The truth was, there had always been some talk in the family of these
estates, though nobody knew better than Jackson Hyane how unsubstantial
were the claims of the Whitlands to the title. But the Scottish estate
had been docketed away in the pigeon-holes of his mind, and promised to
be more useful than he had anticipated.
That afternoon he packed his bag at his flat, put his passport and
railway tickets together in his inside pocket, and made his final
preparations for departure.
An old crony of his called whilst he was drinking the cup of tea which
the housekeeper of the flats had prepared, and took in the situation
revealed by the packed suit-cases and the burnt papers in the hearth.
"Hello, Johnny!" he said. "You're getting out, eh?"
Jackson nodded. There was no need to pretend anything with one of his
own class.
"Couldn't you square the bank?"
Jackson shook his head.
"No, Billy," he said cheerfully, "I couldn't square it. At this
identical moment there are several eminent people in the West End of
London who are making applications for warrants."
"Dud cheques, eh?" asked the other thoughtfully. "Well, it had to
come, Johnny. You've had a lot of bad luck."
"Atrocious," said Mr. Jackson Hyane. "There's plenty of money in Town,
but it's absolutely impossible to get at it. I haven't touched a mug
for two months, and I've backed more seconds than I care to think
about. Still," he mused, "there's a chance."
His friends nodded. In their circle there was always "a chance," but
he could not guess that that chance which the student of men, Mr.
Jackson Hyane, was banking upon answered indifferently to the name of
Tibbetts or Bones.
At half-past eight that night he saw his cousin off from King's Cross.
He had engaged a sleeper for her, and acted the part of dutiful
relative to the life, supplying her with masses of literature to while
away the sleepless hours of the journey.
"I feel awfully uncomfortable about going away," said the girl, in a
troubled voice. "Mr. Tibbetts would say that he could spare me even if
he were up to his eyes in work. And I have an uncomfortable feeling at
the back of my mind that there was something I should have told
him--and didn't."
"Queer bird, Tibbetts!" said the other curiously. "They call him
Bones, don't they?"
"I never do," said the girl quietly; "only his friends have that
privilege. He is one of the best men I have ever met."
"Sentimental, quixotic, and all that sort of thing, eh?" said Jackson,
and the girl flushed.
"He has never been sentimental with me," she said, but did not deceive
the student of men.
When the train had left the station, he drove straightaway to
Devonshire Street. Bones was in his study, reading, or pretending to
read, and the last person he expected to see that evening was Mr.
Jackson Hyane. But the welcome he gave to that most unwelcome visitor
betrayed neither his distrust nor his frank dislike of the young
well-groomed man in evening-dress who offered him his hand with such a
gesture of good fellowship.