"Sit down, Mr.--er----" said Bones.

There was a cold, cold feeling at his heart, a sense of coming

disaster, but Bones facing the real shocks and terrors of life was a

different young man from the Bones who fussed and fumed over its

trifles.

"I suppose you wonder why I have come to see you, Mr. Tibbetts," said

Hyane, taking a cigarette from the silver box on the table. "I rather

wonder why I have the nerve to see you myself. I've come on a very

delicate matter."

There was a silence.

"Indeed?" said Bones a little huskily, and he knew instinctively what

that delicate matter was.

"It is about Marguerite," said Mr. Hyane.

Bones inclined his head.

"You see, we have been great pals all our lives," went on Jackson

Hyane, pulling steadily at the cigarette--"in fact, sweethearts."

His keen eyes never left the other's face, and he read all he wanted to

know.

"I am tremendously fond of Marguerite," he went on, "and I think I am

not flattering myself when I say that Marguerite is tremendously fond

of me. I haven't been especially fortunate, and I have never had the

money which would enable me to offer Marguerite the kind of life which

a girl so delicately nurtured should have."

"Very admirable," said Bones, and his voice came to his own ears as the

voice of a stranger.

"A few days ago," Mr. Hyane went on, "I was offered a tea plantation

for fourteen thousand pounds. The prospects were so splendid that I

went to a financier who is a friend of mine, and he undertook to

provide the money, on which, of course, I agreed to pay an interest.

The whole future, which had been so black, suddenly became as bright as

day. I came to Marguerite, as you saw, with the news of my good luck,

and asked her if she would be my wife."

Bones said nothing; his face was a mask.

"And now I come to my difficulty, Mr. Tibbetts," said Hyane. "This

afternoon Marguerite and I played upon you a little deception which I

hope you will forgive."

"Certainly, certainly" mumbled Bones, and gripped the arms of his chair

the tighter.

"When I took Marguerite to lunch to-day," said Hyane, "it was to

be--married."

"Married!" repeated Bones dully, and Mr. Hyane nodded.

"Yes, we were married at half-past one o'clock to-day at the Marylebone

Registry Office, and I was hoping that Marguerite would be able to tell

you her good news herself. Perhaps"--he smiled--"it isn't as good news

to her as it is to me. But this afternoon a most tragic thing

happened."

He threw away his cigarette, rose, and paced the room with agitated

strides. He had practised those very strides all that morning, for he

left nothing to chance.




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