unfair for girls to pester busy men in their offices, at
the busiest time of the day, with requests for subscriptions."

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

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

"A most excellent plan," said Bones firmly.

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

"It is one of the best institutions that I know," Bones went on
thoughtfully. "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 was
fastened by a powder blue tape with silver tassels. Bones eyed it with
pardonable curiosity.

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

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

The horrified Hamilton returned to the scrutiny of his notes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bones stared dumbfounded at a picture of himself--evidently a snapshot
taken with a press camera--leaving the building. And, moreover, it was
a flattering picture, for