Hamilton looked round for a missile, and could find nothing better than
a crystal paper-weight, which looked too valuable to risk.
"'Couturière,'" he said acidly, "is French for 'dressmaker.'"
"French," said Bones, "is a language which I have always carefully
avoided. I will say no more--you mean well, Ham."
Thereafter followed a volley of inquiries, punctuated at intervals by
genial ceremony, for Bones would rise from his chair, walk solemnly
round the desk, and as solemnly shake hands with his former superior.
"Now, Bones," said Hamilton at last, "will you tell me what you are
doing?"
Bones shrugged his shoulders.
"Business," he said briefly. "A deal now and again, dear old officer.
Make a thousand or so one week, lose a hundred or so the next."
"But what are you doing?" persisted Hamilton.
Again Bones shrugged, but with more emphasis.
"I suppose," he confessed, with a show of self-deprecation which his
smugness belied, "I suppose I am one of those jolly old spiders who sit
in the centre of my web, or one of those perfectly dinky little tigers
who sit in my jolly old lair, waiting for victims.
"Of course, it's cruel sport"--he shrugged again, toying with his ivory
paper-knife--"but one must live. In the City one preys upon other
ones."
"Do the other ones do any preying at all?" asked Hamilton.
Up went Bones's eyebrows.
"They try," he said tersely, and with compressed lips. "Last week a
fellow tried to sell me his gramophone, but I had a look at it. As I
suspected, it had no needle. A gramophone without a needle," said
Bones, "as you probably know, my dear old musical one, is wholly
useless."
"But you can buy them at a bob a box," said Hamilton.
Bones's face fell.
"Can you really?" he demanded. "You are not pulling my leg, or
anything? That's what the other fellow said. I do a little gambling,"
Bones went on, "not on the Stock Exchange or on the race-course, you
understand, but in Exchanges."
"Money Exchanges?"
Bones bowed his head.
"For example," he said, "to-day a pound is worth thirty-two francs,
to-morrow it is worth thirty-four francs. To-day a pound is worth four
dollars seventy-seven----"
"As a matter of fact, it is three dollars ninety-seven," interrupted
Hamilton.
"Ninety-seven or seventy-seven," said Bones irritably, "what is four
shillings to men like you or me, Hamilton? We can well afford it."
"My dear chap," said Hamilton, pardonably annoyed, "there is a
difference of four shillings between your estimate and the rate."
"What is four shillings to you or me?" asked Bones again, shaking his
head solemnly. "My dear old Ham, don't be mean."
There was a discreet tap on the door, and Bones rose with every
evidence of agitation.