er want to sell out' ... He says to
me: 'Borker, my boy, you've only to offer me a reasonable figure' ...
I says to him: 'Now, Siker, don't ever let anybody else get this
business....'"

Then there was ex-Inspector Stellingworth, of Stellingworth's Detective
Corps, a gloomy man, who painted in the blackest colours the
difficulties and tragedies of private investigation, yet seemed willing
enough to assume the burden of Siker's Agency, and give Bones a
thousand pounds profit on his transaction.

Mr. Augustus Tibbetts spent three deliciously happy days in
reorganising the business. He purchased from the local gunsmith a
number of handcuffs, which were festooned upon the wall behind his desk
and secured secretly--since he did not think that the melancholy Mr.
Hilton would approve--a large cardboard box filled to the brim with
adjustable beards of every conceivable hue, from bright scarlet to
mouse colour.

He found time to relate to a sceptical Hamilton something of his
achievements.

"Wonderful case to-day, dear old boy," he said enthusiastically on the
third evening. "A naughty old lady has been flirting with a very, very
naughty old officer. Husband tremendously annoyed. How that man loves
that woman!"

"Which man?" said Hamilton cynically.

"I refer to my client," said Bones not without dignity.

"Look here, Bones," said Hamilton with great seriousness, "do you think
this is a very nice business you are in? Personally, I think it's
immoral."

"What do you mean--immoral?" demanded the indignant Bones.

"Prying into other people's lives," said Hamilton.

"Lives," retorted the oracular Bones, "are meant to be pried into, dear
old thing. An examination of jolly old motives is essential to
scientific progress. I feel I am doing a public duty," he went on
virtuously, "exposing the naughty, chastising the sinful, and all that
sort of thing."

"But, honestly," said Hamilton persistently, "do you think it's the
game to chase around collecting purely private details about people's
goings on?"

"Certainly," said Bones firmly, "certainly, dear old thing. It's a
public duty. Never let it be written on the fair pages of Thiggumy
that a Tibbetts shrank back when the call of patriotism--all that sort
of thing--you know what I mean?"

"I don't," said Hamilton.

"Well, you're a jolly old dense one," said Bones. "And let me say here
and now"--he rammed his bony knuckles on the table and withdrew them
with