"Well, Siker's Detective Agency has made two thousand a year clear for
twenty years," said the young man. "We've got one of the best lists of
clients in the kingdom, and almost every big business man in the City
is on our list. With a little more attention than my father has been
able to give to it for the last two years, there's a fortune in it."
Bones was sitting upright now, his eyes shining. The amazing
possibilities of such an acquisition were visible to his romantic eye.
"You want to sell it, my poor old Sherlock?" he demanded, then,
remembering the part he was called upon to play, shook his head. "No,
no, old thing. Deeply sorry and all that sort of thing, but it can't
be done. It's not my line of business at all--not," he added, "that I
don't know a jolly sight more about detectivising than a good many of
these clever ones. But it's really not my game. What did you want for
it?"
"Well," said the young man, hesitating, "I thought that three years'
purchase would be a bargain for the man who bought it."
"Six thousand pounds," said Bones.
"Yes," agreed the other. "Of course, I won't ask you to buy the thing
blindfolded. You can put the accounts in the hands of your lawyer or
your accountant, and you will find that what I have said is true--that
my father took two thousand a year out of his business for years. It's
possible to make it four thousand. And as to running it, there are
three men who do all the work--or, rather, one, Hilton, who's in charge
of the office and gives the other fellows their instructions."
"But why sell it, my sad old improvidence?" said Bones. "Why chuck
away two thousand a year for six thousand cash?"
"Because I'm not well enough to carry it on," said young Mr. Siker,
after a moment's hesitation. "And, besides, I can't be bothered. It
interferes, with my other profession--I'm a musician."
"And a jolly good profession, too," said Bones, shaking hands with him
across the table. "I'll sleep on this. Give me your address and the
address of your accountants, and I'll come over and see you in the
morning."
Hamilton was at his desk the next morning at ten o'clock. Bones did
not arrive until eleven, and Bones was monstrously preoccupied. When
Hamilton saluted him with a cheery "Good morning," Bones returned a
grave and non-committal nod. Hamilton went on with his work until he
became conscious that somebody was staring at him, and, looking up,
caught Bones in the act.
"What the devil are you looking at?" asked Hamilton.
"At your boots," was the surprising reply.
"My boots?" Hamilton pulled them back through the kneehole of the desk
and looked at them. "What's the matter with the boots?"