"I refer to my client," said Bones not without dignity.
"Look here, Bones," said Hamilton with great seriousness, "do you think this is a very nice business you are in? Personally, I think it's immoral."
"What do you mean—immoral?" demanded the indignant Bones.
"Prying into other people's lives," said Hamilton.
"Lives," retorted the oracular Bones, "are meant to be pried into, dear old thing. An examination of jolly old motives is essential to scientific progress. I feel I am doing a public duty," he went on virtuously, "exposing the naughty, chastising the sinful, and all that sort of thing."
"But, honestly," said Hamilton persistently, "do you think it's the game to chase around collecting purely private details about people's goings on?"
"Certainly," said Bones firmly, "certainly, dear old thing. It's a public duty. Never let it be written on the fair pages of Thiggumy that a Tibbetts shrank back when the call of patriotism—all that sort of thing—you know what I mean?"
"I don't," said Hamilton.
"Well, you're a jolly old dense one," said Bones. "And let me say here and now"—he rammed his bony knuckles on the table and withdrew them with an "Ouch!" to suck away the pain—"let me tell you that, as the Latin poet said, 'Ad What's-his name, ad Thiggumy.' 'Everything human's frightfully interesting'!"
Bones turned up at his detective office the next morning, full of zeal, and Hilton immediately joined him in his private office.