, looking at him with eyesthat danced. "I read all the advertisement columns in The Times thismorning, and I am quite sure that you did not advertise."

"I meant to advertise," said Bones gently. "I had the idea last night; that's the very piece of paper I was writing the advertisement on."

He pointed to a sheet upon the pad.

"A secretary? The very thing! Let me think."

He supported his chin upon one hand, his elbow upon another.

"You will want paper, pens, and ink – we have all those," he said."There is a large supply in that cupboard. Also india-rubber. I amnot sure if we have any india-rubber, but that can be procured. And aruler," he said, "for drawing straight lines and all that sort ofthing."

"And a typewriter?" she suggested.

Bones smacked his forehead with unnecessary violence.

"A typewriter! I knew this office wanted something. I said to Aliyesterday: 'You silly old ass – '"

"Oh, you have a girl?" she said disappointedly.

"Ali," said Bones, "is the name of a native man person who is devotedto me, body and soul. He has been, so to speak, in the family foryears," he explained.

"Oh, it's a man," she said.

Bones nodded.

"Ali. Spelt A-l-y; it's Arabic."

"A native?"

Bones nodded.

"Of course he will not be in your way," ha hastened to explain. "He isin Bournemouth just now. He had sniffles." he explained rapidly, "andthen he used to go to sleep, and snore. I hate people who snore, don'tyou?"

She laughed again. This was the most amazing of all possible employers.

"Of course," Bones went on, "I snore a bit myself. All thinkers do – Imean all brainy people. Not being a jolly old snorer yourself – "

"Thank you," said the girl.

Other tenants or the satellites of other tenants who occupied thepalatial buildings wherein the office of Bones was situated saw, somefew minutes later, a bare-headed young man dashing down the stairsthree at a time; met him, half an hour later, staggering up those samestairs handicapped by a fifty-pound typewriter in one hand, and a chairin the style of the late Louis Quinze in the other, and wondered at theurgency of his movements.

"I want to tell you," said the girl, "that I know very little aboutshorthand."

"Shorthand is quite unnecessary, my dear – my jolly old stenographer,"said Bones firmly. "I object to shorthand on principle, and I shallalways object to it. If people," he went on, "were intended to writeshorthand, they would have been born without the alphabet. Anotherthing – "

"One moment, Mr. Tibbetts," she said. "I don't know a great deal abouttypewriting, either."

Bones beamed.

"There I can help you," he said. "Of course it isn't necessary thatyou should know anything about typewriting. But I can give you a fewhints," he said. "This thing, when you jiggle it up and down, makesthe thingummy-bob run along. Every time you hit one of theseletters – I'll show you… Now, suppose I am writing 'Dear Sir,' Istart with a 'D.' Now, where's that jolly old 'D'?" He scowled at thekeyboard, shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders. "I thought so,"he said; "there ain't a 'D.' I had an idea that that wicked old – "

"Here's the 'D,'" she pointed out.

Bones spent a strenuous but wholly delightful morning and afternoon.

He was half-way home to his chambers in Curzon Street before he realized that he had not fixed the rather important question of salary.

He looked forward to another pleasant morning making good that lapse.

It was his habit to remain late at his office at least three nights aweek, for Bones was absorbed in his new career.

"Schemes Ltd." was no meaningless title. Bones had schemes whichembraced every field of industrial, philanthropic, and social activity.He had schemes for building houses, and schemes for planting rose treesalong all the railway tracks. He had schemes for building motor-cars, for founding labour colonies, for harnessing the rise and fall of thetides, he had a scheme for building a theatre where the audience sat ona huge turn-table, and, at the close of one act, could be twistedround, with no inconvenience to themselves, to face a stage which hasbeen set behind them. Piqued by a certain strike which had caused hima great deal of inconvenience, he was engaged one night working out ascheme for the provision of municipal taxicabs, and he was so absorbedin his wholly erroneous calculations that for some time he did not hearthe angry voices raised outside the door of his private office.

Perhaps it was that that portion of his mind which had been left freeto receive impressions was wholly occupied with a scheme – whichappeared in no books or records – for raising the wages of his newsecretary.

But presently the noise penetrated even to him, and he looked up with atouch of annoyance.

"At this hour of the night! … Goodness gracious … respectablebuilding!"

His disjointed comments were interrupted by the sound of a scuffle, anoath, a crash against his door and a groan, and Bones sprang to thedoor and threw it open.

As he did so a man who was leaning against it fell in.

"Shut the door, quick!" he gasped, and Bones obeyed.

The visitor who had so rudely irrupted himself was a man of middle age, wearing a coarse pea-jacket and blue jersey of a seaman, his peaked hatcovered with dust, as Bones perceived later, when the sound ofscurrying footsteps had died away.

The man was gripping his left arm as if in pain, and a thin trickle ofred was running down the back of his big hand.

"Sit down, my jolly old mariner," said Bones anxiously. "What's thematter with you? What's the trouble, dear old sea-dog?"

The man looked up at him with a grimace.

"They nearly got it, the swine!" he growled.

He rolled up his sleeve and, deftly tying a handkerchief around a redpatch, chuckled:

"It is only a scratch," he said. "They've been after me for two days,Harry Weatherall and Jim Curtis. But right's right all the world over.I've suffered enough to get what I've got – starved on the high seas, and starved on Lomo Island. Is it likely that I'm going to let themshare?"

Bones shook his head.

"You sit down, my dear old fellow," he said sympathetically.

The man thrust his hands laboriously into his inside pocket and pulledout a flat oilskin case. From this he extracted a folded and fadedchart.

"I was coming up to see a gentleman in these buildings," he said, "agentleman named Tibbetts."

Bones opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself.

"Me and Jim Curtis and young Harry, we were together in the Serpent

Queen– my name's Dibbs. That's where we got hold of the yarn about

Lomo Island, though we didn't believe there was anything in it. But when this Dago died – "

"Which Dago?" asked Bones.

"The Dago that knew all about it," said Mr. Dibbs impatiently, "and wecome to split up his kit in his mess-bag, I found this." He shook theoilskin case in Bones's face. "Well, the first thing I did, when I gotto Sydney, was to desert, and I got a chap from Wellington to put upthe money to hire a boat to take me to Lomo. We were wrecked on Lomo."

"So you got there?" said Bones sympathetically.

"Six weeks I was on Lomo. Ate nothing but crabs, drank nothing butrain-water. But the stuff was there all right, only" – he was veryemphatic, was this simple old sea-dog – "it wasn't under the third tree, but the fourth tree. I got down to the first of the boxes, and it wasas much as I could do to lift it out. I couldn't trust any of theKanaka boys who were with me."

"Naturally," said Bones. "An' I'll bet they didn't trust you, thenaughty old Kanakas."

"Look here," said Mr. Dibbs, and he pulled out of his pocket a handfulof gold coins which bore busts of a foreign-looking lady and gentleman."Spanish gold, that is," he said. "There was four thousand in thelittle box. I filled both my pockets, and took 'em back to Sydney whenwe were picked up. I didn't dare try in Australia. 'That gold willkeep,' I says to myself. 'I'll get back to England and find a man whowill put up the money for an expedition' – a gentleman, you understand?"

"I quite understand," said Bones, all a-quiver with excitement.

"And then I met Harry and Jim. They said they'd got somebody who wouldput the money up, an American fellow, Rockefeller. Have you ever heardof him?"

"I've heard of him," said Bones; "he's got a paraffin mine."

"It may be he has, it may be he hasn't," said Mr. Dibbs and rose."Well, sir, I'm very much obliged to you for your kindness. If you'lldirect me to Mr. Tibbetts's office – "

It was a dramatic moment.

"I am Mr. Tibbetts," said Bones simply.

Blank incredulity was on the face of Mr. Dibbs.

"You?" he said. "But I thought Mr. Tibbetts was an older gentleman?"

"Dear old treasure-finder," said Bones, "be assured I am Mr. Tibbetts.

This is my office, and this is my desk. People think I am older because – " He smiled a little sadly, then: "Sit down!" he thundered.

"Let us go into this."

He went into the matter, and the City clocks were booming one when heled his mariner friend into the street.

He was late at the office the next morning, because he was young andhealthy and required nine hours of the deepest slumber that Morpheuskept in stock.

The grey-eyed girl was typing at a very respectable speed the notesBones had given her the evening before. There was a telegram awaitinghim, which he read with satisfaction. Then:

"Leave your work, my young typewriter," said Bones imperiously. "Ihave a matter of the greatest importance to discuss with you! See thatall the doors are closed," he whispered; "lock 'em if necessary."

"I hardly think that's necessary," said the girl. "You see, if anybodycame and found all the doors locked – "

"Idiot!" said Bones, very red.

"I beg your pardon," said the startled girl.

"I was speaking to me," said Bones rapidly. "This is a matter of thegreatest confidence, my jolly old Marguerite " – he paused, shaking athis temerity, for it was only on the previous day that he haddiscovered her name – "a matter which requires tact and discretion, young Marguerite – "

"You needn't say it twice," she said.

"Well once," said Bones, brightening up. "That's a bargain – I'll callyou Marguerite once a day. Now, dear old Marguerite, listen to this."

She listened with the greatest interest, jotting down the preliminaryexpenses. Purchase of steamer, five thousand pounds; provisioning ofsame, three thousand pounds, etc., etc. She even undertook to make acopy of the plan which Mr. Dibbs had given into his charge, and whichBones told her had not left him day nor night.

"I put it in my pyjama pocket when I went to bed," he explainedunnecessarily, "and – " He began to pat himself all over, consternation in his face.

"And you left it in your pyjama pocket," said the girl quietly. "I'lltelephone to your house for it."

"Phew!" said Bones. "It seems incredible. I must have been robbed."

"I don't think so," said the girl; "it is probably under your pillow.

Do you keep your pyjamas under your pillow?"

"That," said Bones, "is a matter which I never discuss in public. Ihate to disappoint you, dear old Marguerite – "

"I'm sorry," said the girl, with such a simulation of regret that Bonesdissolved into a splutter of contrition.

A commissionaire and a taxicab brought the plan, which was discoveredwhere the girl in her wisdom had suggested.

"I'm not so sure how much money I'm going to make out of this," saidBones off-handedly, after a thorough and searching examination of theproject. "It is certain to be about three thousand pounds – it may be amillion or two million. It'll be good for you, dear old stenographer."

She looked at him.

"I have decided," said Bones, playing with his paper-knife, "to allowyou a commission of seven and a half per cent. on all profits. Sevenand a half per cent. on two million is, roughly, fifty thousandpounds – "

She laughed her refusal.

"I like to be fair," said Bones.

"You like to be generous," she corrected him, "and because I am a girl, and pretty – "

"Oh, I say," protested Bones feebly – "oh, really you are not pretty atall. I am not influenced by your perfectly horrible young face, believe me, dear old Miss Marguerite. Now, I've a sense of fairness, asense of justice – "

"Now, listen to me, Mr. Tibbetts." She swung her chair round to facehim squarely. "I've got to tell you a little story."

Bones listened to that story with compressed lips and folded arms. Hewas neither shocked nor amazed, and the girl was surprised.

"Hold hard, young miss," he said soberly. "If this is a jolly oldswindle, and if the naughty mariner – "

"His name is Webber, and he is an actor," she interrupted.

"And dooced well he acted," admitted Bones. "Well, if this is so, whatabout the other johnny who's putting up ten thousand to my fifteenthousand?"

This was a facer for the girl, and Bones glared his triumph.

"That is what the wicked old ship-sailer said. Showed me the money,an' I sent him straight off on the job. He said he'd got a StockExchange person named Morris – "

"Morris!" gasped the girl. "That is my step-father!"

Bones jumped up, a man inspired.

"The naughty old One, who married your sainted mother?" he gurgled.

"My miss! My young an' jolly old Marguerite!"

He sat down at his desk, yanked open the drawer, and slapped down hischeque-book.

"Three thousand pounds," he babbled, writing rapidly. "You'd betterkeep it for her, dear old friend of Faust."

"But I don't understand," she said, bewildered.

"Telegram," said Bones briefly. "Read it."

She picked up the buff form and read. It was postmarked from Cowes, and ran:

"In accordance your telegraphed instructions, have sold yourschooner-yacht to Mr. Dibbs, who paid cash. Did not give name ofowner. Dibbs did not ask to see boat. All he wanted was receipt formoney."

"They are calling this afternoon for my fifteen thousand," said Bones, cackling light-headedly. "Ring up jolly old Scotland Yard, and ask 'emto send me all the police they've got in stock!"

CHAPTER III
BONES AND THE WHARFINGERS

I

The kite wheeling invisible in the blue heavens, the vulture appearingmysteriously from nowhere in the track of the staggering buck, possessqualities which are shared by certain favoured human beings. Nonewspaper announced the fact that there had arrived in the City ofLondon a young man tremendously wealthy and as tremendouslyinexperienced.

There were no meetings of organized robber gangs, where masked men laidnefarious plans and plots, but the instinct which called the kite tohis quarry and the carrion to the kill brought many strangers – who wereequally strange to Bones and to one another – to the beautiful officewhich he had fitted for himself for the better furtherance of hisbusiness.

One day a respectable man brought to Mr. Tibbetts a plan of awarehouse. He came like a gale of wind, almost before Bones haddigested the name on the card which announced his existence andidentity.

His visitor was red-faced and big, and had need to use a handkerchiefto mop his brow and neck at intervals of every few minutes. Hisgeniality was overpowering.

Before the startled Bones could ask his business, he had put his hatupon one chair, hooked his umbrella on another, and was unrolling, withthat professional tremblement of hand peculiar to all who unroll largestiff sheets of paper, a large coloured plan, a greater portion ofwhich was taken up by the River Thames, as Bones saw at a glance.

He knew that blue stood for water, and, twisting his neck, he read"Thames." He therefore gathered that this was the plan of a propertyadjacent to the London river.

"You're a busy man; and I'm a busy man," said the stentorian manbreathlessly. "I've just bought this property, and if it doesn'tinterest you I'll eat my hat! My motto is small profits and quickreturns. Keep your money at work, and you won't have to. Do you seewhat I mean?"

"Dear old hurricane," said Bones feebly, "this is awfully interesting, and all that sort of thing, but would you be so kind as to explain whyand where – why you came in in this perfectly informal manner? Againstall the rules of my office, dear old thing, if you don't mind mesnubbing you a bit. You are sure you aren't hurt?" he asked.

"Not a bit, not a bit!" bellowed the intruder. "Honest John, Iam – John Staines. You have heard of me?"

"I have," said Bones, and the visitor was so surprised that he showedit.

"You have?" he said, not without a hint of incredulity.

"Yes," said Bones calmly. "Yes, I have just heard you say it, Honest

John Staines. Any relation to John o' Gaunt?"

This made the visitor look up sharply.

"Ha, ha!" he said, his laugh lacking sincerity. "You're a bit of ajoker, Mr. Tibbetts. Now, what do you say to this? This is Stivvins'Wharf and Warehouse. Came into the market on Saturday, and I bought iton Saturday. The only river frontage which is vacant between Greenwichand Gravesend. Stivvins, precious metal refiner, went broke in theWar, as you may have heard. Now, I am a man of few words andadmittedly a speculator. I bought this property for fifteen thousandpounds. Show me a profit of five thousand pounds and it's yours."

Before Bones could speak, he stopped him with a gesture.

"Let me tell you this: if you like to sit on that property for a month, you'll make a sheer profit of twenty thousand pounds. You can affordto do it – I can't. I tell you there isn't a vacant wharfage betweenGreenwich and Gravesend, and here you have a warehouse with thirtythousand feet of floor-space, derricks – derrick, named after thehangman of that name: I'll bet you didn't know that? – cranes, everything in – Well, it's not in apple-pie order," he admitted,"but it won't take much to make it so. What do you say?"

Bones started violently.

"Excuse me, old speaker, I was thinking of something else. Do you mindsaying that all over again?"

Honest John Staines swallowed something and repeated his proposition.

Bones shook his head violently.

"Nothing doing!" he said. "Wharves and ships —no!"

But Honest John was not the kind that accepts refusal without protest.

"What I'll do," said he confidentially, "is this: I'll leave the matterfor twenty-four hours in your hands."

"No, go, my reliable old wharf-seller," said Bones. "I never go up theriver under any possible circumstances – By Jove, I've got an idea!"

He brought his knuckly fist down upon the unoffending desk, and Honest

John watched hopefully.

"Now, if – yes, it's an idea!"

Bones seized paper, and his long-feathered quill squeaked violently.

"That's it – a thousand members at ten pounds a year, four hundredbedrooms at, say, ten shillings a night – How many is four hundredtimes ten shillings multiplied by three hundred and sixty-five? Well, let's say twenty thousand pounds. That's it! A club!"

"A club?" said Honest John blankly.

"A river club. You said Greenhithe – that's somewhere near Henley, isn't it?"

Honest John sighed.

"No, sir," he said gently, "it's in the other direction – toward thesea."

Bones dropped his pen and pinched his lip in an effort of memory.

"Is it? Now, where was I thinking about? I know – Maidenhead! Is itnear Maidenhead?"

"It's in the opposite direction from London," said the perspiring Mr.

Staines.

"Oh!"

Bones's interest evaporated.

"No good to me, my old speculator. Wharves! Bah!"

He shook his head violently, and Mr. Staines aroused himself.

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Mr. Tibbetts," he said simply; "I'll leavethe plans with you. I'm going down into the country for a night.Think it over. I'll call to-morrow afternoon."

Bones still shook his head.

"No go, nothin' doin'. Finish this palaver, dear old Honesty!"

"Anyway, no harm is done," urged Mr. Staines. "I ask you, is there anyharm done? You have the option for twenty-four hours. I'll roll theplans up so that they won't be in the way. Good morning!"

He was out of the office door before Bones could as much as deliver thepreamble to the stern refusal he was preparing.

At three o'clock that afternoon came two visitors. They sent in a cardbearing the name of a very important Woking firm of land agents, andthey themselves were not without dignity of bearing.

There was a stout gentleman and a thin gentleman, and they tiptoed intothe presence of Bones with a hint of reverence which was notdispleasing.

"We have come on a rather important matter," said the thin gentleman.

"We understand you have this day purchased Stivvins' Wharf – "

"Staines had no right to sell it?" burst in the stout man explosively."A dirty mean trick, after all that he promised us! It is just his wayof getting revenge, selling the property to a stranger!"

"Mr. Sole" – the thin gentleman's voice and attitude were eloquent ofreproof – "please restrain yourself! My partner is annoyed," heexplained "and not without reason. We offered fifty thousand poundsfor Stivvins', and Staines, in sheer malice, has sold theproperty – which is virtually necessary to our client – literally behindour backs. Now, Mr. Tibbetts, are you prepared to make a little profitand transfer the property to us?"

"But – " began Bones.

"We will give you sixty thousand," said the explosive man. "Take it orleave it – sixty thousand."

"But, my dear old Boniface," protested Bones, "I haven't bought theproperty – really and truly I haven't. Jolly old Staines wanted me tobuy it, but I assure you I didn't."

The stout man looked at him with glazed eyes, pulled himself together, and suggested huskily:

"Perhaps you will buy it – at his price – and transfer it to us?"

"But why? Nothing to do with me, my old estate agent and auctioneer.

Buy it yourself. Good afternoon. Good afternoon!"

He ushered them out in a cloud of genial commonplaces.

In the street they looked at one another, and then beckoned Mr.

Staines, who was waiting on the other side of the road.

"This fellow is either as wide as Broad Street or he's a babe in arms,"said the explosive man huskily.

"Didn't he fall?" asked the anxious Staines.

"Not noticeably," said the thin man. "This is your scheme, Jack, andif I've dropped four thousand over that wharf, there's going to betrouble."

Mr. Staines looked very serious.

"Give him the day," he begged. "I'll try him to-morrow – I haven't lostfaith in that lad."

As for Bones, he made an entry in his secret ledger.

"A person called Stains and two perrsons called Sole Bros. Brotherstryed me with the old Fiddle Trick. You take a Fiddel in a PawnBrokers leave it with him along comes another Felow and pretends its aStadivarious Stradivarious a valuable Fiddel. 2nd Felow offers to payfablous sum pawnbroker says I'll see. When 1st felow comes for hisfiddel pawnbroker buys it at fablous sum to sell it to the 2nd felow.But 2nd felow doesn't turn up.

"Note. – 1st Felow called himself Honest John!! I dout if I doughtit."

Bones finished his entries, locked away his ledger, and crossed thefloor to the door of the outer office.

He knocked respectfully, and a voice bade him come in.

It is not usual for the principal of a business to knock respectfullyor otherwise on the door of the outer office, but then it is not usualfor an outer office to house a secretary of such transcendentalqualities, virtue, and beauty as were contained in the person of MissMarguerite Whitland.

The girl half turned to the door and flashed a smile which was ofwelcome and reproof.

"Please, Mr. Tibbetts," she pleaded, "do not knock at my door. Don'tyou realize that it isn't done?"

"Dear old Marguerite," said Bones solemnly, "a new era has dawned inthe City. As jolly old Confusicus says: 'The moving finger writes, andthat's all about it.' Will you deign to honour me with your presencein my sanctorum, and may I again beg of you" – he leant his bonyknuckles on the ornate desk which he had provided for her, and lookeddown upon her soberly – "may I again ask you, dear old miss, to let mechange offices? It's a little thing, dear old miss. I'm never, nevergoin' to ask you to dinner again, but this is another matter. I am outof my element in such a place as – " He waved his hand disparaginglytowards his sanctum. "I'm a rough old adventurer, used to sleeping inthe snow – hardships – I can sleep anywhere."

"Anyway, you're not supposed to sleep in the office," smiled the girl, rising.

Bones pushed open the door for her, bowed as she passed, and followedher. He drew a chair up to the desk, and she sat down without furtherprotest, because she had come to know that his attentions, hisextravagant politeness and violent courtesies, signified no more thanwas apparent – namely, that he was a great cavalier at heart.

"I think you ought to know," he said gravely, "that an attempt was madethis morning to rob me of umpteen pounds."

"To rob you?" said the startled girl.

"To rob me," said Bones, with relish. "A dastardly plot, happilyfrustrated by the ingenuity of the intended victim. I don't want toboast, dear old miss. Nothing is farther from my thoughts or wishes, but what's more natural when a fellow is offered a – "

He stopped and frowned.

"Yes?"

"A precious metal refiner's – That's rum," said Bones.

"Rum?" repeated the girl hazily. "What is rum?"

"Of all the rummy old coincidences," said Bones, with restrained andhollow enthusiasm – "why, only this morning I was reading in TwiddlyBits, a ripping little paper, dear old miss – There's a columncalled 'Things You Ought to Know,' which is honestly worth thetwopence."

"I know it," said the girl curiously. "But what did you read?"

"It was an article called 'Fortunes Made in Old Iron,'" said Bones.

"Now, suppose this naughty old refiner – By Jove, it's an idea!"

He paced the room energetically, changing the aspect of his face withgreat rapidity, as wandering thoughts crowded in upon him and vastpossibilities shook their alluring banners upon the pleasant scene heconjured. Suddenly he pulled himself together, shot out his cuffs, opened and closed all the drawers of his desk as though seekingsomething – he found it where he had left it, hanging on a peg behindthe door, and put it on – and said with great determination andbriskness:

"Stivvins' Wharf, Greenhithe. You will accompany me. Bring yournote-book. It is not necessary to bring a typewriter. I will arrangefor a taxicab. We can do the journey in two hours."

"But where are you going?" asked the startled girl.

"To Stivvins'. I am going to look at this place. There is apossibility that certain things have been overlooked. Never lose anopportunity, dear old miss. We magnates make our fortune by neverignoring the little things."

But still she demurred, being a very sane, intelligent girl, with animagination which produced no more alluring mental picture than a coldand draughty drive, a colder and draughtier and even more depressinginspection of a ruined factory, and such small matters as a lost lunch.

But Bones was out of the room, in the street, had flung himself upon ahesitant taxi-driver, had bullied and cajoled him to take a monstrousand undreamt-of journey for a man who, by his own admission, had onlysufficient petrol to get his taxi home, and when the girl came down shefound Bones, with his arm entwined through the open window of the door, giving explicit instructions as to the point on the river whereStivvins' Wharf was to be found.

II

Bones returned to his office alone. The hour was six-thirty, and hewas a very quiet and thoughtful young man. He almost tiptoed into hisoffice, closed and locked the door behind him, and sat at his desk withhis head in his hands for the greater part of half an hour.

Then he unrolled the plan of the wharf, hoping that his memory had notplayed him false. Happily it had not. On the bottom right-hand cornerMr. Staines had written his address! "Stamford Hotel, Blackfriars."

Bones pulled a telegraph form from his stationery rack and indited anurgent wire.

Mr. Staines, at the moment of receiving that telegram, was sitting at asmall round table in the bar of The Stamford, listening in silence tocertain opinions which were being expressed by his two companions inarms and partners in misfortune, the same opinions relating in a mostdisparaging manner to the genius, the foresight, and the constructiveability of one who in his exuberant moments described himself as HonestJohn.

The explosive gentleman had just concluded a fanciful picture of whatwould happen to Honest John if he came into competition with theaverage Bermondsey child of tender years.

Honest John took the telegram and opened it. He read it and gasped.He stood up and walked to the light, and read it again, then returned, his eyes shining, his face slightly flushed.

"You're clever, ain't you?" he asked. "You're wise – I don't think!

Look at this!"

He handed the telegram to the nearest of his companions, who was thetall, thin, and non-explosive partner, and he in turn passed it withouta word to his more choleric companion.

"You don't mean to say he's going to buy it?"

"That's what it says, doesn't it?" said the triumphant Mr. Staines.

"It's a catch," said the explosive man suspiciously.

"Not on your life," replied the scornful Staines. "Where does thecatch come in? We've done nothing he could catch us for?"

"Let's have a look at that telegram again," said the thin man, and, having read it in a dazed way, remarked: "He'll wait for you at theoffice until nine. Well, Jack, nip up and fix that deal. Take thetransfers with you. Close it and take his cheque. Take anything he'llgive you, and get a special clearance in the morning, and, anyway, thebusiness is straight."

Honest John breathed heavily through his nose and staggered from thebar, and the suspicious glances of the barman were, for once, unjustified, for Mr. Staines was labouring under acute emotions.

He found Bones sitting at his desk, a very silent, taciturn Bones, whogreeted him with a nod.

"Sit down," said Bones. "I'll take that property. Here's my cheque."

With trembling fingers Mr. Staines prepared the transfers. It was hewho scoured the office corridors to discover two agitated char-ladieswho were prepared to witness his signature for a consideration.

He folded the cheque for twenty thousand pounds reverently and put itinto his pocket, and was back again at the Stamford Hotel so quicklythat his companions could not believe their eyes.

"Well, this is the rummiest go I have ever known," said the explosiveman profoundly. "You don't think he expects us to call in the morningand buy it back, do you?"

Staines shook his head.

"I know he doesn't," he said grimly. "In fact, he as good as told methat that business of buying a property back was a fake."

The thin man whistled.

"The devil he did! Then what made him buy it?"

"He's been there. He mentioned he had seen the property," saidStaines. And then, as an idea occurred to them all simultaneously, they looked at one another.

The stout Mr. Sole pulled a big watch from his pocket.

"There's a caretaker at Stivvins', isn't there?" he said. "Let's godown and see what has happened."

Stivvins' Wharf was difficult of approach by night. It lay off themain Woolwich Road, at the back of another block of factories, and toreach its dilapidated entrance gates involved an adventurous marchthrough a number of miniature shell craters. Night, however, wasmerciful in that it hid the desolation which is called Stivvins' fromthe fastidious eye of man. Mr. Sole, who was not aesthetic and by nomeans poetical, admitted that Stivvins' gave him the hump.

It was ten o'clock by the time they had reached the wharf, andhalf-past ten before their hammering on the gate aroused the attentionof the night-watchman – who was also the day-watchman – who occupied whathad been in former days the weigh-house, which he had converted into aweatherproof lodging.

"Hullo!" he said huskily. "I was asleep."

He recognized Mr. Sole, and led the way to his little bunk-house.

"Look here, Tester," said Sole, who had appointed the man, "did a youngswell come down here to-day?"

"He did," said Mr. Tester, "and a young lady. They gave Mr. Staines'sname, and asked to be showed round, and," he added, "I showed 'emround."

"Well, what happened?" asked Staines.

"Well," said the man, "I took 'em in the factory, in the big building, and then this young fellow asked to see the place where the metal waskept."

"What metal?" asked three voices at one and the same time.

"That's what I asked," said Mr. Tester, with satisfaction. "I told 'emStivvins dealt with all kinds of metal, so the gent says: 'What aboutgold?'"

"What about gold?" repeated Mr. Staines thoughtfully. "And what didyou say?"

"Well, as a matter of fact," explained Tester, "I happen to know thisplace, living in the neighbourhood, and I used to work here about eightyears ago, so I took 'em down to the vault."

"To the vault?" said Mr. Staines. "I didn't know there was a vault."

"It's under the main office. You must have seen the place," saidTester. "There's a big steel door with a key in it – at least, therewas a key in it, but this young fellow took it away with him."

Staines gripped his nearest companion in sin, and demanded huskily:

"Did they find anything in – in the vault?"

"Blessed if I know!" said the cheerful Tester, never dreaming that hewas falling very short of the faith which at that moment, and only atthat moment, had been reposed in him. "They just went in. I've neverbeen inside the place myself."

"And you stood outside, like a – a – "

"Blinking image!" said the explosive companion.

"You stood outside like a blinking image, and didn't attempt to go in, and see what they were looking at?" said Mr. Staines heatedly. "Howlong were they there?"

"About ten minutes."

"And then they came out?"

Tester nodded.

"Did they bring anything out with them?"

"Nothing," said Mr. Tester emphatically.

"Did this fellow – what's his name? – look surprised or upset?" persistedthe cross-examining Honest John.

"He was a bit upset, now you come to mention it, agitated like, yes,"said Tester, reviewing the circumstances in a new light. "His 'andwas, so to speak, shaking."

"Merciful Moses!" This pious ejaculation was from Mr. Staines. "Hetook away the key, you say. And what are you supposed to be here for?"asked Mr. Staines violently. "You allow this fellow to come and takeour property away. Where is the place?"

Tester led the way across the littered yard, explaining en route thathe was fed up, and why he was fed up, and what they could do to fillthe vacancy which would undoubtedly occur the next day, and where theycould go to, so far as he was concerned, and so, unlocking one rustylock after another, passed through dark and desolate offices, full ofsqueaks and scampers, down a short flight of stone steps to a mostuncompromising steel door at which they could only gaze.

III

Bones was at his office early the following rooming, but he was notearlier than Mr. Staines, who literally followed him into his officeand slammed down a slip of paper under his astonished and gloomy eye.

"Hey, hey, what's this?" said Bones irritably. "What the dooce isthis, my wicked old fiddle fellow?"

"Your cheque," said Mr. Staines firmly. "And I'll trouble you for thekey of our strong-room."

"The key of your strong-room?" repeated Bones. "Didn't I buy thisproperty?"

"You did and you didn't. To cut a long story short, Mr. Tibbetts, Ihave decided not to sell – in fact, I find that I have done an illegalthing in selling at all."

Bones shrugged his shoulders. Remember that he had slept, orhalf-slept, for some nine hours, and possibly his views had undergone achange. What he would have done is problematical, because at thatmoment the radiant Miss Whitland passed into her office, and Bones'sacute ear heard the snap of her door.

"One moment," he said gruffly, "one moment, old Honesty."

He strode through the door which separated the private from the publicportion of his suite, and Mr. Staines listened. He listened at varyingdistances from the door, and in his last position it would haverequired the most delicate of scientific instruments to measure thedistance between his ear and the keyhole. He heard nothing save thewail of a Bones distraught, and the firm "No's" of a self-possessedfemale.

Then, after a heart-breaking silence Bones strode out, and Mr. Stainesdid a rapid sprint, so that he might be found standing in an attitudeof indifference and thought near the desk. The lips of Bones weretight and compressed. He opened the drawer, pulled out the transfers, tossed them across to Mr. Staines.

"Key," said Bones, chucking it down after the document.

He picked up his cheque and tore it into twenty pieces.

"That's all," said Bones, and Mr. Staines beat a tremulous retreat.

When the man had gone, Bones returned to the girl who was sitting ather table before her typewriter. It was observable that her lips werecompressed too.

"Young Miss Whitland," said Bones, and his voice was hoarser than ever,"never, never in my life will I ever forgive myself!"

"Oh, please, Mr. Tibbetts," said the girl a little wearily, "haven't Itold you that I have forgiven you? And I am sure you had no horridthought in your mind, and that you just acted impulsively."

Bones bowed his head, at once a sign of agreement and a crushed spirit.

"The fact remains, dear old miss," he said brokenly, "that I did kissyou in that beastly old private vault. I don't know what made me doit," he gulped, "but I did it. Believe me, young miss, that spot wassacred. I wanted to buy the building to preserve it for all time, sothat no naughty old foot should tread upon that hallowed ground. Youthink that's nonsense!"

"Mr. Tibbetts."

"Nonsense, I say, romantic and all that sort of rot." Bones threw outhis arms. "I must agree with you. But, believe me, Stivvins' Wharf ishallowed ground, and I deeply regret that you would not let me buy itand turn it over to the jolly old Public Trustee or one of thosejohnnies… You do forgive me?"

She laughed up in his face, and then Bones laughed, and they laughed together.

CHAPTER IV
THE PLOVER LIGHT CAR

The door of the private office opened and after a moment closed. Itwas, in fact, the private door of the private office, reservedexclusively for the use of the Managing Director of Schemes Limited.Nevertheless, a certain person had been granted the privilege ofingress and egress through that sacred portal, and Mr. Tibbetts, ycleptBones, crouching over his desk, the ferocity of his countenanceintensified by the monocle which was screwed into his eye, and theterrific importance of his correspondence revealed by his disorderedhair and the red tongue that followed the movements of his pen, did notlook up.

"Put it down, put it down, young miss," he murmured, "on the table, onthe floor, anywhere."

There was no answer, and suddenly Bones paused and scowled at thehalf-written sheet before him.

"That doesn't look right." He shook his head. "I don't know what'scoming over me. Do you spell 'cynical' with one 'k' or two?"

Bones looked up.

He saw a brown-faced man, with laughing grey eyes, a tall man in a longovercoat, carrying a grey silk hat in his hand.

"Pardon me, my jolly old intruder," said Bones with dignity, "this is aprivate – " Then his jaw dropped and he leant on the desk forsupport. "Not my – Good heavens!" he squeaked, and then leaptacross the room, carrying with him the flex of his table lamp, whichfell crashing to the floor.

"Ham, you poisonous old reptile!" He seized the other's hand in hisbony paw, prancing up and down, muttering incoherently.

"Sit down, my jolly old Captain. Let me take your overcoat. Well!Well! Well! Give me your hat, dear old thing – dear old Captain, Imean. This is simply wonderful! This is one of the most amazin'experiences I've ever had, my dear old sportsman and officer. How longhave you been home? How did you leave the Territory? Good heavens!We must have a bottle on this!"

"Sit down, you noisy devil," said Hamilton, pushing his erstwhilesubordinate into a chair, and pulling up another to face him.

"So this is your boudoir!" He glanced round admiringly. "It looksrather like the waiting-room of a couturière."

"My dear old thing," said the shocked Bones, "I beg you, if you please, remember, remember – " He lowered his voice, and the last word was ina hoarse whisper, accompanied by many winks, nods, and pointings at andto a door which led from the inner office apparently to the outer."There's a person, dear old man of the world – a young person – wellbrought up – "

"What the – " began Hamilton.

"Don't be peeved!" Bones's knowledge of French was of the haziest."Remember, dear old thing," he said solemnly, wagging his inkyforefinger, "as an employer of labour, I must protect the young an'innocent, my jolly old skipper."

Hamilton looked round for a missile, and could find nothing better thana crystal paper-weight, which looked too valuable to risk.

"'Couturière,'" he said acidly, "is French for 'dressmaker.'"

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