Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [68]
He raised his own eyebrows with a significant gesture, which expressed in some subtle way that Bones’ future was assured.
Bones said he would think the matter over, and he did – aloud, in the presence of Hamilton.
“It’s a queer proposition,” said Hamilton. “Of course, derelict railways can be made to pay.”
“I should be general manager,” said Bones more thoughtfully still. “My name would be printed on all the posters, of course. And isn’t there a free pass over all the railways for railway managers?”
“I believe there is something of the sort,” said Hamilton, “but, on the whole, I think it would be cheaper to pay your fare than to buy a railway to get that privilege.”
“There is one locomotive,” mused Bones. “It is called ‘Mary Louisa.’ Pyeburt told me about it just as I was going away. Of course, one would get a bit of a name and all that sort of thing.”
He scratched his chin and walked thoughtfully into the office of Miss Marguerite Whitland.
She swung round in her chair and reached for her notebook, but Bones was not in a dictatorial mood.
“Young miss,” he asked, “how do you like Sir Augustus?”
“Sir who?” she demanded, puzzled.
“Sir Augustus,” repeated Bones.
“I think it’s very funny,” she said.
It was not the answer he expected, and instinctively she knew she had made a mistake.
“Oh, you’re thinking about yourself,” she said quickly. “Are you going to be a knight, Mr Tibbetts? Oh, how splendid!”
“Yes,” admitted Bones, with fine indifference. “Not bad, dear old miss. I’m pretty young, of course, but Napoleon was a general at twenty-two.”
“Are you going back into the Army?” she asked a little hazily, and had visions of Bones at the War Office.
“I’m talking about railways,” said Bones firmly. “Sir Augustus Tibbetts – there, now I’ve said it!”
“Wonderful!” said the girl enthusiastically, and her eyes shone with genuine pleasure. “I didn’t see it in the newspaper, or I would have congratulated you before.”
Bones shifted uneasily.
“As a matter of fact, dear old miss,” he said, “it has not been gazetted yet. I’m merely speaking of the future, dear old impetuous typewriter and future secretary to the Lynhaven Railway Company, and possibly dear old Lady–” He stopped short with one of his audible “tuts.”
Happily she could not see the capital “L” to the word “Lady,” and missed the significance of Bones’ interrupted speech.
He saw Mr Harold Pyeburt at his office, and Mr Harold Pyeburt had seen the Right Hon. Parkinson Chenney, and the right honourable gentleman had expressed his willingness to sell the railway, lock, stock, and barrel, for sixty thousand pounds.
“And I advise you” – Mr Pyeburt paused, as he thought of a better word than “disinterestedly” – “as a friend, to jump at it. Parkinson Chenney spoke in the highest terms of you. You evidently made a deep impression upon him.”
“Who is the jolly old Parkinson’s agent?” asked Bones, and Mr Harold Pyeburt admitted without embarrassment that, as a matter of fact, he was acting as Parkinson’s attorney in this matter, and that was why he had been so diffident in recommending the property. The audacity of the latter statement passed unnoticed by Bones.
In the end Bones agreed to pay ten per cent of the purchase price, the remainder to be paid after a month’s working of the line, if the deal was approved.
“Clever idea of mine, dear old Ham,” said Bones. “The Honours List will be out in a month, and I can easily chuck it.”
“That’s about the eighth fellow who’s paid a ten per cent deposit,” said Mr Chenney to his agent. “I’ll be almost sorry if he takes it.”
Three weeks later there were two important happenings. The Prime Minister of England, within an hour of leaving for the West of England to take a well-earned rest, summoned to him his right-hand man.
“Chenney,” he said, “I really must go away for this rest, and I’m awfully sorry I cannot be on hand to meet the Chinese Commission. Now, whatever you do, you will not fail to meet them at Charing Cross on their arrival from the Continent. I