"Do I want you to answer it?" repeated Bones, taking courage. "Of
course I want you to answer it, my dear old paper-stainer and
decorator. Take these words."
He paced the room with a terrible frown.
"Dear old thing," he began.
"Do you want me to say 'Dear old thing'?" asked the girl.
"No, perhaps not, perhaps not," said Bones. "Start it like this: 'My
dear peevish one----"
The girl hesitated and then wrote down: "Dear Sir."
"'You are just showing your naughty temper,'" dictated Bones, and added
unnecessarily, "t-e-m-p-e-r."
It was a practice of his to spell simple words.
"You are just showing your naughty temper," he went on, "and I simply
refuse to have anything more to do with you. You're being simply
disgusting. Need I say more?" added Bones.
The girl wrote: "Dear Sir,--No useful purpose would be served either in
replying to your letter of to-day's date, or re-opening the discussion
on the circumstances of which you complain."
Bones went back to his office feeling better. Hamilton left early that
afternoon, so that when, just after the girl had said "Good night," and
Bones himself was yawning over an evening paper, and there came a rap
at the door of the outer office, he was quite alone.
"Come in!" he yelled, and a young man, dressed in deep mourning,
eventually appeared through the door sacred to the use of Miss
Marguerite Whitland.
"I'm afraid I've come rather late in the day."
"I'm afraid you have, dear old thing," said Bones. "Come and sit down,
black one. Deepest sympathy and all that sort of thing."
The young man licked his lips. His age was about twenty-four, and he
had the appearance of being a semi-invalid, as, indeed, he was.
"It's rather late to see you on this matter," he said, "but your name
was only suggested to me about an hour ago."
Bones nodded. Remember that he was always prepared for a miracle, even
at closing time.
"My name is Siker," said the visitor.
"And a jolly good name, too," said Bones, dimly conscious of the fact
that he had heard this name mentioned before.
"You probably saw the account of my father's death. It was in this
morning's newspaper, though he died last week," said Mr. Siker.
Bones screwed up his forehead.
"I remember that name," he said. "Now, let me think. Why, of
course--Siker's Detective Agency."
It was the young man's turn to nod.
"That's right, sir," he said. "John Siker was my father. I'm his only
son."
Bones waited.
"I've heard it said, Mr. Tibbetts," said the young man--"at least, it
has been represented to me--that you are on the look-out for likely
businesses that show a profit."
"That's right," agreed Bones; "that show me a big profit," he added.