Bones in London

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."