"Young miss," he said quietly, "may I consult you?"
"You may even consult me," she said as gravely.
"It is a very curious problem, dear old Marguerite," said Bones in a
low, hushed tone. "It concerns the future of my very dearest
friend--the very dearest friend in all the world," he said
emphatically, "of the male sex," he added hastily. "Of course,
friendships between jolly old officers are on a different plane, if you
understand me, to friendships between--I mean to say, dear old thing,
I'm not being personal or drawing comparisons, because the feeling I
have for you----"
Here his eloquence ran dry. She knew him now well enough to be neither
confused nor annoyed nor alarmed when Bones broke forth into an
exposition of his private feelings. Very calmly she returned the
conversation to the rails.
"It is a matter which concerns a very dear friend of yours," she said
suggestively, and Bones nodded and beamed.
"Of course you guessed that," he said admiringly. "You're the jolliest
old typewriter that ever lived! I don't suppose any other young woman
in London would have----"
"Oh, yes, they would," she said. "You'd already told me. I suppose
that you've forgotten it."
"Well, to cut a long story short, dear old Miss Marguerite," said
Bones, leaning confidentially on the table and talking down into her
upturned lace, "I must find the whereabouts of a certain rascal or
rascals, trading or masquerading, knowingly or unknowingly, to the best
of my knowledge and belief, as the----" He stopped and frowned. "Now,
what the dickens was the name of that bird?" he said. "Pheasant,
partridge, ostrich, bat, flying fish, sparrow--it's something to do
with eggs. What are the eggs you eat?"
"I seldom eat eggs," said the girl quietly, "but when I do they are the
eggs of the common domestic fowl."
"It ain't him," said Bones, shaking his head. "No, it's--I've got
it--Plover--the Plover Light Car Company."
The girl made a note on her pad.
"I want you to get the best men in London to search out this Company.
If necessary, get two private detectives, or even three. Set them to
work at once, and spare no expense. I want to know who's running the
company--I'd investigate the matter myself, but I'm so fearfully
busy--and where their offices are. Tell the detectives," said Bones,
warming to the subject, "to hang around the motor-car shops in the West
End. They're bound to hear a word dropped here and there, and----"
"I quite understand," said the girl.
Bones put out his lean paw and solemnly shook the girl's hand.
"If," he said, with a tremble in his voice, "if there's a typewriter in
London that knows more than you, my jolly old Marguerite, I'll eat my
head."
On which lines he made his exit.