They dined together, a jubilant Bones and a more jubilant Hamilton, at

a little restaurant in Soho.

"My dear old Ham," said Bones, "it only shows you how things happen.

This would have been a grand week for me if those beastly oil shares of

mine had gone up. I'm holding 'em for a rise." He opened a newspaper

he had bought in the restaurant. "I see that Jorris and

Walters--they're the two oil men--deny that they've ever met or that

they're going to amalgamate. But can you believe these people?" he

asked. "My dear old thing, the mendacity of these wretched

financiers----"

"Have you ever seen them?" asked Hamilton, to whom the names of Jorris

and Walters were as well known as to any other man who read his daily

newspaper.

"Seen them?" said Bones. "My dear old fellow, I've met them time and

time again. Two of the jolliest old birds in the world. Well, here's

luck!"

At that particular moment Mr. Walters and Mr. Jorris were sitting

together in the library of a house in Berkeley Square, the blinds being

lowered and the curtains being drawn, and Mr. Walters was saying: "We'll have to make this thing public on Wednesday. My dear fellow, I

nearly fainted when I heard that that impossible young person had

photographed us together. When do you go back to Paris?"

"I think I had better stay here," said Mr. Jorris. "Did the young man

bleed you?"

"Only for six thousand," said the pleasant Mr. Walters. "I hope the

young beggar's a bear in oil," he added viciously.

But Bones, as we know, was a bull.




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