old wine..."

"Who said that?" she asked, folding her paper and rising.

"Competent judges," said Bones, with a gulp.

CHAPTER IX

THE LAMP THAT NEVER WENT OUT

"Have you seen her?" asked Bones.

He put this question with such laboured unconcern that Hamilton put
down his pen and glared suspiciously at his partner.

"She's rather a beauty," Bones went on, toying with his ivory
paper-knife. "She has one of those dinky bonnets, dear old thing, that
makes you feel awfully braced with life."

Hamilton gasped. He had seen the beautiful Miss Whitland enter the
office half an hour before, but he had not noticed her head-dress.

"Her body's dark blue, with teeny red stripes," said Bones dreamily,
"and all her fittings are nickel-plated----"

"Stop!" commanded Hamilton hollowly. "To what unhappy woman are you
referring in this ribald fashion?"

"Woman!" spluttered the indignant Bones. "I'm talking about my car."

"Your car?"

"My car," said Bones, in the off-handed way that a sudden millionaire
might refer to "my earth."

"You've bought a car?"

Bones nodded.

"It's a jolly good 'bus," he said. "I thought of running down to
Brighton on Sunday."

Hamilton got up and walked slowly across the room with his hands in his
pockets.

"You're thinking of running down to Brighton, are you?" he said. "Is
it one of those kind of cars where you have to do your own running?"

Bones, with a good-natured smile, also rose from his desk and walked to
the window.

"My car," he said, and waved his hand to the street.

By craning his neck, Hamilton was able to get a view of the patch of
roadway immediately in front of the main entrance to the building. And
undoubtedly there was a car in waiting--a long, resplendent machine
that glittered in the morning sunlight.

"What's the pink cushion on the seat?" asked Hamilton.

"That's not a pink cushion, dear old myoptic," said Bones calmly;
"that's my chauffeur--Ali ben Ahmed."

"Good lor!" said the impressed Hamilton. "You've a nerve to drive into
the City with a sky-blue Kroo boy."

Bones shrugged his shoulders.

"We attracted a certain amount of attention," he admitted, not without
satisfaction.

"Naturally," said Hamilton, going back to his desk. "People thought
you were advertising Pill Pellets for Pale Poultry. When did you buy
this infernal machine?"

Bones, at his desk, crossed his legs and put his fingers together.

"Negotiations, dear old Ha