hasn't the
slightest idea. What shall I tell her? What shall I tell her?"

"It's pretty rotten, old--Mr. Hyane." Bones found his voice after a
while. "Deuced rotten for the young miss--for Mrs.--for her."

He did not move from his chair, nor relax his stiff expression. He was
hurt beyond his own understanding, frantically anxious to end the
interview, but at a loss to find an excuse until his eyes fell upon the
clock over the mantelpiece.

"Come back at ten--no, half-past ten, young Mr. ... awfully busy now
... see you at half-past ten, eh?"

Mr. Hyane made a graceful exit, and left Bones alone with the shattered
fragments of great romance.

So that was why she had gone off in such a hurry, and she had not dared
to tell him. But why not? He was nothing to her ... he would never
see her again! The thought made him cold. Never again! Never again!
He tried to summon that business fortitude of his, of which he was so
proud. He wanted some support, some moral support in this moment of
acute anguish. Incidentally he wanted to cry, but didn't.

She ought to have given him a week's notice, he told himself fiercely,
than laughed hysterically at the thought. He considered the matter
from all its aspects and every angle, and was no nearer to peace of
mind when, at half-past ten to the second, Mr. Jackson Hyane returned.

But Bones had formed one definite conclusion, and had settled upon the
action he intended taking. Mr. Hyane, entering the study, saw the
cheque book on the desk, and was cheered. Bones had to clear his voice
several times before he could articulate.

"Mr. Hyane," he said huskily, "I have been thinking matters out. I am
a great admirer of yours--of your--of yours--a tremendous admirer of
yours, Mr. Hyane. Anything that made her happy, old Mr. Hyane, would
make me happy. You see?"

"I see," said Mr. Hyane, and he had the satisfaction of knowing that
he, a student of men, had not misread his victim.

"Fourteen thousand pounds," said Bones, turning abruptly to the desk
and seizing his pen. "Make it payable to you?"

"You're too kind," murmured Hyane. "Make it an open cheque, Mr.
Tibbetts--I have to pay the agents in cash. These Indian merchants are
so suspicious."

Bones wrote the cheque rapidly, marked it "Pay Cash," and initialled
the corrections, then tore the slip from the book and handed it to the
other.

"Of course, Mr. Tibbetts," said Hyane reverentially, "I regard half
thi