"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."

As a matter of fact, Bones never attempted to prove it.

CHAPTER VII
DETECTIVE BONES

Mr. Harold de Vinne was a large man, who dwelt at the dead end of amassive cigar.

He was big and broad-shouldered, and automatically jovial. Between thehours of 6 p.m. and 2 a.m. he had earned the name of "good fellow,"which reputation he did his best to destroy between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m.

He was one of four stout fellows who controlled companies of imposingstability – the kind of companies that have such items in their balancesheets as "Sundry Debtors, £107,402 12_s_. 7_d_." People feel, onreading such airy lines, that the company's assets are of suchmagnitude that the sundry debtors are only included as a carelessafterthought.

Mr. de Vinne was so rich that he looked upon any money which wasn't hisas an illegal possession; and when Mr. Augustus Tibbetts, on anoccasion, stepped in and robbed him of £17,500, Mr. de Vinne's familydoctor was hastily summoned (figuratively speaking; literally, he hadno family, and swore by certain patent medicines), and straw was spreadbefore the temple of his mind.

A certain Captain Hamilton, late of H.M. Houssas, but now a partner inthe firm of Tibbetts & Hamilton, Ltd., after a short, sharp bout ofmalaria, went off to Brighton to recuperate, and to get the whizzynoises out of his head. To him arrived on a morning a special courierin the shape of one Ali, an indubitable Karo boy, but reputedly pureArab, and a haj, moreover, entitled to the green scarf of theveritable pilgrimage to Mecca.

Ali was the body-servant of Augustus Tibbetts, called by his intimates"Bones," and he was arrayed in the costume which restaurateurs insistis the everyday kit of a true Easterner – especially such Easterners asserve after-dinner coffee.

Hamilton, not in the best of tempers – malaria leaves you that way – anddazzled by this apparition in scarlet and gold, blinked.

"O man," he said testily in the Arabic of the Coast, "why do youwalk-in-the world dressed like a so-and-so?" (You can be very rude inArabic especially in Coast Arabic garnished with certain Swahiliphrases.)

"Sir," said Ali, "these garmentures are expressly designated byTibbetti. Embellishments of oriferous metal give wealthiness ofappearance to subject, but attract juvenile research and investigation."

Hamilton glared through the window on to the front, where a small butrepresentative gathering of the juvenile research committee waitedpatiently for the reappearance of one whom in their romantic fashionthey had termed "The Rajah of Bong."

Hamilton took the letter and opened it. It was, of course, from Bones, and was extremely urgent. Thus it went:

"DEAR OLD PART., – Ham I've had an offer of Browns you know the big bigBoot shop several boot shop all over London London. Old Browns goingout going out of the bisiness Sindicate trying to buy so I niped in for105,000 pounds got lock stock and barrill baril. Sindicate awfuly soreawfuley sore. All well here except poor young typewrighter cut herfinger finger sliceing bread doctor says not dangerus."

Hamilton breathed quickly. He gathered that Bones had bought aboot-shop – even a collection of boot-shops – and he was conscious of thehorrible fact that Bones knew nothing about boots.

He groaned. He was always groaning, he thought, and seldom with goodreason.

Bones was in a buying mood. A week before he had bought The WeeklySunspot, which was "A Satirical Weekly Review of Human Affairs." Thepossibilities of that purchase had made Hamilton go hot and moisty. Hehad gone home one evening, leaving Bones dictating a leading articlewhich was a violent attack on the Government of the day, and had comein the following morning to discover that the paper had been resold ata thousand pounds profit to the owners of a rival journal whichdescribed itself as "A Weekly Symposium of Thought and Fancy."

But Boots … and £105,000 …!

This was serious. Yet there was no occasion for groaning or doubt orapprehension; for, even whilst Hamilton was reading the letter, Boneswas shaking his head violently at Mr. de Vinne, of the Phit-Phine ShoeSyndicate, who had offered him £15,000 profit on the turn-over. And atthe identical moment that Hamilton was buying his ticket for London,Bones was solemnly shaking hands with the Secretary of the Phit-PhineShoe Syndicate (Mr. de Vinne having violently, even apoplectically, refused to meet Bones) with one hand, and holding in the other a chequewhich represented a profit of £17,500. It was one of Bones's bigdeals, and reduced Hamilton to a condition of blind confidence in hispartner… Nevertheless…

A week later, Bones, reading his morning paper, reached and passed, without receiving any very violent impression, the information that Mr.John Siker, the well-known private detective, had died at his residenceat Clapham Park. Bones read the item without interest. He was lookingfor bargains – an early morning practice of his because the buying feverwas still upon him.

Hamilton, sitting at his desk, endeavouring to balance the firm'saccounts from a paying-in book and a cheque-book, the counterfoils ofwhich were only occasionally filled in, heard the staccato "Swindle!.. Swindle!" and knew that Bones had reached the pages whereon weredisplayed the prospectuses of new companies.

He had the firm conviction that all new companies were founded onfrauds and floated by criminals. The offer of seven per cent.debenture stock moved him to sardonic laughter. The certificates ofeminent chartered accountants brought a meaning little smile to hislips, followed by the perfectly libellous statement that "These peoplewould do anything for money, dear old thing."

Presently Bones threw down the paper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poetry!"

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

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

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

Bones rubbed his nose and said, "Oh!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paced the room with a terrible frown.

"Dear old thing," he began.

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

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

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

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

It was a practice of his to spell simple words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My name is Siker," said the visitor.

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

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

Bones screwed up his forehead.

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

It was the young man's turn to nod.

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

Bones waited.

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

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

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

Bones was sitting upright now, his eyes shining. The amazingpossibilities of such an acquisition were visible to his romantic eye.

"You want to sell it, my poor old Sherlock?" he demanded, then, remembering the part he was called upon to play, shook his head. "No,no, old thing. Deeply sorry and all that sort of thing, but it can'tbe done. It's not my line of business at all – not," he added, "that Idon't know a jolly sight more about detectivising than a good many ofthese clever ones. But it's really not my game. What did you want forit?"

"Well," said the young man, hesitating, "I thought that three years'purchase would be a bargain for the man who bought it."

"Six thousand pounds," said Bones.

"Yes," agreed the other. "Of course, I won't ask you to buy the thingblindfolded. You can put the accounts in the hands of your lawyer oryour accountant, and you will find that what I have said is true – thatmy father took two thousand a year out of his business for years. It'spossible to make it four thousand. And as to running it, there arethree men who do all the work – or, rather, one, Hilton, who's in chargeof the office and gives the other fellows their instructions."

"But why sell it, my sad old improvidence?" said Bones. "Why chuckaway two thousand a year for six thousand cash?"

"Because I'm not well enough to carry it on," said young Mr. Siker, after a moment's hesitation. "And, besides, I can't be bothered. Itinterferes, with my other profession – I'm a musician."

"And a jolly good profession, too," said Bones, shaking hands with himacross the table. "I'll sleep on this. Give me your address and theaddress of your accountants, and I'll come over and see you in themorning."

Hamilton was at his desk the next morning at ten o'clock. Bones didnot arrive until eleven, and Bones was monstrously preoccupied. WhenHamilton saluted him with a cheery "Good morning," Bones returned agrave and non-committal nod. Hamilton went on with his work until hebecame conscious that somebody was staring at him, and, looking up, caught Bones in the act.

"What the devil are you looking at?" asked Hamilton.

"At your boots," was the surprising reply.

"My boots?" Hamilton pulled them back through the kneehole of the deskand looked at them. "What's the matter with the boots?"

"Mud-stains, old carelessness," said Bones tersely. "You've come from

Twickenham this morning."

"Of course I've come from Twickenham. That's where I live," said

Hamilton innocently. "I thought you knew that."

"I should have known it," said Bones, with great gravity, "even if Ihadn't known it, so to speak. You may have observed, my dear Hamilton, that the jolly old mud of London differs widely – that is to say, isremarkably different. For instance, the mud of Twickenham is differentfrom the mud of Balham. There's what you might call a subtledifference, dear junior partner, which an unimaginative old rascal likeyou wouldn't notice. Now, the mud of Peckham," said Bones, waving hisforefinger, "is distinguished by a certain darkness – "

"Wait a bit," said Hamilton. "Have you bought a mud business orsomething?"

"No," said Bones.

"And yet this conversation seems familiar to me," mused Hamilton.

"Proceed with your argument, good gossip."

"My argument," said Bones, "is that you have Twickenham mud on yourboots, therefore you come from Twickenham. It is evident that on yourway to the station you stopped to buy a newspaper, that something wason your mind, something made you very thoughtful – something on yourjolly old conscience, I'll bet!"

"How do you know that?" asked Hamilton.

"There's your Times on the table," said Bones triumphantly,"unopened."

"Quite true," said Hamilton; "I bought it just before I came into theoffice."

"H'm!" said Bones. "Well, I won't deceive you, dear old partner. I'vebought Siker's."

Hamilton put down his pen and leaned back in his chair.

"Who's Siker's?"

"Siker's Detective Agency," began Bones, "is known from one end – "

"Oh, I see. Whew!" whistled Hamilton. "You were doing a bit ofdetecting!"

Bones smirked.

"Got it at once, my dear old person," he said. "You know mymethods – "

Hamilton's accusing eye met his, and Bones coughed.

"But what on earth do you expect to do with a detective agency, Bones?"asked Hamilton, strolling across and lighting a cigarette. "That's atype of business there isn't any big demand for. And how is it goingto affect you personally? You don't want your name associated withthat sort of thing."

Bones explained. It was a property he could "sit on." Bones hadalways been looking for such a business. The management was capable ofcarrying on, and all that Bones need do was to sit tight and draw adividend.

As to his name, he had found a cunning solution to that difficulty.

"I take it over, by arrangement with the lawyer in the name of 'Mr.Senob,' and I'll bet you won't guess, dear old Ham, how I got thatname!"

"It's 'Bones' spelt backwards," said Hamilton patiently. "You triedthat bit of camouflage on me years ago."

Bones sniffed disappointedly and went on.

For once he was logical, brief in his explanation, and convincing. YetHamilton was not altogether convinced. He was waiting for theinevitable "but," and presently it came.

"But of course I'm not going to leave it entirely alone, old Ham," said

Bones, shrugging his shoulders at the absurdity of such a suggestion.

"The business can be doubled if a man with a capable, up-to-date conception of modern crime – "

Hamilton made a hooting noise, derisive and insulting.

"Meaning you?" he said, at the conclusion of his lamentable exhibition.

"Meaning me, Ham, my fat old sceptic," said Bones gently. "I don'tthink, dear old officer, you quite realise just what I know aboutcriminal investigation."

"You silly ass," said Hamilton, "detective agencies don't criminallyinvestigate. That's done by the real police. Detective agencies aremerely employed by suspicious wives to follow their husbands."

"Exactly," said Bones, nodding. "And that is just where I come in.You see, I did a little bit of work last night – rather a pretty littlebit of work." He took a slip of paper from his pocket. "You dined atthe Criterion at half-past eight with a tall, fair lady – a jolly olddear she was too, old boy, and I congratulate you most heartily – namedVera."

Hamilton's face went red.

"You left the restaurant at ten past nine, and entered cab No. 667432.

Am I right, sir?"

"Do you mean to tell me," exploded Hamilton, "that you were watchingme?"

Bones nodded.

"I picked you up, old thing, outside the Piccadilly Tube. I shadowedyou to the theatre. I followed you home. You got a taxi – No.297431 – and you were an awful long time before you got out when youreached the lady's destination – an awful long time," said Bonesemphatically. "What you could find to talk about after the cab haddrawn up at the dear old ancestral home of Vera – "

"Bones," said Hamilton awfully. "I think you've gone far enough."

"I thought you'd gone a bit too far, dear old thing, I did really,"said Bones, shaking his head reprovingly. "I watched you verycarefully."

He danced, with a little squeak of joy, into the office of hisbeautiful secretary, leaving a very red and a pardonably annoyedHamilton breathing heavily.

Bones went to the office of Siker's Detective Agency early the nextmorning. He went, it may be remarked in passing, though these detailscan only be interesting to the psychologist, wearing the darkest of hisdark suits and a large black wideawake hat. There was a certainfurtiveness in his movements between the taxicab and the entrance ofthe office, which might suggest to anybody who had taken the trouble toobserve him that he was an escaping bank-robber.

Siker's had spacious offices and a small staff. Only Hilton, themanager, and a clerk were in when Bones presented his card. He wasimmediately conducted by Mr. Hilton to a very plain inner office, surrounded with narrow shelves, which in turn were occupied byinnumerable little deed boxes.

Mr. Hilton was a sober-faced man of fifty-five, sallow and unhappy.

His tone was funereal and deliberate, his eyes steady and remorseless.

"Sit down, Mr. Senob," he said hollowly. "I have a message from thelawyers, and I presume I am welcoming to this establishment the newproprietor who has taken the place of my revered chief, whom I havefaithfully served for twenty-nine years."

Bones closed his eyes and listened as to an address of welcome.

"Personally," said Mr. Hilton, "I think that the sale of this businessis a great mistake on the part of the Siker family. The Sikers havebeen detectives for four generations," he said with a relish of anantiquarian. "George Siker first started work as an investigator in1814 in this identical building. For thirty-five years he conductedSiker's Confidential Bureau, and was succeeded by his son James thegrandfather of the late John George for twenty-three years – "

"Quite so, quite so," said Bones. "Poor old George! Well, well, wecan't live for ever, dear old chief of staff. Now, the thing is, howto improve this jolly old business."

He looked around the dingy apartment without enthusiasm.

Bones had visitors that morning, many visitors. They were not, as hehad anticipated, veiled ladies or cloaked dukes, nor did they pour intohis discreet ears the stories of misspent lives.

There was Mr. Carlo Borker, of Borker's Confidential Enquiry Bureau, agross man in a top hat, who complained bitterly that old man Siker hadpractically and to all intents and purposes offered him an option ofthe business years ago.

It was a one-sided conversation.

"I says to him: 'Siker, if you ever want to sell out' … He says tome: 'Borker, my boy, you've only to offer me a reasonable figure' …I says to him: 'Now, Siker, don't ever let anybody else get thisbusiness…'"

Then there was ex-Inspector Stellingworth, of Stellingworth's DetectiveCorps, a gloomy man, who painted in the blackest colours thedifficulties and tragedies of private investigation, yet seemed willingenough to assume the burden of Siker's Agency, and give Bones athousand pounds profit on his transaction.

Mr. Augustus Tibbetts spent three deliciously happy days inreorganising the business. He purchased from the local gunsmith anumber of handcuffs, which were festooned upon the wall behind his deskand secured secretly – since he did not think that the melancholy Mr.Hilton would approve – a large cardboard box filled to the brim withadjustable beards of every conceivable hue, from bright scarlet tomouse colour.

He found time to relate to a sceptical Hamilton something of hisachievements.

"Wonderful case to-day, dear old boy," he said enthusiastically on thethird evening. "A naughty old lady has been flirting with a very, verynaughty old officer. Husband tremendously annoyed. How that man lovesthat woman!"

"Which man?" said Hamilton cynically.

"I refer to my client," said Bones not without dignity.

"Look here, Bones," said Hamilton with great seriousness, "do you thinkthis is a very nice business you are in? Personally, I think it'simmoral."

"What do you mean – immoral?" demanded the indignant Bones.

"Prying into other people's lives," said Hamilton.

"Lives," retorted the oracular Bones, "are meant to be pried into, dearold thing. An examination of jolly old motives is essential toscientific progress. I feel I am doing a public duty," he went onvirtuously, "exposing the naughty, chastising the sinful, and all thatsort of thing."

"But, honestly," said Hamilton persistently, "do you think it's thegame to chase around collecting purely private details about people'sgoings on?"

"Certainly," said Bones firmly, "certainly, dear old thing. It's apublic duty. Never let it be written on the fair pages of Thiggumythat a Tibbetts shrank back when the call of patriotism – all that sortof thing – you know what I mean?"

"I don't," said Hamilton.

"Well, you're a jolly old dense one," said Bones. "And let me say hereand now" – he rammed his bony knuckles on the table and withdrew themwith an "Ouch!" to suck away the pain – "let me tell you that, as theLatin poet said, 'Ad What's-his name, ad Thiggumy.' 'Everythinghuman's frightfully interesting'!"

Bones turned up at his detective office the next morning, full of zeal, and Hilton immediately joined him in his private office.

"Well, we finish one case to-day, I think," said Hilton withsatisfaction. "It has been very hard trailing him, but I got a goodman on the job, and here's the record."

He held in his hand a sheaf of papers.

"Very good," said Bones. "Excellent! I hope we shall bring themalefactor to justice."

"He's not exactly a malefactor," demurred Hilton. "It is a job we weredoing for one of our best clients."

"Excellent, excellent!" murmured Bones. "And well we've done it, I'msure." He leant back in his chair and half closed his eyes. "Tell mewhat you have discovered."

"This man's a bit of a fool in some ways," said Hilton.

"Which man – the client?"

"No, the fellow we've been trailing."

"Yes, yes," said Bones. "Go on."

"In fact, I wonder that Mr. de Vinne bothered about him."

"De Vinne?" said Bones sitting up. "Harold de Vinne, the moneyed one?"

"That's him. He's one of our oldest customers," said Hilton.

"Indeed," said Bones, this time without any enthusiasm at all.

"You see, a man did him in the eye," explained Mr. Hilton, "swindledhim, and all that sort of thing. Well, I think we have got enough tomake this chap look silly."

"Oh, yes," said Bones politely. "What have you got?"

"Well, it appears," said Hilton, "that this chap is madly in love withhis typist."

"Which chap?" said Bones.

"The fellow who did Mr. de Vinne in the eye," replied the patient Mr.Hilton. "He used to be an officer on the West Coast of Africa, and wasknown as Bones. His real name is Tibbetts."

"Oh yes," said Bones.

"Well, we've found out all about him," continued Hilton. "He's got aflat in Jermyn Street, and this girl of his, this typist girl, dineswith him. She's not a bad-looking girl, mind you."

Bones rose to his feet, and there was in his face a terrible look.

"Hilton," he said, "do you mean that you have been shadowing aperfectly innocent man and a charming, lovely old typewriter, thatcouldn't say 'Goo' to a boose?"

Bones was pardonably agitated.

"Do you mean to tell me that this office descends to this low practiceof prying into the private lives of virtuous gentlemen and typewriters?Shame upon you, Hilton!" His voice shook. "Give me that report!" Hethrust the report into the fire. "Now call up Mr. Borker, and tell himI want to see him on business, and don't disturb me, because I amwriting a letter."

He pulled a sheet of paper from his stationery rack and wrotefuriously. He hardly stopped to think, he scarcely stopped to spell.His letter was addressed to Mr. de Vinne, and when, on the followingday, Mr. Borker took over the business of Siker's Agency, that eminentfirm of investigators had one client the less.