"My dear old Hyane, sit down," said Bones cheerfully. "What can we do

for you?"

Mr. Hyane laughed.

"There's nothing you can do for me, except to spare your secretary for

an hour longer than she usually takes."

"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's 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."




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