Not all the investments of Bones paid dividends. Some cost him money.
Some cost him time. Some--and they were few--cost him both.
Somewhere in a marine store in London lie the battered wrecks of what
were once electro-plated motor-lamps of a peculiar and, to Bones,
sinister design. They were all that was left of a great commercial
scheme, based upon the flotation of a lamp that never went out.
On a day of crisis in Bones's life they had gone out, which was bad.
They had come on at an inconvenient moment, which was worse, since they
had revealed him and his secretary in tender attitudes. And Bones had
gone gaily to right the wrong, and had been received with cold
politeness by the lady concerned.
There was a week of gloom, when Bones adopted towards his invaluable
assistant the air and manner of one who was in the last stages of a
wasting disease. Miss Marguerite Whitland never came into Bones's
office without finding him sitting at his desk with his head in his
hands, except once, when she came in without knocking and Bones hadn't
the time to strike that picturesque attitude.
Indeed, throughout that week she never saw him but he was swaying, or
standing with his hand before his eyes, or clutching on to the edge of
a chair, or walking with feeble footsteps; and she never spoke to him
but he replied with a tired, wan smile, until she became seriously
alarmed, thinking his brain was affected, and consulted Captain
Hamilton, his partner.
"Look here, Bones, you miserable devil," said Hamilton, "you're scaring
that poor girl. What the dickens do you mean by it?"
"Scaring who?" said Bones, obviously pleased. "Am I really? Is she
fearfully cut up, dear old thing?"
"She is," said Hamilton truthfully. "She thinks you're going dotty."
"Vulgarity, vulgarity, dear old officer," said Bones, much annoyed.
"I told her you were often like that," Hamilton went on wilfully. "I
said that you were a little worse, if anything, after your last love
affair----"
"Heavens!" nearly screamed Bones. "You didn't tell her anything about
your lovely old sister Patricia?"
"I did not," said Hamilton. "I merely pointed out to her the fact that
when you were in love you were not to be distinguished from one whom is
the grip of measles."
"Then you're a naughty old fellow," said Bones. "You're a wicked old
rascal. I'm surprised at you! Can't a fellow have a little heart
trouble----"
"Heart? Bah!" said Hamilton scornfully.
"Heart trouble," repeated Bones sternly. "I've always had a weak
heart."
"And a weak head, too," said Hamilton. "Now, just behave yourself,
Bones, and stop frightening the lady. I'm perfectly sure she's fond of
you--in a motherly kind of way," he added, as he saw Bones's face light
up. "And, really, she is such an excellent typist that it would be a
sin and a shame to frighten her from the office."