ines for one moment that a man of my reputation
could be taken in by a barefaced swindle of this character. I think I
have established in the City of London something of a tradition," he
said.

"You have," agreed Hamilton. "You're supposed to be the luckiest devil
that ever walked up Broad Street."

"I never walk up Broad Street, anyway," said Bones, annoyed. "It is a
detestable street, a naughty old street, and I should ride up it--or,
at least, I shall in a day or two."

"Buying a car?" asked Hamilton, interested.

"I'll tell you about that later," said Bones evasively, and went on:

"Now, putting two and two together, you know the conclusion I've
reached?"

"Four?" suggested Hamilton.

Bones, with a shrug ended the conversation then and there, and carried
his correspondence to the outer office, knocking, as was his wont,
until his stenographer gave him permission to enter. He shut the
door--always a ceremony--behind him and tiptoed toward her.

Marguerite Whitland took her mind from the letter she was writing, and
gave her full attention to her employer.

"May I sit down, dear young typewriter?" said Bones humbly.

"Of course you can sit down, or stand up, or do anything you like in
the office. Really," she said, with a laugh, "really, Mr. Tibbetts, I
don't know whether you're serious sometimes."

"I'm serious all the time, dear old flicker of keyboards," said Bones,
seating himself deferentially, and at a respectful distance.

She waited for him to begin, but he was strangely embarrassed even for
him.

"Miss Marguerite," he began at last a little huskily, "the jolly old
poet is born and not----"

"Oh, have you brought them?" she asked eagerly, and held out her hand.
"Do show me, please!"

Bones shook his head.

"No, I have not brought them," he said. "In fact, I can't bring them
yet."

She was disappointed, and showed it.

"You've promised me for a week I should see them."

"Awful stuff, awful stuff!" murmured Bones disparagingly. "Simply
terrible tripe!"

"Tripe?" she said, puzzled.

"I mean naughty rubbish and all that sort of thing."

"Oh, but I'm sure it's good," she said. "You wouldn't talk about your
poems if they weren't good."

"Well," admitted Bones, "I'm not so sure, dear old arbitrator
elegantus, to use a Roman expression, I'm not so sure you're not right.
One of these days those poems will be given to this wicked old world,
and--then you'll see."

"But what are t