old Fred," said Bones, folding the cheque and sticking it in hispocket, "I'm goin' to own up – frankness is a vice with me – that I don'tunderstand much about the shippin' business. But tell me, my jolly oldmerchant, why do fellers sell you ships in the mornin' an' buy 'em backin the afternoon?"
"Business, Mr. Tibbetts," said Fred, smiling, "just big business."
Bones sucked an inky finger.
"Dinky business for me, dear old thing," he said. "I've got a thousandfrom you an' a thousand from the other Johnny who sold me two ships.Bless my life an' soul – "
"The other fellow," said Fred faintly – "a fellow from the United
Merchant Shippers?"
"That was the dear lad," said Bones.
"And has he cried off his bargain, too?"
"Positively!" said Bones. "A very, very nice, fellow. He told me Icould call him Joe – jolly old Joe!"
"Jolly old Joe!" repeated Fred mechanically, as he left the office, andall the way home he was saying "Jolly old Joe!"
CHAPTER II
HIDDEN TREASURE
Mrs. Staleyborn's first husband was a dreamy Fellow of a Learned
University.
Her second husband had begun life at the bottom of the ladder as athree-card trickster, and by strict attention to business and theexercise of his natural genius, had attained to the proprietorship of abucket-shop.
When Mrs. Staleyborn was Miss Clara Smith, she had been housekeeper toProfessor Whitland, a biologist who discovered her indispensability, and was only vaguely aware of the social gulf which yawned between theyoungest son of the late Lord Bortledyne and the only daughter ofAlbert Edward Smith, mechanic. To the Professor she was Miss H.Sapiens– an agreeable, featherless plantigrade biped of the genusHomo. She was also thoroughly domesticated and cooked like an angel,a nice woman who apparently never knew that her husband had a Christianname, for she called him "Mr. Whitland" to the day of his death.
The strain and embarrassment of the new relationship with her masterwere intensified by the arrival of a daughter, and doubled when thatdaughter came to a knowledgeable age. Marguerite Whitland had theinherent culture of her father and the grace and delicate beauty whichhad ever distinguished the women of the house of Bortledyne.
When the Professor died, Mrs. Whitland mourned him in all sincerity.
She was also relieved. One-half of the burden which lay upon her had been lifted; the second half was wrestling with the binomial theorem at
Cheltenham College.
She had been a widow twelve months when she met Mr. Cresta Morris, and,if the truth be told, Mr. Cresta Morris more fulfilled her conceptionas to what a gentleman should look like than had the Professor. Mr.Cresta Morris wore white collars and beautiful ties, had a large goldwatch-chain over what the French call poetically a gilet de fantasie,but which he, in his own homely fashion, described as a "fancy weskit."He smoked large cigars, was bluff and hearty, spoke to the widow – hewas staying at Harrogate at the time in a hydropathic establishment – ina language which she could understand. Dimly she began to realize thatthe Professor had hardly spoken to her at all.
Mr. Cresta Morris was one of those individuals who employed avocabulary of a thousand words, with all of which Mrs. Whitland waswell acquainted; he was also a man of means and possessions, heexplained to her. She, giving confidence for confidence, told of thehouse at Cambridge, the furniture, the library, the annuity of threehundred pounds, earmarked for his daughter's education, but mistakenlyleft to his wife for that purpose, also the four thousand three hundredpounds invested in War Stock, which was wholly her own.
Mr. Cresta Morris became more agreeable than ever. In three monthsthey were married, in six months the old house at Cambridge had beendisposed of, the library dispersed, as much of the furniture as Mr.Morris regarded as old-fashioned sold, and the relict of ProfessorWhitland was installed in a house in Brockley.
It was a nice house – in many ways nicer than the rambling old buildingin Cambridge, from Mrs. Morris's point of view. And she was happy in atolerable, comfortable kind of fashion, and though she was whollyignorant as to the method by which her husband made his livelihood, shemanaged to get along very well without enlightenment.
Marguerite was brought back from Cheltenham to grace the newestablishment and assist in its management. She shared none of hermother's illusions as to the character of Mr. Cresta Morris, as thatgentleman explained to a very select audience one January night.
Mr. Morris and his two guests sat before a roaring fire in thedining-room, drinking hot brandies-and-waters. Mrs. Morris had gone tobed; Marguerite was washing up, for Mrs. Morris had the "servant'smind," which means that she could never keep a servant.
The sound of crashing plates had come to the dining-room andinterrupted Mr. Morris at a most important point of his narrative. Hejerked his head round.
"That's the girl," he said; "she's going to be a handful."
"Get her married," said Job Martin wisely.
He was a hatchet-faced man with a reputation for common-sense. He hadanother reputation which need not be particularized at the moment.
"Married?" scoffed Mr. Morris. "Not likely!"
He puffed at his cigar thoughtfully for a moment, then:
"She wouldn't come in to dinner – did you notice that? We are not goodenough for her. She's fly! Fly ain't the word for it. We always findher nosing and sneaking around."
"Send her back to school," said the third guest.
He was a man of fifty-five, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven, who hadliterally played many parts, for he had been acting in a touringcompany when Morris first met him – Mr. Timothy Webber, a man notunknown to the Criminal Investigation Department.
"She might have been useful," Mr. Morris went on regretfully, "veryuseful indeed. She is as pretty as a picture, I'll give her that due.Now, suppose she – "
Webber shook his head.
"It's my way or no way," he said decidedly. "I've been a monthstudying this fellow, and I tell you I know him inside out."
"Have you been to see him?" asked the second man.
"Am I a fool?" replied the other roughly. "Of course I have not beento see him. But there are ways of finding out, aren't there? He isnot the kind of lad that you can work with a woman, not if she's aspretty as paint."
"What do they call him?" asked Morris.
"Bones," said Webber, with a little grin. "At least, he has letterswhich start 'Dear Bones,' so I suppose that's his nickname. But he'sgot all the money in the world. He is full of silly ass schemes, andhe's romantic."
"What's that to do with it?" asked Job Martin, and Webber turned with adespairing shrug to Morris.
"For a man who is supposed to have brains – " he said, but Morrisstopped him with a gesture.
"I see the idea – that's enough."
He ruminated again, chewing at his cigar, then, with
