ion of blind confidence in his
partner.... 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 residence
at Clapham Park. Bones read the item without interest. He was looking
for bargains--an early morning practice of his because the buying fever
was still upon him.

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

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

Presently Bones threw down the paper.

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

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

She smiled up at him--a proceeding which was generally sufficient to
throw Bones into a pitiful condition of incoherence. But this morning
it had only the effect of making him close his eyes as though to shut
out 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 and
hypocritical hand across his brow. "Just a fit of the jolly old
staggers. The fact is, I've been keeping late hours--in fact, dear
young miss," he said huskily, "I have been engaged in a wicked old
pursuit--yes, positively naughty...."

"Oh, Mr. Tibbetts"--she was truly shocked--"I'm awfully sorry! You
really 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 abounded
in such rhymes as "Marguerite," "Dainty feet," "Sweet," "Hard to b