lton, with a
gloomy shake of his head by way of farewell, had already departed, and
Bones, who had given the matter very considerable thought, decided that
this was a favourable occasion to inform her of the amusing efforts of
his printer correspondent to extract money.

The girl had finished her work, her typewriter was covered, and she was
wearing her hat and coat. But she sat before her desk, a frown on her
pretty face and an evening newspaper in her hand, and Bones's heart
momentarily sank. Suppose the poems had been given to the world?

"All the winners, dear old miss?" he asked, with spurious gaiety.

She looked up with a start.

"No," she said. "I'm rather worried, Mr. Tibbetts. A friend of my
step-father's has got into trouble again, and I'm anxious lest my
mother should have any trouble."

"Dear, dear!" said the sympathetic Bones. "How disgustingly annoying!
Who's the dear old friend?"

"A man named Seepidge," said the girl, and Bones gripped a chair for
support. "The police have found that he is printing something illegal.
I don't quite understand it all, but the things they were printing were
invitations to a German lottery."

"Very naughty, very unpatriotic," murmured the palpitating Bones, and
then the girl laughed.

"It has its funny side," she said. "Mr. Seepidge pretended that he was
carrying out a legitimate order--a book of poems. Isn't that absurd?"

"Ha, ha!" said Bones hollowly.

"Listen," said the girl, and read:

"The magistrate, in sentencing Seepidge to six months' hard labour,
said that there was no doubt that the man had been carrying on an
illegal business. He had had the effrontery to pretend that he was
printing a volume of verse. The court had heard extracts from that
precious volume, which had evidently been written by Mr. Seepidge's
office-boy. He had never read such appalling drivel in his life. He
ordered the confiscated lottery prospectuses to be destroyed, and he
thought he would be rendering a service to humanity if he added an
order for the destruction of this collection of doggerel."

The girl looked up at Bones.

"It is curious that we should have been talking about poetry to-day,
isn't it?" she asked. "Now, Mr. Tibbetts, I'm going to insist upon
your bringing that book of yours to-morrow."

Bones, very flushed of face, shook his head.

"Dear old disciple," he said huskily, "another time ... another time
... poetry should be kept for years ... like