Bones gazed and glowed. Neatly printed above the picture were the words: "Our Captains of Industry. III.--Augustus Tibbetts, Esq. (Schemes Limited)."
Bones read this with immense satisfaction. He wondered who were the two men who could be placed before him, but in his generous mood was prepared to admit that he might come third in the list of London's merchant princes.
"Deuced flattering, dear old thing," he murmured. "Hamilton, old boy, come and look at this."
Hamilton crossed to the desk, saw, and wondered.
"Not so bad," said Bones, dropping his head to one side and regarding the picture critically. "Not at all bad, dear old thing. You've seen me in that mood, I think, old Ham."
"What is the mood?" said Hamilton innocently. "Indigestion?"
"Let's have a little light on the subject," said Bones. "Switch on the expensive old electricity, Ham."
"Oh, no," said the girl quickly. "I don't think so. If you saw the picture under the light, you'd probably think it wasn't good enough, and then I should have made my journey in vain. Spare me that, Mr. Tibbetts!"
Mr. Tibbetts giggled. At that moment the Being re-appeared. Marguerite Whitland, chief and only stenographer to the firm of Schemes Limited, and Bones beckoned her.
"Just cast your eye over this, young miss," he said. "What do you think of it?"
The girl came round the group, looked at the picture, and nodded.
"Very nice," she said, and then she looked at the girl.
"Selling it for a charity," said Bones carelessly. "Some silly old josser will put it up in his drawing-room, I suppose. You know, Ham, dear old thing, I never can understand this hero-worship business. And now, my young and philanthropic collector, what do you want me to do? Give you permission? It is given."
"I want you to give me your autograph. Sign down there,"--she pointed to a little space beneath the picture--"and just let me sell it for what I can get."
"With all the pleasure in life," said Bones.
He picked up his long plumed pen and splashed his characteristic signature in the space indicated.
And then Miss Marguerite Whitland did a serious thing, an amazingly audacious thing, a thing which filled Bones's heart with horror and dismay.
Before Bones could lift the blotting pad, her forefinger had dropped upon the signature and had been drawn across, leaving nothing more than an indecipherable smudge.