eat,"
and the like. But this she did not know.

By this time the girl was not only accustomed to these periodical
embarrassments of Bones, but had acquired the knack of switching the
conversation to the main line of business.

"There's a letter from Mr. de Vinne," she said.

Bones rubbed his nose and said, "Oh!"

Mr. de Vinne was on his mind rather than on his conscience, for Mr. de
Vinne was very angry with Bones, who, as he had said, had "niped" in
and had cost Mr. de Vinne L17,500.

"It is not a nice letter," suggested the girl.

"Let me see, dear young head-turner," said Bones firmly.

The letter called him "Sir," and went on to speak of the writer's years
of experience as a merchant of the City of London, in all of which,
said the writer, he had never heard of conduct approaching in infamy
that of Augustus Tibbetts, Esquire.

"It has been brought to my recollection" (wrote the infuriated Mr. de
Vinne) "that on the day you made your purchase of Browns, I dined at
the Kingsway Restaurant, and that you occupied a table immediately
behind me. I can only suppose that you overheard a _perfectly
confidential_" (heavily underscored) "conversation between myself and a
fellow-director, and utilised the information thus _disgracefully_
acquired."

"Never talk at meals, dear old typewriter," murmured Bones. "Awfully
bad for your jolly young tum--for your indigestion, dear young
keytapper."

The letter went on to express the writer's intention of taking
vengeance for the "dishonest squeeze" of which he had been the victim.

Bones looked at his secretary anxiously. The censure of Mr. de Vinne
affected him not at all. The possible disapproval of this lady filled
him with dire apprehension.

"It's not a nice letter," said the girl. "Do you want me to answer it?"

"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 o