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.
He took the card from the hands of his very plain typist, and suppressed the howl of joy which rose to his throat. For the name of Bones was known in the City of London, and it was the dream of such men as Charles O. Soames that one day they would walk from the office of Mr. Augustus Tibbetts with large parcels of his paper currency under each arm.
He jumped up from his chair and slipped on a coat, pushed the prospectus he was writing under a heap of documents--one at least of which bore a striking family likeness to a county court writ--and welcomed his visitor decorously and even profoundly.
"In _re_ Plover Car," said Bones briskly. He prided himself upon coming to the point with the least possible delay.
"Oh, you want to buy a car?" he said. He might have truly said "the car," but under the circumstances he thought that this would be tactless.
"No, dear old company promoter," said Bones, "I do not want to buy your car. In fact, you have no cars to sell."
"We've had a lot of labour trouble," said Mr. Soames hurriedly. "You've no idea of the difficulties in production--what with the Government holding up supplies--but in a few months----"
"I know all about that," said Bones. "Now, I'm a man of affairs and a man of business."
He said this so definitely that it sounded like a threat.
"I'm putting it to you, as one City of London business person to another City of London business person, is it possible to make cars at your factory?"
"I assure you, Mr. Tibbetts," he said earnestly, "it is possible. It wants a little more capital than we've been able to raise."
This was the trouble with all Mr. Soames's companies, a long list of which appeared on a brass plate by the side of his door. None of them were sufficiently capitalised to do anything except to supply him with his fees as managing director.
Bones produced a dinky little pocket-book from his waistcoat and read his notes, or, rather, attempted to read his notes. Presently he gave it up and trusted to his memory.