fference and thought near the desk. The lips of Bones were
tight and compressed. He opened the drawer, pulled out the transfers,
tossed them across to Mr. Staines.

"Key," said Bones, chucking it down after the document.

He picked up his cheque and tore it into twenty pieces.

"That's all," said Bones, and Mr. Staines beat a tremulous retreat.

When the man had gone, Bones returned to the girl who was sitting at
her table before her typewriter. It was observable that her lips were
compressed too.

"Young Miss Whitland," said Bones, and his voice was hoarser than ever,
"never, never in my life will I ever forgive myself!"

"Oh, please, Mr. Tibbetts," said the girl a little wearily, "haven't I
told you that I have forgiven you? And I am sure you had no horrid
thought in your mind, and that you just acted impulsively."

Bones bowed his head, at once a sign of agreement and a crushed spirit.

"The fact remains, dear old miss," he said brokenly, "that I did kiss
you in that beastly old private vault. I don't know what made me do
it," he gulped, "but I did it. Believe me, young miss, that spot was
sacred. I wanted to buy the building to preserve it for all time, so
that no naughty old foot should tread upon that hallowed ground. You
think that's nonsense!"

"Mr. Tibbetts."

"Nonsense, I say, romantic and all that sort of rot." Bones threw out
his arms. "I must agree with you. But, believe me, Stivvins' Wharf is
hallowed ground, and I deeply regret that you would not let me buy it
and turn it over to the jolly old Public Trustee or one of those
johnnies.... You do forgive me?"

She laughed up in his face, and then Bones laughed, and they laughed
together.

CHAPTER IV

THE PLOVER LIGHT CAR

The door of the private office opened and after a moment closed. It
was, in fact, the private door of the private office, reserved
exclusively for the use of the Managing Director of Schemes Limited.
Nevertheless, a certain person had been granted the privilege of
ingress and egress through that sacred portal, and Mr. Tibbetts, yclept
Bones, crouching over his desk, the ferocity of his countenance
intensified by the monocle which was screwed into his eye, and the
terrific importance of his correspondence revealed by his disordered
hair and the red tongue that followed the movements of his pen, did not
look up.

"Put it down, put it down, young miss," he murmured, "on the table, on
the floor, anywhere."