Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [39]
“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 sympathize 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 there was a stern frown of resolution on Bones’ 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 reappeared, 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