Bones in London. Wallace Edgar
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Cresta Morris became more agreeable than ever. In three monthsthey were married, in six months the old house at Cambridge had beendisposed of, the library dispersed, as much of the furniture as Mr.Morris regarded as old-fashioned sold, and the relict of ProfessorWhitland was installed in a house in Brockley.
It was a nice house – in many ways nicer than the rambling old buildingin Cambridge, from Mrs. Morris's point of view. And she was happy in atolerable, comfortable kind of fashion, and though she was whollyignorant as to the method by which her husband made his livelihood, shemanaged to get along very well without enlightenment.
Marguerite was brought back from Cheltenham to grace the newestablishment and assist in its management. She shared none of hermother's illusions as to the character of Mr. Cresta Morris, as thatgentleman explained to a very select audience one January night.
Mr. Morris and his two guests sat before a roaring fire in thedining-room, drinking hot brandies-and-waters. Mrs. Morris had gone tobed; Marguerite was washing up, for Mrs. Morris had the "servant'smind," which means that she could never keep a servant.
The sound of crashing plates had come to the dining-room andinterrupted Mr. Morris at a most important point of his narrative. Hejerked his head round.
"That's the girl," he said; "she's going to be a handful."
"Get her married," said Job Martin wisely.
He was a hatchet-faced man with a reputation for common-sense. He hadanother reputation which need not be particularized at the moment.
"Married?" scoffed Mr. Morris. "Not likely!"
He puffed at his cigar thoughtfully for a moment, then:
"She wouldn't come in to dinner – did you notice that? We are not goodenough for her. She's fly! Fly ain't the word for it. We always findher nosing and sneaking around."
"Send her back to school," said the third guest.
He was a man of fifty-five, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven, who hadliterally played many parts, for he had been acting in a touringcompany when Morris first met him – Mr. Timothy Webber, a man notunknown to the Criminal Investigation Department.
"She might have been useful," Mr. Morris went on regretfully, "veryuseful indeed. She is as pretty as a picture, I'll give her that due.Now, suppose she – "
Webber shook his head.
"It's my way or no way," he said decidedly. "I've been a monthstudying this fellow, and I tell you I know him inside out."
"Have you been to see him?" asked the second man.
"Am I a fool?" replied the other roughly. "Of course I have not beento see him. But there are ways of finding out, aren't there? He isnot the kind of lad that you can work with a woman, not if she's aspretty as paint."
"What do they call him?" asked Morris.
"Bones," said Webber, with a little grin. "At least, he has letterswhich start 'Dear Bones,' so I suppose that's his nickname. But he'sgot all the money in the world. He is full of silly ass schemes, andhe's romantic."
"What's that to do with it?" asked Job Martin, and Webber turned with adespairing shrug to Morris.
"For a man who is supposed to have brains – " he said, but Morrisstopped him with a gesture.
"I see the idea – that's enough."
He ruminated again, chewing at his cigar, then, with a shake of hishead —
"I wish the girl was in it."
"Why?" asked Webber curiously.
"Because she's – " He hesitated. "I don't know what she knows aboutme. I can guess what she guesses. I'd like to get her into somethinglike this, to – to – " He was at a loss for a word.
"Compromise?" suggested the more erudite Webber.
"That's the word. I'd like to have her like that!" He put his thumbdown on the table in an expressive gesture.
Marguerite, standing outside, holding the door-handle hesitating as towhether she should carry in the spirit kettle which Mr. Morris hadordered, stood still and listened.
The houses in Oakleigh Grove were built in a hurry, and at best werenot particularly sound-proof. She stood fully a quarter of an hourwhilst the three men talked in low tones, and any doubts she might havehad as to the nature of her step-father's business were dispelled.
Again there began within her the old fight between her loyalty to hermother and loyalty to herself and her own ideals. She had livedthrough purgatory these past twelve months, and again and again she hadresolved to end it all, only to be held by pity for the helpless womanshe would be deserting. She told herself a hundred times that hermother was satisfied in her placid way with the life she was living, and that her departure would be rather a relief than a cause foruneasiness. Now she hesitated no longer, and went back to the kitchen, took off the apron she was wearing, passed along the side-passage, upthe stairs to her room, and began to pack her little bag.
Her mother was facing stark ruin. This man had drawn into his handsevery penny she possessed, and was utilizing it for the furtherance ofhis own nefarious business. She had an idea – vague as yet, but latertaking definite shape – that if she might not save her mother from thewreck which was inevitable, she might at least save something of herlittle fortune.
She had "nosed around" to such purpose that she had discovered herstep-father was a man who for years had evaded the grip of anexasperated constabulary. Some day he would fall, and in his fallbring down her mother.
Mr. Cresta Morris absorbed in the elaboration of the great plan, wasreminded, by the exhaustion of visible refreshment, that certain of hisinstructions had not been carried out.
"Wait a minute," he said. "I told that girl to bring in the kettle athalf-past nine. I'll go out and get it. Her royal highness wouldn'tlower herself by bringing it in, I suppose!"
He found the kettle on the kitchen table, but there was no sign ofMarguerite. This was the culmination of a succession of "slights"which she had put on him, and in a rage he walked along the passage, and yelled up the stairs:
"Marguerite!"
There was no reply, and he raced up to her room. It was empty, butwhat was more significant, her dresses and the paraphernalia whichusually ornamented her dressing-table had disappeared.
He came down a very thoughtful man.
"She's hopped," he said laconically. "I was always afraid of that."
It was fully an hour before he recovered sufficiently to bring his mindto a scheme of such fascinating possibilities that even hisstep-daughter's flight was momentarily forgotten
* * * * *
On the following morning Mr. Tibbetts received a visitor.
That gentleman who was, according to the information supplied by Mr.Webber, addressed in intimate correspondence as "Dear Bones," wassitting in his most gorgeous private office, wrestling with a letter tothe eminent firm of Timmins and Timmins, yacht agents, on a matter of aluckless purchase of his.
"DEAR SIRS GENENTLEMEN" (ran the letter. Bones wrote as he thought, thought faster than he wrote, and never opened a dictionary save todecide a bet) – "I told you I have told you 100000 times that the yachtLuana I bought from your cleint (a nice cleint I must say!!!) is afrord fruad and a swindel. It is much two too big. 2000 pounds wasa swindel outraygious!! Well I've got it got it now so theres theirsno use crying over split milk. But do like a golly old yaght-sellerget red of it rid of it. Sell it to anybody even for a 1000 pounds.I must have been mad to buy it but he was such a plausuble chap…"
This and more he wrote and was writing, when the silvery bell announceda visitor. It rang many times before he realized that he had sent hisfactotum, Ali Mahomet, to the South Coast to recover from asniffle – the after-effects of a violent cold – which had beenparticularly distressing to both. Four times the bell rang, and fourtimes Bones raised his head and scowled at the door, muttering violentcriticisms of a man who at that moment was eighty-five miles away.
Then he remembered, leapt up, sprinted