"Would you now?" said Bones, as if the idea struck him for the first time. "I never have sent for the police you know, and I've had simply terrible offers put up to me." "Or put it in the waste-paper basket," said Hamilton, and then in surprise: "Why the dickens are you asking all these questions?" "Why am I asking all these questions?" repeated Bones. "Because, old thing, I have a hump." Hamilton raised incredulous eyebrows. "I have what the Americans call a hump." "A hump?" said Hamilton, puzzled. "Oh, you mean a 'hunch.'" "Hump or hunch, it's all the same," said Bones airily. "But I've got it." "What exactly is your hunch?" "There's something behind this," said Bones, tapping a finger solemnly on the desk. "There's a scheme behind this--there's a swindle--there's a ramp. Nobody imagines for one moment that a man of my reputation could be taken in by a barefaced swindle of this character. I think I have established in the City of London something of a tradition," he said. "You have," agreed Hamilton. "You're supposed to be the luckiest devil that ever walked up Broad Street." "I never walk up Broad Street, anyway," said Bones, annoyed. "It is a detestable street, a naughty old street, and I should ride up it--or, at least, I shall in a day or two." "Buying a car?" asked Hamilton, interested. "I'll tell you about that later," said Bones evasively, and went on: "Now, putting two and two together, you know the conclusion I've reached?" "Four?" suggested Hamilton. Bones, with a shrug ended the conversation then and there, and carried his correspondence to the outer office, knocking, as was his wont, until his stenographer gave him permission to enter. He shut the door--always a ceremony--behind him and tiptoed toward her. Marguerite Whitland took her mind from the letter she was writing, and gave her full attention to her employer. "May I sit down, dear young typewriter?" said Bones humbly. "Of course you can sit down, or stand up, or do anything you like in the office. Really," she said, with a laugh, "really, Mr. Tibbetts, I don't know whether you're serious sometimes." "I'm serious all the time, dear old flicker of keyboards," said Bones, seating himself deferentially, and at a respectful distance. She waited for him to begin, but he was strangely embarrassed even for him. "Miss Marguerite," he began at last a little huskily, "the jolly old poet is born and not----" "Oh, have you brought them?" she asked eagerly, and held out her hand. "Do show me, please!" Bones shook his head. "No, I have not brought them," he said. "In fact, I can't bring them yet." She was disappointed, and showed it. "You've promised me for a week I should see them." "Awful stuff, awful stuff!" murmured Bones disparagingly. "Simply terrible tripe!" "Tripe?" she said, puzzled. "I mean naughty rubbish and all that sort of thing." "Oh, but I'm sure it's good," she said. "You wouldn't talk about your poems if they weren't good."