The Essential Edgar Wallace Collection. Edgar Wallace
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Bones brightly, "permit me to introduce you."
He walked to the glass-panelled door leading to the outer office, and knocked discreetly, Hamilton watching him in wonder. He saw him disappear, closing the door after him. Presently he came out again, following the girl.
"Dear young miss," said Bones in his squeakiest voice, a sure sign of his perturbation, "permit me to introduce partner, ancient commander, gallant and painstaking, jolly old Captain Hamilton, D.S.O.--which stands, young typewriter, for Deuced Satisfactory Officer."
The girl, smiling, shook hands, and Hamilton for the first time looked her in the face. He had been amazed before by her classic beauty, but now he saw a greater intelligence than he had expected to find in so pretty a face, and, most pleasing of all, a sense of humour.
"Bones and I are very old friends," he explained.
"Hem!" said Bones severely.
"Bones?" said the girl, puzzled.
"Naturally!" murmured Bones. "Dear old Ham, be decent. You can't expect an innocent young typewriter to think of her employer as 'Bones.'"
"I'm awfully sorry," Hamilton hastened to apologise, "but you see, Bones and I----"
"Dicky Orum," murmured Bones. "Remember yourself, Ham, old indiscreet one--Mr. Tibbetts. And here's the naughty old picture-taker," he said in another tone, and rushed to offer an effusive welcome to a smart young man with long, black, wavy hair and a face reminiscent, to all students who have studied his many pictures, of Louis XV. Strangely enough, his name was Louis. He was even called Lew.
"Sit down, my dear Mr. Becksteine," said Bones. "Let me introduce you to my partner. Captain Hamilton, D.S.O.--a jolly old comrade-in-arms and all that sort of thing. My lady typewriter you know, and anyway, there's no necessity for your knowing her---- I mean," he said hastily, "she doesn't want to know you, dear old thing. Now, don't be peevish. Ham, you sit there. Becksteine will sit there. You, young miss, will sit near me, ready to take down my notes as they fall from my ingenious old brain."
In the bustle and confusion the embarrassing moment of Hamilton's introduction was forgotten. Bones had a manuscript locked away in the bottom drawer of his desk, and when he had found the key for this, and had placed the document upon the table, and when he had found certain other papers, and when the girl was seated in a much more comfortable chair--Bones fussed about like an old hen--the proceedings began.
Bones explained.
He had seen the derelict cinema company advertised in a technical journal, had been impressed with the amount of the impedimenta which accompanied the proprietorship of the syndicate, had been seized with a brilliant idea, bought the property, lock, stock, and barrel, for two thousand pounds, for which sum, as an act of grace, the late proprietors allowed him to take over the contract of Mr. Lew Becksteine, that amiable and gifted producer.
It may be remarked, in passing, that this arrangement was immensely satisfactory to the syndicate, which was so tied and bound to Mr. Becksteine for the next twelve months that to have cancelled his contract would have cost them the greater part of the purchase price which Bones paid.
"This is the story," said Bones impressively. "And, partner Ham, believe me, I've read many, many stories in my life, but never, never has one touched me as this has. It's a jolly old tear-bringer, Ham. Even a hardened, wicked old dev--old bird like you would positively dissolve. You would really, dear old Ham, so don't deny it. You know you've got one of the tenderest hearts in the world, you rascal!"
He got up and shook hands with Hamilton, though there was no necessity for him to move.
"Now, clever old Becksteine thinks that this is going to be a scorcher."
"A winner, a winner," murmured Mr. Becksteine, closing his eyes and shaking his head. He spoke on this occasion very softly, but he could raise his voice to thrilling heights. "A sure winner, my dear sir. I have been in the profession for twenty-seven years, and never in my life have I read a drama which contains so much heart appeal----"
"You hear?" said Bones in a hoarse whisper.
"--so much genuine comedy----"
Bones nodded.
"--so much that I might say goes straight to the passionate heart of the great public, as this remarkable, brilliantly planned, admirably planted, exquisitely balanced little cameo of real life."
"It's to be a two-roller," said Bones.
"Reeler," murmured Mr. Becksteine.
"Reeler or roller, dear old thing; don't let's quarrel over how a thing's spelt," said Bones.
"Who wrote it?" asked Hamilton.
Mr. Becksteine coughed modestly.
"Jolly old Becksteine wrote it," said Bones. "That man, Ham, is one of the most brilliant geniuses in this or any other world. Aren't you? Speak up, old playwright. Don't be shy, old thing."
Mr. Becksteine coughed again.
"I do not know anything about other worlds," he admitted.
"Now, this is my idea," said Bones, interrupting what promised to be a free and frank admission of Mr. Becksteine's genius. "I've worked the thing out, and I see just how we can save money. In producing two-roller cinematographs--that's the technical term," explained Bones, "the heavy expense is with the artistes. The salaries that these people are paid! My dear old Ham, you'd never believe."
"I don't see how you can avoid paying salaries," said Hamilton patiently. "I suppose even actors have to live."
"Ah!" said Mr. Becksteine, shaking his head.
"Of course, dear old thing. But why pay outside actors?" said Bones triumphantly.
He glared from one face to the other with a ferocity of expression which did no more than indicate the strength of his conviction.
"Why not keep the money in the family, dear old Ham? That's what I ask you. Answer me that." He leaned back in his chair, thrust his hands in his trousers pockets, and blandly surveyed his discomfited audience.
"But you've got to have actors, my dear chap," said Hamilton.
"Naturally and necessarily," replied Bones, nodding with very large nods. "And we have them. Who is Jasper Brown, the villain who tries to rob the poor girl of her legacy and casts the vilest aspersions upon her jolly old name?"
"Who is?" asked the innocent Hamilton.
"You are," said Bones.
Hamilton gasped.
"Who is Frank Fearnot, the young and handsome soldier--well, not necessarily handsome, but pretty good-looking--who rescues the girl from her sad predicament?"
"Well, that can't be me, anyway," said Hamilton.
"It is not," said Bones. "It is me! Who is the gorgeous but sad old innocent one who's chased by you, Ham, till the poor little soul doesn't know which way to turn, until this jolly young officer steps brightly on the scene, whistling a merry tune, and, throwing his arms about her, saves her, dear old thing, from her fate--or, really, from a perfectly awful rotten time."
"Who is she?" asked Hamilton softly.
Bones blinked and turned to the girl slowly.
"My dear old miss," he said, "what do you think?"
"What do I think?" asked the startled girl. "What do I think about what?"
"There's a part," said Bones--"there's one of the grandest parts that was ever written since Shakespeare shut his little copybook."
"You're not suggesting that