The truth was, there had always been some talk in the family of these

estates, though nobody knew better than Jackson Hyane how unsubstantial

were the claims of the Whitlands to the title. But the Scottish estate

had been docketed away in the pigeon-holes of his mind, and promised to

be more useful than he had anticipated.

That afternoon he packed his bag at his flat, put his passport and

railway tickets together in his inside pocket, and made his final

preparations for departure.

An old crony of his called whilst he was drinking the cup of tea which

the housekeeper of the flats had prepared, and took in the situation

revealed by the packed suit-cases and the burnt papers in the hearth.

"Hello, Johnny!" he said. "You're getting out, eh?"

Jackson nodded. There was no need to pretend anything with one of his

own class.

"Couldn't you square the bank?"

Jackson shook his head.

"No, Billy," he said cheerfully, "I couldn't square it. At this

identical moment there are several eminent people in the West End of

London who are making applications for warrants."

"Dud cheques, eh?" asked the other thoughtfully. "Well, it had to

come, Johnny. You've had a lot of bad luck."

"Atrocious," said Mr. Jackson Hyane. "There's plenty of money in Town,

but it's absolutely impossible to get at it. I haven't touched a mug

for two months, and I've backed more seconds than I care to think

about. Still," he mused, "there's a chance."

His friends nodded. In their circle there was always "a chance," but

he could not guess that that chance which the student of men, Mr.

Jackson Hyane, was banking upon answered indifferently to the name of

Tibbetts or Bones.

At half-past eight that night he saw his cousin off from King's Cross.

He had engaged a sleeper for her, and acted the part of dutiful

relative to the life, supplying her with masses of literature to while

away the sleepless hours of the journey.

"I feel awfully uncomfortable about going away," said the girl, in a

troubled voice. "Mr. Tibbetts would say that he could spare me even if

he were up to his eyes in work. And I have an uncomfortable feeling at

the back of my mind that there was something I should have told

him--and didn't."

"Queer bird, Tibbetts!" said the other curiously. "They call him

Bones, don't they?"

"I never do," said the girl quietly; "only his friends have that

privilege. He is one of the best men I have ever met."

"Sentimental, quixotic, and all that sort of thing, eh?" said Jackson,

and the girl flushed.

"He has never been sentimental with me," she said, but did not deceive

the student of men.

When the train had left the station, he drove straightaway to

Devonshire Street. Bones was in his study, reading, or pretending to

read, and the last person he expected to see that evening was Mr.

Jackson Hyane. But the welcome he gave to that most unwelcome visitor

betrayed neither his distrust nor his frank dislike of the young

well-groomed man in evening-dress who offered him his hand with such a

gesture of good fellowship.




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