"My dear old Hyane, sit down," said Bones cheerfully. "What can we do
for you?"
Mr. Hyane laughed.
"There's nothing you can do for me, except to spare your secretary for
an hour longer than she usually takes."
"My secretary?" said Bones quickly, and shot a suspicious glance at the
visitor.
"I mean Miss Whitland," said Hyane easily. "She is my cousin, you
know. My mother's brother was her father."
"Oh, yes," said Bones a little stiffly.
He felt a sense of the strongest resentment against the late Professor
Whitland. He felt that Marguerite's father had played rather a low
trick on him in having a sister at all, and Mr. Hyane was too keen a
student to overlook Bones's obvious annoyance.
"Yes," he went on carelessly, "we are quite old friends, Marguerite and
I, and you can't imagine how pleased I am that she has such an
excellent job as this."
"Oh, yes," said Bones, clearing his throat. "Very nice old--very good
typewriter indeed, Mr. Hyane ... very nice person ... ahem!"
Marguerite, dressed for the street, came in from her office at that
moment, and greeted her cousin with a little nod, which, to the
distorted vision of Bones, conveyed the impression of a lifelong
friendship.
"I have just been asking Mr. Tibbetts," said Hyane, "if he could spare
you for an extra hour."
"I am afraid that can't----" the girl began.
"Nonsense, nonsense!" said Bones, raising his voice as he invariably
did when he was agitated. "Certainly, my dear old--er--my dear
young--er--certainly, Miss Marguerite, by all means, take your cousin
to the Zoo ... I mean show him the sights."
He was patently agitated, and watched the door close on the two young
people with so ferocious a countenance that Hamilton, a silent observer
of the scene, could have laughed.
Bones walked slowly back to his desk as Hamilton reached for his hat.
"Come on, Bones," he said briskly. "It's lunch time. I had no idea it
was so late."
But Bones shook his head.
"No, thank you, dear old thing," he said sadly. "I'd rather not, if
you don't mind."
"Aren't you coming to lunch?" asked Hamilton, astonished.
Bones shook his head.
"No, dear old boy," he said hollowly. "Ask the girl to send me up a
stiff glass of soda-water and a biscuit--I don't suppose I shall eat
the biscuit."
"Nonsense!" said Hamilton. "Half an hour ago you were telling me you
could eat a cart-horse."
"Not now, old Ham," said Bones. "If you've ordered it, send it back.
I hate cart-horses, anyway."
"Come along," wheedled Hamilton, dropping his hand on the other's
shoulder. "Come and eat. Who was the beautiful boy?"
"Beautiful boy?" laughed Bones bitterly. "A fop, dear old Ham! A
tailor's dummy! A jolly old clothes-horse--that's what he was. I
simply loathe these people who leap around the City for a funeral.
It's not right, dear old thing. It's not manly, dear old sport. What
the devil did her father have a sister for? I never knew anything
about it."