Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [81]
“Hold hard, Sir and Excellency,” said Bones.
“What did you have to put up in the way of shares?”
Sanders flushed. He was a shy man, and not given to talking about his money affairs.
“Oh, about five thousand pounds,” he said awkwardly. “Of course, it’s a lot of money; but even if the business isn’t successful, I have a five-year contract with the company, and I get more than my investment back in salary.”
That night Bones stayed on after Hamilton had left, and had for companion Miss Marguerite Whitland, a lady in whose judgment he had a most embarrassing faith. He had given her plenty of work to do, and the rhythmical tap-tap of her typewriter came faintly through the door which separated the outer from the inner office.
Bones sat at his desk, his chin in his hand, a very thoughtful young man, and before him was a copy of the latest evening newspaper, opened at the Stock Exchange page. There had been certain significant movements in industrial shares – a movement so interesting to the commentator upon Stock Exchange doings that he had inserted a paragraph to the effect that:
“The feature of the industrial market was the firmness of Mazeppa Trading shares, for which there was a steady demand, the stock closing at 19s. 9d. Mazeppa shares have not been dealt in within the House for many years, and, in fact, it was generally believed that the Company was going into liquidation, and the shares could be had for the price of the paper on which they were printed. It is rumoured in the City that the Company is to be reconstructed, and that a considerable amount of new capital has been found, with the object of expanding its existing business.”
Bones read the paragraph many times, and at the conclusion of each reading returned to his reverie. Presently he rose and strolled into the office of his secretary, and the girl looked up with a smile as Bones seated himself on the edge of her table.
“Young miss,” he said soberly, “do you ever hear anybody talking about me in this jolly old City?”
“Why, yes,” she said in surprise.
“Fearfully complimentarily, dear old miss?” asked Bones carelessly, and the girl’s colour deepened.
“I don’t think it matters what people say about one, do you?”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” said Bones, “so long as one lovely old typewriter has a good word for poor old Bones.” He laid his hand upon hers, and she suffered it to remain there without protest. “They think I’m a silly old ass, don’t they?”
“Oh, no,” she said quickly, “they don’t think that. They say you’re rather unconventional.”
“Same thing,” said Bones. “Anybody who’s unconventional in business is a silly old ass.”
He squeezed the hand under his, and again she did not protest or withdraw it from his somewhat clammy grip.
“Dear old darling–” began Bones, but she stopped him with a warning finger.
“Dear old typewriter,” said Bones, unabashed, but obedient, “suppose something happened to the clever old Johnny who presides over this office – the brains of the department, if I may be allowed to say so?”
“Captain Hamilton?” said the girl in surprise.
“No, me,” said Bones, annoyed. “Gracious Heavens, dear old key-tapper didn’t I say me?”
“Something happen to you?” she said in alarm. “Why, what could happen to you?”
“Suppose I went broke?” said Bones, with the comfortable air of one who was very unlikely to go broke. “Suppose I had terrific and tremendous and cataclysmic and what’s-the-other-word losses?”
“But you’re not likely to have those, are you?” she asked.
“Not really,” said Bones, “but suppose?” She saw that, for once, when he was speaking to her, his mind was elsewhere, and withdrew her hand. It was a fact that Bones did not seem to notice the withdrawal.
“Poor old Bones, poor old mug!”