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.