The Essential Edgar Wallace Collection. Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ "What the dooce is this, my wicked old fiddle fellow?"

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

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

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

      Bones shrugged his shoulders. Remember that he had slept, or half-slept, for some nine hours, and possibly his views had undergone a change. What he would have done is problematical, because at that moment the radiant Miss Whitland passed into her office, and Bones's acute ear heard the snap of her door.

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

      He strode through the door which separated the private from the public portion of his suite, and Mr. Staines listened. He listened at varying distances from the door, and in his last position it would have required the most delicate of scientific instruments to measure the distance between his ear and the keyhole. He heard nothing save the wail of a Bones distraught, and the firm "No's" of a self-possessed female.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      "Mr. Tibbetts."

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

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

      CHAPTER IV

      THE PLOVER LIGHT CAR

      The door of the private office opened and after a moment closed. It was, in fact, the private door of the private office, reserved exclusively for the use of the Managing Director of Schemes Limited. Nevertheless, a certain person had been granted the privilege of ingress and egress through that sacred portal, and Mr. Tibbetts, yclept Bones, crouching over his desk, the ferocity of his countenance intensified by the monocle which was screwed into his eye, and the terrific importance of his correspondence revealed by his disordered hair and the red tongue that followed the movements of his pen, did not look up.

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

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

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

      Bones looked up.

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

      "Pardon me, my jolly old intruder," said Bones with dignity, "this is a private----" Then his jaw dropped and he leant on the desk for support. "Not my---- Good heavens!" he squeaked, and then leapt across the room, carrying with him the flex of his table lamp, which fell crashing to the floor.

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

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

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

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

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

      "What the----" began Hamilton.

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

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

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

      "French," said Bones, "is a language which I have always carefully avoided. I will say no more--you mean well, Ham."

      Thereafter followed a volley of inquiries, punctuated at intervals by genial ceremony, for Bones would rise from his chair, walk solemnly round the desk, and as solemnly shake hands with his former superior.

      "Now, Bones," said Hamilton at last, "will you tell me what you are doing?"

      Bones shrugged his shoulders.

      "Business," he said briefly. "A deal now and again, dear old officer. Make a thousand or so one week, lose a hundred or so the next."

      "But what are you doing?" persisted Hamilton.

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