Bones finished his entries, locked away his ledger, and crossed the floor to the door of the outer office.
He knocked respectfully, and a voice bade him come in.
It is not usual for the principal of a business to knock respectfully or otherwise on the door of the outer office, but then it is not usual for an outer office to house a secretary of such transcendental qualities, virtue, and beauty as were contained in the person of Miss Marguerite Whitland.
The girl half turned to the door and flashed a smile which was of welcome and reproof.
"Please, Mr. Tibbetts," she pleaded, "do not knock at my door. Don't you realize that it isn't done?"
"Dear old Marguerite," said Bones solemnly, "a new era has dawned in the City. As jolly old Confusicus says: 'The moving finger writes, and that's all about it.' Will you deign to honour me with your presence in my sanctorum, and may I again beg of you"—he leant his bony knuckles on the ornate desk which he had provided for her, and looked down upon her soberly—"may I again ask you, dear old miss, to let me change offices? It's a little thing, dear old miss. I'm never, never goin' to ask you to dinner again, but this is another matter. I am out of my element in such a place as——" He waved his hand disparagingly towards his sanctum. "I'm a rough old adventurer, used to sleeping in the snow—hardships—I can sleep anywhere."
"Anyway, you're not supposed to sleep in the office," smiled the girl, rising.
Bones pushed open the door for her, bowed as she passed, and followed her. He drew a chair up to the desk, and she sat down without further protest, because she had come to know that his attentions, his extravagant politeness and violent courtesies, signified no more than was apparent—namely, that he was a great cavalier at heart.
"I think you ought to know," he said gravely, "that an attempt was made this morning to rob me of umpteen pounds."
"To rob you?" said the startled girl.