"It is about Marguerite," said Mr. Hyane.
Bones inclined his head.
"You see, we have been great pals all our lives," went on Jackson
Hyane, pulling steadily at the cigarette—"in fact, sweethearts."
His keen eyes never left the other's face, and he read all he wanted to know.
"I am tremendously fond of Marguerite," he went on, "and I think I am not flattering myself when I say that Marguerite is tremendously fond of me. I haven't been especially fortunate, and I have never had the money which would enable me to offer Marguerite the kind of life which a girl so delicately nurtured should have."
"Very admirable," said Bones, and his voice came to his own ears as the voice of a stranger.
"A few days ago," Mr. Hyane went on, "I was offered a tea plantation for fourteen thousand pounds. The prospects were so splendid that I went to a financier who is a friend of mine, and he undertook to provide the money, on which, of course, I agreed to pay an interest. The whole future, which had been so black, suddenly became as bright as day. I came to Marguerite, as you saw, with the news of my good luck, and asked her if she would be my wife."
Bones said nothing; his face was a mask.
"And now I come to my difficulty, Mr. Tibbetts," said Hyane. "This afternoon Marguerite and I played upon you a little deception which I hope you will forgive."
"Certainly, certainly" mumbled Bones, and gripped the arms of his chair the tighter.