There was no answer, and suddenly Bones paused and scowled at the
half-written sheet before him.

"That doesn't look right." He shook his head. "I don't know what's
coming over me. Do you spell 'cynical' with one 'k' or two?"

Bones looked up.

He saw a brown-faced man, with laughing grey eyes, a tall man in a long
overcoat, carrying a grey silk hat in his hand.

"Pardon me, my jolly old intruder," said Bones with dignity, "this is a
private----" Then his jaw dropped and he leant on the desk for
support. "Not my---- Good heavens!" he squeaked, and then leapt
across the room, carrying with him the flex of his table lamp, which
fell crashing to the floor.

"Ham, you poisonous old reptile!" He seized the other's hand in his
bony paw, prancing up and down, muttering incoherently.

"Sit down, my jolly old Captain. Let me take your overcoat. Well!
Well! Well! Give me your hat, dear old thing--dear old Captain, I
mean. This is simply wonderful! This is one of the most amazin'
experiences I've ever had, my dear old sportsman and officer. How long
have you been home? How did you leave the Territory? Good heavens!
We must have a bottle on this!"

"Sit down, you noisy devil," said Hamilton, pushing his erstwhile
subordinate into a chair, and pulling up another to face him.

"So this is your boudoir!" He glanced round admiringly. "It looks
rather like the waiting-room of a _couturiere_."

"My dear old thing," said the shocked Bones, "I beg you, if you please,
remember, remember----" He lowered his voice, and the last word was in
a hoarse whisper, accompanied by many winks, nods, and pointings at and
to a door which led from the inner office apparently to the outer.
"There's a person, dear old man of the world--a young person--well
brought up----"

"What the----" began Hamilton.

"Don't be peeved!" Bones's knowledge of French was of the haziest.
"Remember, dear old thing," he said solemnly, wagging his inky
forefinger, "as an employer of labour, I must protect the young an'
innocent, my jolly old skipper."

Hamilton looked round for a missile, and could find nothing better than
a crystal paper-weight, which looked too valuable to risk.

"'_Couturiere_,'" he said acidly, "is French for 'dressmaker.'"

"French," said Bones, "is a language which I have always carefully
avoided. I will say no more--you mean well, Ham."

Thereafter followed a volley of inquiries, punctuated at intervals by
geni