Bones in London

There was a certain swing to her shoulder as she walked, a certainundulatory movement of hip, which spoke of a large satisfaction withthe world as she found it.

Bones, something of a connoisseur and painfully worldly, pursed hislips and broke off the conversation in which he was engaged, and whichhad to do with the prospective profits on his jute deal, and remarkedtersely:

"Ham, dear old thing, that is a chinchilla coat worth twelve hundredpounds."

Hamilton, to whom the mysteries of feminine attire were honestmysteries, accepted the sensational report without demur.

"The way you pick up these particular bits of information, Bones, isreally marvellous to me. It isn't as though you go out a lot intosociety. It isn't as though women are fond of you or make a fuss ofyou."

Bones coughed.

"Dicky Orum. Remember, dear old Richard," he murmured. "My privatelife, dear old fellow, if you will forgive me snubbing you, is a matteron which nobody is an authority except A. Tibbetts, Esq. There's a lotyou don't know, dear old Ham. I was thinking of writing a book aboutit, but it would take too long."

By this time they reached the elevator, which descended in time toreceive the beautiful lady in the brown coat. Bones removed his hat, smoothed his glossy hair, and with a muttered "After you, dear oldfriend. Age before honesty," bundled Hamilton into the lift andfollowed him.

The elevator stopped at the third floor, and the lady got out. Bones, his curiosity overcoming his respect for age or his appreciation ofprobity, followed her, and was thrilled to discover that she madestraight for his office. She hesitated for a moment before that whichbore the word "Private," and passed on to the outer and general office.

Bones slipped into his own room so quickly that by the time Hamiltonentered he was sitting at his desk in a thoughtful and studiousattitude.

It cannot be said that the inner office was any longer entitled to thedescription of sanctum sanctorum. Rather was the holy of holies thelarger and less ornate apartment wherein sat A Being whose capablelittle fingers danced over complicated banks of keys.

The communicating door opened and the Being appeared. Hamilton, mindful of a certain agreement with his partner, pretended not to seeher.

"There's a lady who wishes a private interview with you, Mr. Tibbetts,"said the girl.

Bones turned with an exaggerated start.

"A lady?" he said in a tone of incredulity. "Gracious Heavens! Thisis news to me, dear old miss. Show her in, please, show her in. Aprivate interview, eh?" He looked meaningly at Hamilton. Hamilton didnot raise his eyes – in accordance with his contract. "A privateinterview, eh?" said Bones louder. "Does she want to see me by myself?"

"Perhaps you would like to see her in my room," said the girl. "Icould stay here with Mr. Hamilton."

Bones glared at the unconscious Hamilton.

"That is not necessary, dear old typewriter," he said stiffly. "Showthe young woman in, please."

The "young woman," came in. Rather, she tripped and undulated andswayed from the outer office to the chair facing Bones, and Bones rosesolemnly to greet her.

Miss Marguerite Whitland, the beautiful Being, who had surveyed thetripping and swaying and undulating with the same frank curiosity thatCleopatra might have devoted to a performing seal, went into her officeand closed the door gently behind her.

"Sit down, sit down," said Bones. "And what can I do for you, youngmiss?"

The girl smiled. It was one of those flashing smiles which makesusceptible men blink. Bones was susceptible. Never had he been gazedupon with such kindness by a pair of such large, soft, brown eyes.Never had cheeks dimpled so prettily and so pleasurably, and seldom hadBones experienced such a sensation of warm embarrassment – notunpleasant – as he did now.

"I am sure I am being an awful nuisance to you, Mr. Tibbetts," said thelady. "You don't know my name, do you? Here is my card." She had itready in her hand, and put it in front of him. Bones waited a minuteor two while he adjusted his monocle, and read:

"MISS BERTHA STEGG."

As a matter of fact, he read it long before he had adjusted hismonocle, but the official acknowledgment was subsequent to thatperformance.

"Yes, yes," said Bones, who on such occasions as these, or on suchoccasions as remotely resembled these, was accustomed to take on theair and style of the strong, silent man. "What can we do for you, myjolly old – Miss Stegg?"

"It's a charity," blurted the girl, and sat back to watch the effect ofher words. "Oh, I know what you business men are! You simply hatepeople bothering you for subscriptions! And really, Mr. Tibbetts, if Ihad to come to ask you for money, I would never have come at all. Ithink it's so unfair for girls to pester busy men in their offices, atthe busiest time of the day, with requests for subscriptions."

Bones coughed. In truth, he had never been pestered, and was enjoyingthe experience.

"No, this is something much more pleasant, from my point of view," saidthe girl. "We are having a bazaar in West Kensington on behalf of theLittle Tots' Recreation Fund."

"A most excellent plan," said Bones firmly.

Hamilton, an interested audience, had occasion to marvel anew at theamazing self-possession of his partner.

"It is one of the best institutions that I know," Bones went onthoughtfully. "Of course, it's many years since I was a little tot, but I can still sympathise with the jolly old totters, dear young miss."

She had taken her portfolio from under her arm and laid it on his desk.It was a pretty portfolio, bound in powder blue and silver, and wasfastened by a powder blue tape with silver tassels. Bones eyed it withpardonable curiosity.

"I'm not asking you for money, Mr. Tibbetts," Miss Stegg went on in hersoft, sweet voice. "I think we can raise all the money we want at thebazaar. But we must have things to sell."

"I see, dear old miss," said Bones eagerly. "You want a few oldclothes? I've got a couple of suits at home, rather baggy at theknees, dear old thing, but you know what we boys are; we wear 'em untilthey fall off!"

The horrified Hamilton returned to the scrutiny of his notes.

"I don't suppose under-garments, if you will permit the indelicacy, mydear old philanthropist – " Bones was going on, when the girl stoppedhim with a gentle shake of her head.

"No, Mr. Tibbetts, it is awfully kind of you, but we do not wantanything like that. The way we expect to raise a lot of money is byselling the photographs of celebrities," she said.

"The photographs of celebrities?" repeated Bones. "But, my dear youngmiss, I haven't had my photograph taken for years."

Hamilton gasped. He might have gasped again at what followed, but forthe fact that he had got a little beyond the gasping stage.

The girl was untying her portfolio, and now she produced something andlaid it on the desk before Bones.

"How clever of you to guess!" she murmured. "Yes, it is a portrait ofyou we want to sell."

Bones stared dumbfounded at a picture of himself – evidently a snapshottaken with a press camera – leaving the building. And, moreover, it wasa flattering picture, for there was a stern frown of resolution onBones's pictured face, which, for some esoteric reason, pleased him.The picture was mounted rather in than on cardboard, for it was in asunken mount, and beneath the portrait was a little oblong slip of paleblue paper.

Bones gazed and glowed. Neatly printed above the picture were thewords: "Our Captains of Industry. III. – Augustus Tibbetts, Esq.(Schemes Limited)."

Bones read this with immense satisfaction. He wondered who were thetwo men who could be placed before him, but in his generous mood wasprepared to admit that he might come third in the list of London'smerchant princes.

"Deuced flattering, dear old thing," he murmured. "Hamilton, old boy, come and look at this."

Hamilton crossed to the desk, saw, and wondered.

"Not so bad," said Bones, dropping his head to one side and regardingthe picture critically. "Not at all bad, dear old thing. You've seenme in that mood, I think, old Ham."

"What is the mood?" said Hamilton innocently. "Indigestion?"

The girl laughed.

"Let's have a little light on the subject," said Bones. "Switch on theexpensive old electricity, Ham."

"Oh, no," said the girl quickly. "I don't think so. If you saw thepicture under the light, you'd probably think it wasn't good enough, and then I should have made my journey in vain. Spare me that, Mr.Tibbetts!"

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

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

Limited, and Bones beckoned her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You can leave this picture, madam – "

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

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

Tibbetts wants to add it to his collection."

Miss Stegg said nothing.

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

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

Bones stared.

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

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

And then it dawned upon Bones, and he gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's wrong?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

"Will he report it to the police?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Half-past three," replied her sister.

Miss Stegg shook her head.

"The banks are closed, and, anyway – "

She carried the book to a table, took a sheet of paper and a pen, and, after a close study of Bones's signature, she wrote it, at firstawkwardly, then, after about a dozen attempts, she produced a copywhich it was difficult to tell apart from the original.

"Really, Clara, you're a wonder," said her sister admiringly.

Clara made no reply. She sat biting the end of the pen.

"I hate the idea of getting out of London and leaving him with all thatmoney, Bertha," she said. "I wonder – " She turned to her sister."Go out and get all the evening newspapers," she said. "There's boundto be something about him, and I might get an idea."

There was much about Bones in the papers the younger girl brought, andin one of these journals there was quite an important interview, whichgave a sketch of Bones's life, his character, and his generalappearance. Clara read this interview very carefully.

"It says he's spent a million, but I know that's a lie," she said."I've been watching that jute deal for a long time, and it's nearerhalf the sum." She frowned. "I wonder – " she said.

"Wonder what?" asked the younger girl impatiently. "What's the good ofwondering? The only thing we can do is to clear out."

Again Clara went from the room and came back with an armful ofdocuments. These she laid on the table, and the girl, looking down, saw that they were for the main part blank contracts. Clara turnedthem over and over until at last she came to one headed "Ministry ofSupplies."

"This'd be the form," she said. "It is the same that Stevenhowe had."

She was mentioning the name of a middle-aged man, who, quiteunwittingly and most unwillingly, had contributed to her very handsomebank balance. She scanned the clauses through, and then flung down thecontract in disgust.

"There's nothing mentioned about a deposit," she said, "and, anyway, Idoubt very much whether I could get it back, even on his signature."

A quarter of an hour later Miss Clara Stegg took up the contract againand read the closely-printed clauses very carefully. When she hadfinished she said:

"I just hate the idea of that fellow making money."

"You've said that before," said her sister tartly.

At six o'clock that evening Bones went home. At nine o'clock he wassitting in his sitting-room in Clarges Street – a wonderful place, though small, of Eastern hangings and subdued lights – when Hamiltonburst in upon him; and Bones hastily concealed the poem he was writingand thrust it under his blotting-pad. It was a good poem and goingwell.

It began:

How very sweet

Is Marguerite!

And Bones was, not unreasonably, annoyed at this interruption to hismuse.

As to Hamilton, he was looking ill.

"Bones," said Hamilton quietly, "I've had a telegram from my pal in

Dundee. Shall I read it?"

"Dear old thing," said Bones, with an irritated "tut-tut," "really, dear old creature, at this time of night – your friends inDundee – really, my dear old boy – "

"Shall I read it?" said Hamilton, with sinister calm.

"By all means, by all means," said Bones, waving an airy hand andsitting back with resignation written on every line of his countenance.

"Here it is," said Hamilton. "It begins 'Urgent.'"

"That means he's in a devil of a hurry, old thing," said Bones, nodding.

"And it goes on to say," said Hamilton, ignoring the interruption."'Your purchase at the present price of jute is disastrous. Jute willnever again touch the figure at which your friend tendered, Ministryhave been trying to find a mug for years to buy their jute, half ofwhich is spoilt by bad warehousing, as I could have told you, and Ireckon you have made a loss of exactly half the amount you have paid.'"

Bones had opened his eyes and was sitting up.

"Dear old Job's comforter," he said huskily.

"Wait a bit," said Hamilton, "I haven't finished yet," and went on: "'Strongly advise you cancel your sale in terms of Clause 7 Ministrycontract.' That's all," said Hamilton.

"Oh, yes," said Bones feebly, as he ran his finger inside his collar,"that's all!"

"What do you think, Bones?" said Hamilton gently.

"Well, dear old cloud on the horizon," said Bones, clasping his bony knee, "it looks remarkably like serious trouble for B. Ones, Esquire.

It does indeed. Of course," he said, "you're not in this, old Ham.

This was a private speculation – "

"Rot!" said Hamilton contemptuously. "You're never going to try adirty trick like that on me? Of course I'm in it. If you're in it,I'm in it."

Bones opened his mouth to protest, but subsided feebly. He looked atthe clock, sighed, and lowered his eyes again.

"I suppose it's too late to cancel the contract now?"

Bones nodded.

"Twenty-four hours, poor old victim," he said miserably, "expired atfive p.m."

"So that's that," said Hamilton.

Walking across, he tapped his partner on the shoulder.

"Well, Bones, it can't be helped, and probably our pal in Dundee hastaken an extravagant view."

"Not he," said Bones, "not he, dear old cheerer. Well, we shall haveto cut down expenses, move into a little office, and start again, dearold Hamilton."

"It won't be so bad as that."

"Not quite so bad as that," admitted Bones. "But one thing," he saidwith sudden energy, "one thing, dear old thing, I'll never part with.Whatever happens, dear old boy, rain or shine, sun or moon, stars orany old thing like that" – he was growing incoherent – "I will neverleave my typewriter, dear old thing. I will never desert her – never, never, never, never, never!

He turned up in the morning, looking and speaking chirpily. Hamilton, who had spent a restless night, thought he detected signs of similarrestlessness in Bones.

Miss Marguerite Whitland brought him his letters, and he went over themlistlessly until he came to one large envelope which bore on its flapthe all-too-familiar seal of the Ministry. Bones looked at it and madea little face.

"It's from the Ministry," said the girl.

Bones nodded.

"Yes, my old notetaker," he said, "my poor young derelict, castout" – his voice shook – "through the rapacious and naughty oldspeculations of one who should have protected your jolly old interests,it is from the Ministry."

"Aren't you going to open it?" she asked.

"No, dear young typewriter, I am not," Bones said firmly. "It's allabout the beastly jute, telling me to take it away. Now, where thedickens am I going to put it, eh? Never talk to me about jute," hesaid violently. "If I saw a jute tree at this moment, I'd simply hatethe sight of it!"

She looked at him in astonishment.

"Why, whatever's wrong?" she asked anxiously.

"Nothing," said Bones. "Nothing," he added brokenly. "Oh, nothing, dear young typewriting person."

She paused irresolutely, then picked up the envelope and cut open theflap.

Remember that she knew nothing, except that Bones had made a bigpurchase, and that she was perfectly confident – such was her sublimefaith in Augustus Tibbetts – that he would make a lot of money as aresult of that purchase.

Therefore the consternation on her face as she read its contents.

"Why," she stammered, "you've never done – Whatever made you dothat?"

"Do what?" said Bones hollowly. "What made me do it? Greed, dear oldsister, just wicked, naughty greed."

"But I thought," she said, bewildered, "You were going to make so muchout of this deal?"

"Ha, ha," said Bones without mirth.

"But weren't you?" she asked.

"I don't think so," said Bones gently.

"Oh! So that was why you cancelled the contract?"

Hamilton jumped to his feet.

"Cancelled the contract?" he said incredulously.

"Cancelled the contract?" squeaked Bones. "What a naughty oldstory-teller you are!"

"But you have," said the girl. "Here's a note from the Ministry, regretting that you should have changed your mind and taken advantageof Clause Seven. The contract was cancelled at four forty-nine."

Bones swallowed something.

"This is spiritualism," he said solemnly. "I'll never say a wordagainst jolly old Brigham Young after this!"

In the meantime two ladies who had arrived in Paris, somewhat weary andbedraggled, were taking their morning coffee outside the Café de laPaix.

"Anyway, my dear," said Clara viciously, in answer to her sister'splaint, "we've given that young devil a bit of trouble. Perhaps theywon't renew the contract, and anyway, it'll take a bit of proving thathe did not sign that cancellation I handed in."