Bones in London

"Aren't you coming to lunch?" asked Hamilton, astonished.

Bones shook his head.

"No, dear old boy," he said hollowly. "Ask the girl to send me up astiff glass of soda-water and a biscuit – I don't suppose I shall eatthe biscuit."

"Nonsense!" said Hamilton. "Half an hour ago you were telling me youcould eat a cart-horse."

"Not now, old Ham," said Bones. "If you've ordered it, send it back.

I hate cart-horses, anyway."

"Come along," wheedled Hamilton, dropping his hand on the other'sshoulder. "Come and eat. Who was the beautiful boy?"

"Beautiful boy?" laughed Bones bitterly. "A fop, dear old Ham! Atailor's dummy! A jolly old clothes-horse – that's what he was. Isimply loathe these people who leap around the City for a funeral.It's not right, dear old thing. It's not manly, dear old sport. Whatthe devil did her father have a sister for? I never knew anythingabout it."

"They ought to have told you," said Hamilton sympathetically. "Nowcome and have some food."

But Bones refused. He was adamant. He would sit there and starve. Hedid not say as much, but he hinted that, when Hamilton returned, hisfamished and lifeless form would be found lying limply across the desk.Hamilton went out to lunch alone, hurried through his meal, and cameback to find Bones alive but unhappy.

He sat making faces at the table, muttering incoherent words, gesticulating at times in the most terrifying manner, and finally threwhimself back into his deep chair, his hands thrust into his trouserspockets, the picture of dejection and misery.

It was three o'clock when Miss Marguerite Whitland returned breathless, and, to Bones's jealous eye, unnecessarily agitated.

"Come, come, dear old miss," he said testily. "Bring your book. Iwish to dictate an important letter. Enjoyed your lunch?"

The last question was asked in so threatening a tone that the girlalmost jumped.

"Yes – no," she said. "Not very much really."

"Ha, ha!" said Bones, insultingly sceptical, and she went red, flouncedinto her room, and returned, after five minutes, a haughty and distantyoung woman.

"I don't think I want to dictate, dear old – dear young typewriter," hesaid unhappily. "Leave me, please."

"Really, my dear Bones," protested Hamilton, when the girl had goneback, scarlet-faced to her office, "you're making a perfect ass ofyourself. If a girl cannot go to lunch with her cousin – "

Bones jumped up from his chair, shrugged his shoulders rapidly, andforced a hideous grin.

"What does it matter to me, dear old Ham?" he asked. "Don't think I'mworried about a little thing like a typewriter going out to lunch.Pooh! Absurd! Tommy rot! No, my partner, I don't mind – in fact, Idon't care a – "

"Jot," said Hamilton, with the gesture of an outraged bishop.

"Of course not," said Bones wildly. "What does it matter to me?Delighted that young typewriter should have a cousin, and all that sortof thing!"

"Then what the dickens is the matter with you?" asked Hamilton.

"Nothing," said Bones, and laughed more wildly than ever.

Relationships between Mr. Augustus Tibbetts, Managing Director ofSchemes Limited, and Miss Marguerite Whitland, his heaven-sentsecretary, were strained to the point of breaking that afternoon. Shewent away that night without saying good-bye, and Bones, in a conditionof abject despair, walked home to Devonshire Street, and was within adozen yards of his flat, when he remembered that he had left hismotor-car in the City, and had to take a cab back to fetch it.

"Bones," said Hamilton the next morning, "do you realise the horriblegloom which has come over this office?"

"Gloom, dear old Ham?" said the dark-eyed Bones. He had spent thenight writing letters to Marguerite, and had exhausted all thestationery in sight in the process. "Gloom, old thing! Good gracious,no! Nobody is gloomy here!"

"I can tell you somebody who is," said Hamilton grimly. "Thatunfortunate girl you've been barking at all the morning – "

"Barking at her?" gasped Bones. "Gracious Heavens, I haven't betrayedmy worried condition of mind, dear old thing? I thought I hid itrather well."

"What on earth are you worried about?" asked Hamilton, and Bonesshrugged.

"Oh, nothing," he said. "Nothing at all. A little fever, dear oldthing, contracted in the service of King – God bless him! – and country."

Hamilton's words had this effect, that he brightened visibly, and forthe rest of the morning was almost normal. His spirits took a quickdownward turn at five minutes to one, when the debonair Mr. Hyaneappeared most unexpectedly.

"I'm afraid you'll think I'm a most awful nuisance, Mr. Tibbetts," hesaid, "but there are so many things which I must really talk to mycousin about – family affairs, you know."

"Don't apologise," said Bones gruffly.

"I shan't keep her beyond the hour," smiled Mr. Hyane. "I realise thatyou are a very busy man."

Bones said nothing, and when Marguerite Whitland appeared, he hadgained sufficient control of his emotions to indulge in a feeble jest.The girl's face was a study at the sight of her cousin. Hamilton, adisinterested observer, read astonishment, annoyance, and resignationin the wide-opened eyes. Bones, who prided himself upon a workingknowledge of physiognomy, diagnosed the same symptoms as conveying adeep admiration combined with the re-awakening of a youthful love.

"Hello, Jackson!" she said coldly. "I didn't expect to see you."

"I told you I would call," he smiled. "I must see you, Marguerite, and

Mr. Tibbetts has been so kind that I am sure he will not mind me – "

"Mr. Tibbetts is not concerned about the manner in which I spend mylunch hour," she said stiffly, and Bones groaned inwardly.

There was a silence which Hamilton had not the heart to break after thetwo had gone, and it was Bones who uttered the first comment.

"That's that," he said, and his voice was so quiet and normal that

Hamilton stared at him in astonishment.

"Let's have lunch," said Bones briskly, and led the way out.

Not even when Miss Whitland came to him that afternoon and asked forpermission to take two days' holiday did his manner change. With acourtesy entirely free from that extravagance to which she had grownaccustomed, he acceded to her request, and she was on the point ofexplaining to him the reason she had so unexpectedly asked for avacation, but the memory of his earlier manner checked her.

It was a very simple explanation. Jackson Hyane was a very plausibleman. Marguerite Whitland had heard something of her erratic cousin, but certainly nothing in his manner supported the more luriddescriptions of his habits. And Mr. Jackson Hyane had begged her, inthe name of their relationships, to take a trip to Aberdeen to examinetitle-deeds which, he explained, would enable her to join with him inan action of the recovery of valuable Whitland property which was indanger of going to the Crown, and she had consented.

The truth was, there had always been some talk in the family of theseestates, though nobody knew better than Jackson Hyane how unsubstantialwere the claims of the Whitlands to the title. But the Scottish estatehad been docketed away in the pigeon-holes of his mind, and promised tobe more useful than he had anticipated.

That afternoon he packed his bag at his flat, put his passport andrailway tickets together in his inside pocket, and made his finalpreparations for departure.

An old crony of his called whilst he was drinking the cup of tea whichthe housekeeper of the flats had prepared, and took in the situationrevealed by the packed suit-cases and the burnt papers in the hearth.

"Hello, Johnny!" he said. "You're getting out, eh?"

Jackson nodded. There was no need to pretend anything with one of hisown class.

"Couldn't you square the bank?"

Jackson shook his head.

"No, Billy," he said cheerfully, "I couldn't square it. At thisidentical moment there are several eminent people in the West End ofLondon who are making applications for warrants."

"Dud cheques, eh?" asked the other thoughtfully. "Well, it had tocome, Johnny. You've had a lot of bad luck."

"Atrocious," said Mr. Jackson Hyane. "There's plenty of money in Town, but it's absolutely impossible to get at it. I haven't touched a mugfor two months, and I've backed more seconds than I care to thinkabout. Still," he mused, "there's a chance."

His friends nodded. In their circle there was always "a chance," but he could not guess that that chance which the student of men, Mr.

Jackson Hyane, was banking upon answered indifferently to the name of

Tibbetts or Bones.

At half-past eight that night he saw his cousin off from King's Cross.He had engaged a sleeper for her, and acted the part of dutifulrelative to the life, supplying her with masses of literature to whileaway the sleepless hours of the journey.

"I feel awfully uncomfortable about going away," said the girl, in atroubled voice. "Mr. Tibbetts would say that he could spare me even ifhe were up to his eyes in work. And I have an uncomfortable feeling atthe back of my mind that there was something I should have toldhim – and didn't."

"Queer bird, Tibbetts!" said the other curiously. "They call him

Bones, don't they?"

"I never do," said the girl quietly; "only his friends have thatprivilege. He is one of the best men I have ever met."

"Sentimental, quixotic, and all that sort of thing, eh?" said Jackson, and the girl flushed.

"He has never been sentimental with me," she said, but did not deceivethe student of men.

When the train had left the station, he drove straightaway toDevonshire Street. Bones was in his study, reading, or pretending toread, and the last person he expected to see that evening was Mr.Jackson Hyane. But the welcome he gave to that most unwelcome visitorbetrayed neither his distrust nor his frank dislike of the youngwell-groomed man in evening-dress who offered him his hand with such agesture of good fellowship.

"Sit down, Mr. – er – " said Bones.

There was a cold, cold feeling at his heart, a sense of comingdisaster, but Bones facing the real shocks and terrors of life was adifferent young man from the Bones who fussed and fumed over itstrifles.

"I suppose you wonder why I have come to see you, Mr. Tibbetts," saidHyane, taking a cigarette from the silver box on the table. "I ratherwonder why I have the nerve to see you myself. I've come on a verydelicate matter."

There was a silence.

"Indeed?" said Bones a little huskily, and he knew instinctively whatthat delicate matter was.

"It is about Marguerite," said Mr. Hyane.

Bones inclined his head.

"You see, we have been great pals all our lives," went on Jackson

Hyane, pulling steadily at the cigarette – "in fact, sweethearts."

His keen eyes never left the other's face, and he read all he wanted toknow.

"I am tremendously fond of Marguerite," he went on, "and I think I amnot flattering myself when I say that Marguerite is tremendously fondof me. I haven't been especially fortunate, and I have never had themoney which would enable me to offer Marguerite the kind of life whicha girl so delicately nurtured should have."

"Very admirable," said Bones, and his voice came to his own ears as thevoice of a stranger.

"A few days ago," Mr. Hyane went on, "I was offered a tea plantationfor fourteen thousand pounds. The prospects were so splendid that Iwent to a financier who is a friend of mine, and he undertook toprovide the money, on which, of course, I agreed to pay an interest.The whole future, which had been so black, suddenly became as bright asday. I came to Marguerite, as you saw, with the news of my good luck, and asked her if she would be my wife."

Bones said nothing; his face was a mask.

"And now I come to my difficulty, Mr. Tibbetts," said Hyane. "Thisafternoon Marguerite and I played upon you a little deception which Ihope you will forgive."

"Certainly, certainly" mumbled Bones, and gripped the arms of his chairthe tighter.

"When I took Marguerite to lunch to-day," said Hyane, "it was tobe – married."

"Married!" repeated Bones dully, and Mr. Hyane nodded.

"Yes, we were married at half-past one o'clock to-day at the MaryleboneRegistry Office, and I was hoping that Marguerite would be able to tellyou her good news herself. Perhaps" – he smiled – "it isn't as good newsto her as it is to me. But this afternoon a most tragic thinghappened."

He threw away his cigarette, rose, and paced the room with agitatedstrides. He had practised those very strides all that morning, for heleft nothing to chance.

"At three o'clock this afternoon I called upon my financier friend, anddiscovered that, owing to heavy losses which he had incurred on theStock Exchange, he was unable to keep his promise. I feel terrible,Mr. Tibbetts! I feel that I have induced Marguerite to marry me underfalse pretences. I had hoped to-morrow morning to have gone to theagents of the estate and placed in their hands the cheque for fourteenthousand pounds, and to have left by the next mail boat for India."

He sank into the chair, his head upon his hands, and Bones watched himcuriously.

Presently, and after an effort, Bones found his voice.

"Does your – your – wife know?" he asked.

Jackson shook his head.

"No," he groaned, "that's the terrible thing about it. She hasn't theslightest idea. What shall I tell her? What shall I tell her?"

"It's pretty rotten, old – Mr. Hyane." Bones found his voice after awhile. "Deuced rotten for the young miss – for Mrs. – for her."

He did not move from his chair, nor relax his stiff expression. He washurt beyond his own understanding, frantically anxious to end theinterview, but at a loss to find an excuse until his eyes fell upon theclock over the mantelpiece.

"Come back at ten – no, half-past ten, young Mr. … awfully busy now… see you at half-past ten, eh?"

Mr. Hyane made a graceful exit, and left Bones alone with the shatteredfragments of great romance.

So that was why she had gone off in such a hurry, and she had not daredto tell him. But why not? He was nothing to her … he would neversee her again! The thought made him cold. Never again! Never again!He tried to summon that business fortitude of his, of which he was soproud. He wanted some support, some moral support in this moment ofacute anguish. Incidentally he wanted to cry, but didn't.

She ought to have given him a week's notice, he told himself fiercely, than laughed hysterically at the thought. He considered the matterfrom all its aspects and every angle, and was no nearer to peace ofmind when, at half-past ten to the second, Mr. Jackson Hyane returned.

But Bones had formed one definite conclusion, and had settled upon theaction he intended taking. Mr. Hyane, entering the study, saw thecheque book on the desk, and was cheered. Bones had to clear his voiceseveral times before he could articulate.

"Mr. Hyane," he said huskily, "I have been thinking matters out. I ama great admirer of yours – of your – of yours – a tremendous admirer ofyours, Mr. Hyane. Anything that made her happy, old Mr. Hyane, wouldmake me happy. You see?"

"I see," said Mr. Hyane, and he had the satisfaction of knowing thathe, a student of men, had not misread his victim.

"Fourteen thousand pounds," said Bones, turning abruptly to the deskand seizing his pen. "Make it payable to you?"

"You're too kind," murmured Hyane. "Make it an open cheque, Mr.Tibbetts – I have to pay the agents in cash. These Indian merchants areso suspicious."

Bones wrote the cheque rapidly, marked it "Pay Cash," and initialledthe corrections, then tore the slip from the book and handed it to theother.

"Of course, Mr. Tibbetts," said Hyane reverentially, "I regard halfthis as a loan to me and half as a loan to my dear wife. We shallnever forget your kindness."

"Rot!" said Bones. "Nonsense! I hope you'll be happy, and will youtell her – " He swallowed something.

There was a faint tinkle of a bell in the hall, and Ali, his servant, poked an ebony face round the corner of the door.

"Sir," he said, "the telephonic apparatus demands conversation."

Bones was glad of the interruption, and, with a muttered apology to hisgratified guest, he strode out into the hall. Ali had accustomedhimself to answering the telephone, but this time he had not understoodthe preliminary inquiry from exchange.

"Hello!" said Bones into the transmitter.

"Who's that?"

At the sound of the voice which answered him he nearly dropped thereceiver.

"Is that Mr. Tibbetts?"

"Yes," said Bones hoarsely, and his heart beat a wild rataplan.

"I'm speaking from York, Mr. Tibbetts. I wanted to tell you that thekey of the safe is in the drawer of my desk – the top drawer."

"That's all right, dear old – dear Mrs. Hyane."

"What is that you say?" asked the voice sharply.

"Congratulations, dear old missus," said Bones. "Hope you'll beawfully happy on your plantation."

"What do you mean?" asked the voice. "Did you call me Mrs. Hyane?"

"Yes," said Bones huskily.

He heard her laugh.

"How ridiculous you are! Did you really think I would ever marry mycousin?"

"But haven't you?" yelled Bones.

"What – married? Absurd! I'm going to Scotland to see about somefamily matter."

"You're not – not a Mrs.?" asked Bones emphatically.

"And never will be," said the girl. "What does it all mean? Tell me."

Bones drew a long breath.

"Come back by the next train, young miss," he said. "Let that jollyold family affair go to blazes. I'll meet you at the station and tellyou everything."

"But – but – " said the girl.

"Do as you're told, young miss!" roared Bones, and hung up the receiverwith a seraphic smile.

The door of his study was a thick one, and it was, moreover, protectedfrom outside noises by a large baize door, and the student of men hadheard nothing. Bones strode back into the room with a face so changedthat Mr. Hyane could not but observe that something remarkable hadhappened.

"I'm afraid I'm keeping you up, Mr. Tibbetts," he said.

"Not at all," said Bones cheerfully. "Let's have a look at that cheque

I gave you."

The other hesitated.

"Let me have a look at it," said Bones, and Mr. Hyane, with a smile, took it from his pocket and handed it to the other.

"Half for you and half for her, eh, dear old thing?" said Bones, andtore the cheque in two. "That's your half," he said, handing oneportion to Mr. Hyane.

"What the devil are you doing?" demanded the other angrily, but Boneshad him by the collar, and was kicking him along the all-too-shortcorridor.

"Open the door, Ali!" said Bones. "Open it wide, dear old heathen!

Ooff!"

The "Ooff!" was accompanied by one final lunge of Bones's long legs.

At midnight Bones was sitting on the platform at King's Cross, alternately smoking a large pipe and singing tuneless songs. They toldhim that the next train from York would not arrive until three in themorning.

"That doesn't worry me, old thing. I'll wait all night."

"Expecting somebody, sir?" asked the inquisitive porter.

"Everybody, my dear old uniformed official," said Bones, "everybody!"