draughtier and even more depressing
inspection of a ruined factory, and such small matters as a lost lunch.

But Bones was out of the room, in the street, had flung himself upon a
hesitant taxi-driver, had bullied and cajoled him to take a monstrous
and undreamt-of journey for a man who, by his own admission, had only
sufficient petrol to get his taxi home, and when the girl came down she
found Bones, with his arm entwined through the open window of the door,
giving explicit instructions as to the point on the river where
Stivvins' Wharf was to be found.

II

Bones returned to his office alone. The hour was six-thirty, and he
was a very quiet and thoughtful young man. He almost tiptoed into his
office, closed and locked the door behind him, and sat at his desk with
his head in his hands for the greater part of half an hour.

Then he unrolled the plan of the wharf, hoping that his memory had not
played him false. Happily it had not. On the bottom right-hand corner
Mr. Staines had written his address! "Stamford Hotel, Blackfriars."

Bones pulled a telegraph form from his stationery rack and indited an
urgent wire.

Mr. Staines, at the moment of receiving that telegram, was sitting at a
small round table in the bar of The Stamford, listening in silence to
certain opinions which were being expressed by his two companions in
arms and partners in misfortune, the same opinions relating in a most
disparaging manner to the genius, the foresight, and the constructive
ability of one who in his exuberant moments described himself as Honest
John.

The explosive gentleman had just concluded a fanciful picture of what
would happen to Honest John if he came into competition with the
average Bermondsey child of tender years.

Honest John took the telegram and opened it. He read it and gasped.
He stood up and walked to the light, and read it again, then returned,
his eyes shining, his face slightly flushed.

"You're clever, ain't you?" he asked. "You're wise--I don't think!
Look at this!"

He handed the telegram to the nearest of his companions, who was the
tall, thin, and non-explosive partner, and he in turn passed it without
a word to his more choleric companion.

"You don't mean to say he's going to buy it?"

"That's what it says, doesn't it?" said the triumphant Mr. Staines.

"It's a catch," said the explosive man suspiciously.

"Not on your life," replied the scornful Staines. "Where does the
catch come i