Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [73]
“My secretary?” said Bones quickly, and shot a suspicious glance at the visitor.
“I mean Miss Whitland,” said Hyane easily. “She is my cousin, you know. My mother’s brother was her father.”
“Oh, yes,” said Bones a little stiffly.
He felt a sense of the strongest resentment against the late Professor Whitland. He felt that Marguerite’s father had played rather a low trick on him in having a sister at all, and Mr Hyane was too keen a student to overlook Bones’ obvious annoyance.
“Yes,” he went on carelessly, “we are quite old friends, Marguerite and I, and you can’t imagine how pleased I am that she has such an excellent job as this.”
“Oh, yes,” said Bones, clearing his throat. “Very nice old – very good typewriter indeed, Mr Hyane…very nice person…ahem!”
Marguerite, dressed for the street, came in from her office at that moment, and greeted her cousin with a little nod, which, to the distorted vision of Bones, conveyed the impression of a lifelong friendship.
“I have just been asking Mr Tibbetts,” said Hyane, “if he could spare you for an extra hour.”
“I am afraid that can’t–” the girl began.
“Nonsense, nonsense!” said Bones, raising his voice as he invariably did when he was agitated. “Certainly, my dear old – er – my dear young – er – certainly, Miss Marguerite, by all means, take your cousin to the Zoo… I mean show him the sights.”
He was patently agitated, and watched the door close on the two young people with so ferocious a countenance that Hamilton, a silent observer of the scene, could have laughed.
Bones walked slowly back to his desk as Hamilton reached for his hat.
“Come on Bones,” he said briskly. “It’s lunch time. I had no idea it was so late.”
But Bones shook his head.
“No, thank you, dear old thing,” he said sadly. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”
“Aren’t you coming to lunch?” asked Hamilton, astonished.
Bones shook his head.
“No, dear old boy,” he said hollowly. “Ask the girl to send me up a stiff glass of soda-water and a biscuit – I don’t suppose I shall eat the biscuit.”
“Nonsense!” said Hamilton. “Half an hour ago you were telling me you could eat a cart-horse.”
“Not now, old Ham,” said Bones. “If you’ve ordered it, send it back. I hate cart-horses, anyway.”
“Come along,” wheedled Hamilton, dropping his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Come and eat. Who was the beautiful boy?”
“Beautiful boy?” laughed Bones bitterly. “A fop, dear old Ham! A tailor’s dummy! A jolly old clothes-horse – that’s what he was. I simply loathe these people who leap around the City for a funeral. It’s not right, dear old thing. It’s not manly, dear old sport. What the devil did her father have a sister for? I never knew anything about it.”
“They ought to have told you,” said Hamilton sympathetically. “Now come and have some food.”
But Bones refused. He was adamant. He would sit there and starve. He did not say as much, but he hinted that, when Hamilton returned, his famished and lifeless form would be found lying limply across the desk. Hamilton went out to lunch alone, hurried through his meal, and came back to find Bones alive but unhappy.
He sat making faces at the table, muttering incoherent words, gesticulating at times in the most terrifying manner, and finally threw himself back into his deep chair, his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, the picture of dejection and misery.
It was three o’clock when Miss Marguerite Whitland returned breathless, and, to Bones’ jealous eye, unnecessarily agitated.
“Come, come, dear old miss,” he said testily. “Bring your book. I wish to dictate an important letter. Enjoyed your lunch?”
The last question was asked in so threatening a tone that the girl almost jumped.
“Yes – no,” she said. “Not very much really.”
“Ha, ha!” said Bones, insultingly sceptical, and she went red, flounced into her room, and returned, after five minutes, a haughty and distant young woman.
“I don’t think I want to dictate, dear old – dear young typewriter,” he said unhappily. “Leave me, please.”
“Really, my dear