On which lines he made his exit.
Five minutes later the girl came into the office with a slip of paper.
"The Plover Motor Car Company is registered at 604, Gracechurch Street," she said. "It has a capital of eighty thousand pounds, of which forty thousand pounds is paid up. It has works at Kenwood, in the north-west of London, and the managing director is Mr. Charles O. Soames."
Bones could only look at her open-mouthed.
"Where on earth did you discover all this surprising information, dear miss?" he asked, and the girl laughed quietly.
"I can even tell you their telephone number," she said, "because it happens to be in the Telephone Book. The rest I found in the Stock Exchange Year Book."
Bones shook his head in silent admiration.
"If there's a typewriter in London——" he began, but she had fled.
An hour later Bones had evolved his magnificent idea. It was an idea worthy of his big, generous heart and his amazing optimism.
Mr. Charles O. Soames, who sat at a littered table in his shirt-sleeves, was a man with a big shock of hair and large and heavily drooping moustache, and a black chin. He smoked a big, heavy pipe, and, at the moment Bones was announced, his busy pencil was calling into life a new company offering the most amazing prospects to the young and wealthy.