Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [21]
“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.
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,