There was a week of gloom, when Bones adopted towards his invaluable assistant the air and manner of one who was in the last stages of a wasting disease. Miss Marguerite Whitland never came into Bones's office without finding him sitting at his desk with his head in his hands, except once, when she came in without knocking and Bones hadn't the time to strike that picturesque attitude.
Indeed, throughout that week she never saw him but he was swaying, or standing with his hand before his eyes, or clutching on to the edge of a chair, or walking with feeble footsteps; and she never spoke to him but he replied with a tired, wan smile, until she became seriously alarmed, thinking his brain was affected, and consulted Captain Hamilton, his partner.
"Look here, Bones, you miserable devil," said Hamilton, "you're scaring that poor girl. What the dickens do you mean by it?"
"Scaring who?" said Bones, obviously pleased. "Am I really? Is she fearfully cut up, dear old thing?"
"She is," said Hamilton truthfully. "She thinks you're going dotty."
"Vulgarity, vulgarity, dear old officer," said Bones, much annoyed.
"I told her you were often like that," Hamilton went on wilfully. "I said that you were a little worse, if anything, after your last love affair——"
"Heavens!" nearly screamed Bones. "You didn't tell her anything about your lovely old sister Patricia?"
"I did not," said Hamilton. "I merely pointed out to her the fact that when you were in love you were not to be distinguished from one whom is the grip of measles."
"Then you're a naughty old fellow," said Bones. "You're a wicked old rascal. I'm surprised at you! Can't a fellow have a little heart trouble——"