at the moment Bones was announced, his busy pencil was calling
into life a new company offering the most amazing prospects to the
young and wealthy.

He took the card from the hands of his very plain typist, and
suppressed the howl of joy which rose to his throat. For the name of
Bones was known in the City of London, and it was the dream of such men
as Charles O. Soames that one day they would walk from the office of
Mr. Augustus Tibbetts with large parcels of his paper currency under
each arm.

He jumped up from his chair and slipped on a coat, pushed the
prospectus he was writing under a heap of documents--one at least of
which bore a striking family likeness to a county court writ--and
welcomed his visitor decorously and even profoundly.

"In _re_ Plover Car," said Bones briskly. He prided himself upon
coming to the point with the least possible delay.

The face of Mr. Soames fell.

"Oh, you want to buy a car?" he said. He might have truly said "the
car," but under the circumstances he thought that this would be
tactless.

"No, dear old company promoter," said Bones, "I do not want to buy your
car. In fact, you have no cars to sell."

"We've had a lot of labour trouble," said Mr. Soames hurriedly.
"You've no idea of the difficulties in production--what with the
Government holding up supplies--but in a few months----"

"I know all about that," said Bones. "Now, I'm a man of affairs and a
man of business."

He said this so definitely that it sounded like a threat.

"I'm putting it to you, as one City of London business person to
another City of London business person, is it possible to make cars at
your factory?"

Mr. Soames rose to the occasion.

"I assure you, Mr. Tibbetts," he said earnestly, "it is possible. It
wants a little more capital than we've been able to raise."

This was the trouble with all Mr. Soames's companies, a long list of
which appeared on a brass plate by the side of his door. None of them
were sufficiently capitalised to do anything except to supply him with
his fees as managing director.

Bones produced a dinky little pocket-book from his waistcoat and read
his notes, or, rather, attempted to read his notes. Presently he gave
it up and trusted to his memory.

"You've got forty thousand pounds subscribed to your Company," he said.
"Now, I'll tell you what I'm willing to do--I will take over your
shares at a price."

Mr. Soames swallowed hard. Here was one of the d