Mr. Hilton was a sober-faced man of fifty-five, sallow and unhappy.
His tone was funereal and deliberate, his eyes steady and remorseless.
"Sit down, Mr. Senob," he said hollowly. "I have a message from the
lawyers, and I presume I am welcoming to this establishment the new
proprietor who has taken the place of my revered chief, whom I have
faithfully served for twenty-nine years."
Bones closed his eyes and listened as to an address of welcome.
"Personally," said Mr. Hilton, "I think that the sale of this business
is a great mistake on the part of the Siker family. The Sikers have
been detectives for four generations," he said with a relish of an
antiquarian. "George Siker first started work as an investigator in
1814 in this identical building. For thirty-five years he conducted
Siker's Confidential Bureau, and was succeeded by his son James the
grandfather of the late John George for twenty-three years----"
"Quite so, quite so," said Bones. "Poor old George! Well, well, we
can't live for ever, dear old chief of staff. Now, the thing is, how
to improve this jolly old business."
He looked around the dingy apartment without enthusiasm.
Bones had visitors that morning, many visitors. They were not, as he
had anticipated, veiled ladies or cloaked dukes, nor did they pour into
his discreet ears the stories of misspent lives.
There was Mr. Carlo Borker, of Borker's Confidential Enquiry Bureau, a
gross man in a top hat, who complained bitterly that old man Siker had
practically and to all intents and purposes offered him an option of
the business years ago.
It was a one-sided conversation.
"I says to him: 'Siker, if you ever want to sell out' ... He says to
me: 'Borker, my boy, you've only to offer me a reasonable figure' ...
I says to him: 'Now, Siker, don't ever let anybody else get this
business....'"
Then there was ex-Inspector Stellingworth, of Stellingworth's Detective
Corps, a gloomy man, who painted in the blackest colours the
difficulties and tragedies of private investigation, yet seemed willing
enough to assume the burden of Siker's Agency, and give Bones a
thousand pounds profit on his transaction.
Mr. Augustus Tibbetts spent three deliciously happy days in
reorganising the business. He purchased from the local gunsmith a
number of handcuffs, which were festooned upon the wall behind his desk
and secured secretly--since he did not think that the melancholy Mr.
Hilton would approve--a large cardboard box filled to the brim with
adjustable beards of every conceivable hue, from bright scarlet to
mouse colour.
He found time to relate to a sceptical Hamilton something of his
achievements.
"Wonderful case to-day, dear old boy," he said enthusiastically on the
third evening. "A naughty old lady has been flirting with a very, very
naughty old officer. Husband tremendously annoyed. How that man loves
that woman!"