There was much about Bones in the papers the younger girl brought, and

in one of these journals there was quite an important interview, which

gave a sketch of Bones's life, his character, and his general

appearance. Clara read this interview very carefully.

"It says he's spent a million, but I know that's a lie," she said.

"I've been watching that jute deal for a long time, and it's nearer

half the sum." She frowned. "I wonder----" she said.

"Wonder what?" asked the younger girl impatiently. "What's the good of

wondering? The only thing we can do is to clear out."

Again Clara went from the room and came back with an armful of

documents. These she laid on the table, and the girl, looking down,

saw that they were for the main part blank contracts. Clara turned

them over and over until at last she came to one headed "Ministry of

Supplies."

"This'd be the form," she said. "It is the same that Stevenhowe had."

She was mentioning the name of a middle-aged man, who, quite

unwittingly and most unwillingly, had contributed to her very handsome

bank balance. She scanned the clauses through, and then flung down the

contract in disgust.

"There's nothing mentioned about a deposit," she said, "and, anyway, I

doubt very much whether I could get it back, even on his signature."

A quarter of an hour later Miss Clara Stegg took up the contract again

and read the closely-printed clauses very carefully. When she had

finished she said: "I just hate the idea of that fellow making money."

"You've said that before," said her sister tartly.

At six o'clock that evening Bones went home. At nine o'clock he was

sitting in his sitting-room in Clarges Street--a wonderful place,

though small, of Eastern hangings and subdued lights--when Hamilton

burst in upon him; and Bones hastily concealed the poem he was writing

and thrust it under his blotting-pad. It was a good poem and going

well.

It began: How very sweet

Is Marguerite!

And Bones was, not unreasonably, annoyed at this interruption to his

muse.

As to Hamilton, he was looking ill.

"Bones," said Hamilton quietly, "I've had a telegram from my pal in

Dundee. Shall I read it?"

"Dear old thing," said Bones, with an irritated "tut-tut," "really,

dear old creature, at this time of night--your friends in

Dundee--really, my dear old boy----"

"Shall I read it?" said Hamilton, with sinister calm.

"By all means, by all means," said Bones, waving an airy hand and

sitting back with resignation written on every line of his countenance.

"Here it is," said Hamilton. "It begins 'Urgent.'"

"That means he's in a devil of a hurry, old thing," said Bones, nodding.

"And it goes on to say," said Hamilton, ignoring the interruption.

"'Your purchase at the present price of jute is disastrous. Jute will

never again touch the figure at which your friend tendered, Ministry

have been trying to find a mug for years to buy their jute, half of

which is spoilt by bad warehousing, as I could have told you, and I

reckon you have made a loss of exactly half the amount you have paid.'"




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