"It is a matter which concerns a very dear friend of yours," she said suggestively, and Bones nodded and beamed. "Of course you guessed that," he said admiringly. "You're the jolliest old typewriter that ever lived! I don't suppose any other young woman in London would have----" "Oh, yes, they would," she said. "You'd already told me. I suppose that you've forgotten it." "Well, to cut a long story short, dear old Miss Marguerite," said Bones, leaning confidentially on the table and talking down into her upturned lace, "I must find the whereabouts of a certain rascal or rascals, trading or masquerading, knowingly or unknowingly, to the best of my knowledge and belief, as the----" He stopped and frowned. "Now, what the dickens was the name of that bird?" he said. "Pheasant, partridge, ostrich, bat, flying fish, sparrow--it's something to do with eggs. What are the eggs you eat?" "I seldom eat eggs," said the girl quietly, "but when I do they are the eggs of the common domestic fowl." "It ain't him," said Bones, shaking his head. "No, it's--I've got it--Plover--the Plover Light Car Company." The girl made a note on her pad. "I want you to get the best men in London to search out this Company. If necessary, get two private detectives, or even three. Set them to work at once, and spare no expense. I want to know who's running the company--I'd investigate the matter myself, but I'm so fearfully busy--and where their offices are. Tell the detectives," said Bones, warming to the subject, "to hang around the motor-car shops in the West End. They're bound to hear a word dropped here and there, and----" "I quite understand," said the girl. Bones put out his lean paw and solemnly shook the girl's hand. "If," he said, with a tremble in his voice, "if there's a typewriter in London that knows more than you, my jolly old Marguerite, I'll eat my head." On which lines he made his exit. Five minutes later the girl came into the office with a slip of paper. "The Plover Motor Car Company is registered at 604, Gracechurch Street," she said. "It has a capital of eighty thousand pounds, of which forty thousand pounds is paid up. It has works at Kenwood, in the north-west of London, and the managing director is Mr. Charles O. Soames." Bones could only look at her open-mouthed. "Where on earth did you discover all this surprising information, dear miss?" he asked, and the girl laughed quietly. "I can even tell you their telephone number," she said, "because it happens to be in the Telephone Book. The rest I found in the Stock Exchange Year Book." Bones shook his head in silent admiration. "If there's a typewriter in London----" he began, but she had fled. An hour later Bones had evolved his magnificent idea. It was an idea worthy of his big, generous heart and his amazing optimism.