there was a stern frown of resolution on
Bones's pictured face, which, for some esoteric reason, pleased him.
The picture was mounted rather in than on cardboard, for it was in a
sunken mount, and beneath the portrait was a little oblong slip of pale
blue paper.

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

Bones read this with immense satisfaction. He wondered who were the
two men who could be placed before him, but in his generous mood was
prepared to admit that he might come third in the list of London's
merchant 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 regarding
the picture critically. "Not at all bad, dear old thing. You've seen
me 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 the
expensive old electricity, Ham."

"Oh, no," said the girl quickly. "I don't think so. If you saw the
picture 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 you
think 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 old
josser will put it up in his drawing-room, I suppose. You know, Ham,
dear old thing, I never can understand this hero-worship business. And
now, 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 pointed
to a little space beneath the picture--"and just let me sell it for
what I can get."

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

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

And then Miss Marguerite Whitland did a serious thing, an amazingly
auda