"Well, it appears," said Hilton, "that this chap is madly in love with
his typist."
"Which chap?" said Bones.
"The fellow who did Mr. de Vinne in the eye," replied the patient Mr.
Hilton. "He used to be an officer on the West Coast of Africa, and was
known as Bones. His real name is Tibbetts."
"Oh yes," said Bones.
"Well, we've found out all about him," continued Hilton. "He's got a
flat in Jermyn Street, and this girl of his, this typist girl, dines
with him. She's not a bad-looking girl, mind you."
Bones rose to his feet, and there was in his face a terrible look.
"Hilton," he said, "do you mean that you have been shadowing a
perfectly innocent man and a charming, lovely old typewriter, that
couldn't say 'Goo' to a boose?"
Bones was pardonably agitated.
"Do you mean to tell me that this office descends to this low practice
of prying into the private lives of virtuous gentlemen and typewriters?
Shame upon you, Hilton!" His voice shook. "Give me that report!" He
thrust the report into the fire. "Now call up Mr. Borker, and tell him
I want to see him on business, and don't disturb me, because I am
writing a letter."
He pulled a sheet of paper from his stationery rack and wrote
furiously. He hardly stopped to think, he scarcely stopped to spell.
His letter was addressed to Mr. de Vinne, and when, on the following
day, Mr. Borker took over the business of Siker's Agency, that eminent
firm of investigators had one client the less.