There was a stout gentleman and a thin gentleman, and they tiptoed into the presence of Bones with a hint of reverence which was not displeasing.
"We have come on a rather important matter," said the thin gentleman.
"We understand you have this day purchased Stivvins' Wharf——"
"Staines had no right to sell it?" burst in the stout man explosively. "A dirty mean trick, after all that he promised us! It is just his way of getting revenge, selling the property to a stranger!"
"Mr. Sole"—the thin gentleman's voice and attitude were eloquent of reproof—"please restrain yourself! My partner is annoyed," he explained "and not without reason. We offered fifty thousand pounds for Stivvins', and Staines, in sheer malice, has sold the property—which is virtually necessary to our client—literally behind our backs. Now, Mr. Tibbetts, are you prepared to make a little profit and transfer the property to us?"
"But——" began Bones.
"We will give you sixty thousand," said the explosive man. "Take it or leave it—sixty thousand."
"But, my dear old Boniface," protested Bones, "I haven't bought the property—really and truly I haven't. Jolly old Staines wanted me to buy it, but I assure you I didn't."
The stout man looked at him with glazed eyes, pulled himself together, and suggested huskily:
"Perhaps you will buy it—at his price—and transfer it to us?"
"But why? Nothing to do with me, my old estate agent and auctioneer.
Buy it yourself. Good afternoon. Good afternoon!"