ilton breathing heavily.

Bones went to the office of Siker's Detective Agency early the next
morning. He went, it may be remarked in passing, though these details
can only be interesting to the psychologist, wearing the darkest of his
dark suits and a large black wideawake hat. There was a certain
furtiveness in his movements between the taxicab and the entrance of
the office, which might suggest to anybody who had taken the trouble to
observe him that he was an escaping bank-robber.

Siker's had spacious offices and a small staff. Only Hilton, the
manager, and a clerk were in when Bones presented his card. He was
immediately conducted by Mr. Hilton to a very plain inner office,
surrounded with narrow shelves, which in turn were occupied by
innumerable little deed boxes.

Mr. Hilton was a sober-faced man of fifty-five, sallow and unhappy.
His tone was funereal and deliberate, his eyes steady and remorseless.

"Sit down, Mr. Senob," he said hollowly. "I have a message from the
lawyers, and I presume I am welcoming to this establishment the new
proprietor who has taken the place of my revered chief, whom I have
faithfully served for twenty-nine years."

Bones closed his eyes and listened as to an address of welcome.

"Personally," said Mr. Hilton, "I think that the sale of this business
is a great mistake on the part of the Siker family. The Sikers have
been detectives for four generations," he said with a relish of an
antiquarian. "George Siker first started work as an investigator in
1814 in this identical building. For thirty-five years he conducted
Siker's Confidential Bureau, and was succeeded by his son James the
grandfather of the late John George for twenty-three years----"

"Quite so, quite so," said Bones. "Poor old George! Well, well, we
can't live for ever, dear old chief of staff. Now, the thing is, how
to improve this jolly old business."

He looked around the dingy apartment without enthusiasm.

Bones had visitors that morning, many visitors. They were not, as he
had anticipated, veiled ladies or cloaked dukes, nor did they pour into
his discreet ears the stories of misspent lives.

There was Mr. Carlo Borker, of Borker's Confidential Enquiry Bureau, a
gross man in a top hat, who complained bitterly that old man Siker had
practically and to all intents and purposes offered him an option of
the business years ago.

It was a one-sided conversation.

"I says to him: 'Siker, if you ev