* * * * *

It was when George was some fifteen minutes from Temple Colney that the red-headed Pinner boy, bolstered up with prayer, commended his soul to God; slipped with painful thud from the haystack; pelted for Par-par.



CHAPTER IX.

Disaster At Temple Colney.



I.

Three days have passed.

That somewhat pale and haggard-looking young man striding, a basket beneath his arm, up the main street of Temple Colney is George. The villagers stop to stare after him; grin, and nudge into one another responsive grins, at his curious mannerisms. He walks in the exact centre of the roadway, as far as he can keep from passers-by on either side. Approached by anyone, he takes a wide circle to avoid that person. Sometimes a spasm as of fear will cross his face and he will violently shake the basket he carries. Always he walks with giant strides. Every morning he shoots out of the inn where he is staying as though sped on the blast of some ghostly current of air; every evening, returning, he gives the impression of gathering himself together on the threshold, then goes bolting in at whirlwind speed. He is a somewhat pale and haggard young man.

The villagers know him well. He is the young hairship inventor who has a private sitting-room at the Colney Arms. Certain of them, agog to pry his secret, followed him as he set out one day. They discovered nothing. For hours they followed; but he, glancing ever over his shoulder, pounded steadily on, mile upon mile—field, lane, high road, hill and dale. He never shook them off though he ran; they never brought him to standstill though indomitably they pursued. Towards evening the exhausted procession came thundering up the village street.

It was a very pale and haggard young man that bolted into the Colney Arms that night.



II.

Three days had passed.

If George had the Daily to curse for the miserable life of secrecy and constant agony of discovery that he was compelled to lead, he had it also to bless that his discovery by the red-headed Pinner boy had not long ago led to his being run to earth. In its anxiety to cap the satisfactory splash it was making over this Country House Outrage, the Daily had overstepped itself and militated against itself. Those "Catchy Clues" were responsible. So cunningly did they inspire the taste for amateur detective work, so easy did they make such work appear, that Mr. Pinner, having thrashed silence into his red-headed son, kept that son's discovery to himself. As he argued it— laboriously pencilling down "data" in accordance with the "Catchy Clue" directions,—as he argued it—if he communicated his knowledge to the Daily or to the local police, if he put them—(the word does not print nicely) on the scent, ten to one they would capture the thief and secure the reward. No, Mr. Pinner intended to have the reward himself. Therefore he hoarded his secret; brooded upon it; dashed off hither and thither as the day's news brought him a Catchy Clue that seemed to fit his data.

But of this George knew nothing. Steeped in crime this miserable young man dragged out his awful life at Temple Colney: nightmares by night, horrors by day.

Every morning with trembling fingers he opened his Daily; every morning was shot dead by these lines or their equivalent:

COUNTRY HOUSE OUTRAGE.

FRESH CLUE.

CAT SEEN.

SENSATIONAL STORY.

After much groaning and agony George would force himself to know the worst; after swearing furiously through the paragraphs of stuffing with which Mr. Bitt's cunning young man skilfully evaded the point, would come at last upon the "fresh clue" and read with a groan of relief that, so far as the truth were concerned, it was no clue at all.

But the strain was horrible. All Temple Colney read the Daily; eagerly debated its "Catchy Clues."

Yet George could not see, he told himself, that he would better his plight by seeking fresh retreat. If the Daily were to be believed, all the United Kingdom read it and discussed its Catchy Clues. He decided it were wiser to remain racked at Temple Colney rather than try his luck, and perhaps be torn to death, elsewhere.

Twice he had been moved to abandon his awful enterprise—in the train fleeing from the red-headed Pinner boy; pounding across country pursued by curious inhabitants of Temple Colney. On these occasions this miserable George had been minded to cry defeated to the circumstances that struck at him, to return to Herons' Holt with the cat whilst yet he might do so without gyves on his wrists.

But thought of his dear Mary hunted thought of this craven ending. "I'll hang on!" he had cried, thumping the carriage seat: "I'll hang on! I'll hang on! I'll hang on!" he had thumped into the table upon his weary return to the inn on the day he had been followed.

He had cause for hope. When, on his second morning at Temple Colney, the Daily had struck him to white agony by its newest headlines; cooling, he was able to find comfort in the news it gave to the world. "On the advice of the eminent detective, Mr. David Brunger, who has the case in hand, the reward has been raised to 125 pounds."

"Whoop!" cried George, spirits returning.



III.

Three days had passed.

Rain began to fall heavily on this afternoon. Usually—even had there been floods—George did not return to the inn until seven o'clock. The less he was near the abode of man the safer was his vile secret. But to-day, when the clouds told him a steady downpour had set in, he put out for his lodging before three. He was in high spirits. Success was making him very bold. At Temple Colney, thus far, no breath of suspicion had paled his cheek; at Herons' Holt events were galloping to the end he would have them go. That morning the Daily had announced the raising of the reward to 150 pounds. True, the Daily added that Mr. Marrapit had declared, absolutely and finally, that he would not go one penny beyond this figure. George laughed as he read. In four days his uncle had raised the offer by fifty pounds; at this rate—and the rate would increase as Mr. Marrapit's anguish augmented —the 500 pounds would soon be reached. And then! And then!

Through the pouring rain George whistled up the village street, whistled up the stairs, whistled into the sitting—room. Then stopped his tune. The buoyant notes of triumph dwindled to a tuneless squeak, to a noiseless breathing—Bill Wyvern, seated at a table, sprung to meet him.

"What ho!" cried Bill. "They told me you wouldn't be in before seven! What ho! Isn't this splendid?"

George said in very hollow voice: "Splendid!" He put the basket on a chair; sat on it; gave Bill an answering, "What ho!" that was cheerful as rap upon a coffin lid.

"Well, how goes it?" Bill asked eagerly.

George put out a hand. "Don't come over here, dear old fellow. I'm streaming wet. Sit down there. How goes what?"

"Why, the clue—your clue to this cat?"

"Oh, the clue—the clue. Yes, I'll tell you all about that. Just wait here a moment." He rose with the basket; moved to the door.

"What on earth have you got in that basket?" Bill asked.

"Eggs," George told him impressively. "Eggs for my uncle."

"You must have a thundering lot in a basket that size."

"Three or four hundred," George said. "Three or four hundred eggs."

He spoke in the passionless voice of one in a dream. Indeed he was in a dream. This horrible contingency had so set him whirling that of clear thought he was incapable. Moving to his bedroom he thrust the basket beneath the bed; came out; locked the door; took the key; returned to Bill.

Bill came over and slapped him on the back. "Expect you're surprised to see me?" he cried. "Isn't this ripping, old man?"

"Stunning!" said George. "Absolutely stunning." He sank on a chair.

Bill was perplexed. "You don't look best pleased, old man. What's up?"

This was precisely what George wished to know. Terror of hearing some hideous calamity stayed him from putting the question. He gave a pained smile. "Oh, I'm all right. I'm a bit fagged, that's all. The strain of this search, you know, the—"

"I know!" cried Bill enthusiastically. "I know. You've been splendid, old man. Finding out a clue like this and pluckily carrying it through all by yourself. By Jove, it's splendid of you!—especially when you've no reason to do much for your uncle after the way in which he's treated you. I admire you, George. By Gad, I do admire you!"

"Not at all!" George advised him. "By no means, old fellow." He wiped his brow; his mental suffering was considerable.

"I say, I can see you're pretty bad, old man," Bill continued. "Never mind, I'm here to help you now. That's what I've come for."

George felt that something very dreadful indeed was at hand. "How did you find out where I was?" he asked.

"From old Marrapit."

"Marrapit? Why, but my uncle won't let you come within a mile of him."

"Ah! that's all over now." A very beautiful look came into Bill's eyes; tenderness shaded his voice: "George, old man, if I can track down the hound who has stolen this cat your uncle has practically said that he will agree to my engagement with Margaret."

George tottered across the room; pressed his head against the cold window-pane. Here was the calamity. He had thought of taking Bill into his confidence—how do so now?

"I say, you do look bad, old man," Bill told him.

"I'm all right. Tell me all about it."

"Well, it's too good—too wonderful to be true. Everything is going simply splendidly with me. I'm running this cat business for the Daily—my paper, you know. It's made a most frightful splash and the editor is awfully bucked up with me. I'm on the permanent staff, six quid a week—eight quid a week if I find this cat. I'm working it from Herons' Holt, you know. I'm—"

George turned upon him. "Are you 'Our Special Commissioner at Paltley Hill'?"

"Rather! Have you been reading it? Pretty hot stuff, isn't it? I say, George, wasn't it lucky I chucked medicine! I told you I was cut out for this kind of thing if only I could get my chance. Well, I've got my chance; and by Gad, old man, if I don't track down this swine who's got the cat, or help to get him tracked down, I'll—I'll—" The enthusiastic young man broke off—"Isn't it great, George?"

My miserable George paced the room. "Great!" he forced out. "Great!" This was the infernal Special Commissioner whom daily he had yearned to strangle. "Great! By Gad, there are no words for it!"

"I knew you'd be pleased. Thanks awfully—awfully. Well, I was telling you. Being down there for the paper I simply had to interview Marrapit. I plucked up courage and bearded him. He's half crazy about this wretched cat. I found him as meek as a lamb. Bit snarly at first, but when he found how keen I was, quite affectingly pleasant. I've seen him every day for the last four days, and yesterday he said what I told you—I came out with all about Margaret and about my splendid prospects, and, as I say, he practically said that if I could find the cat he'd be willing to think of our engagement."

"But about finding out where I was? How did you discover that?"

"Well, he told me. Told me this morning." Bill shuffled his legs uncomfortably for a moment, then plunged ahead. "Fact is, old man, he's a bit sick with you. Said he'd only had one telegram from you from Dippleford Admiral and one letter from here. Said it was unsatisfactory—that it was clear you were incapable of following up this clue of yours by yourself. You don't mind my telling you this, do you, old man? You know what he is."

George gave the bitter laugh of one who is misunderstood, unappreciated. "Go on," he said, "go on." He was trembling to see the precipice over which the end of Bill's story would hurl him.

"Well, as I said—that it was clear you could not carry through your clue by yourself. So I was to come down and help you. That was about ten o'clock, and I caught the mid-day train—I've been here since two. Well, Brunger—the detective chap, you know—Marrapit was going to send him on here at once—"

This was the precipice. George went hurtling over the edge with whirling brain: "Brunger coming down here?" he cried.

"Rather! Now, we three together, old man—"

"When's he coming?" George asked. He could not hear his own voice—the old nightmares danced before his eyes, roared their horrors in his ears.

Bill looked at the clock. "He ought to be here by now. He ought to have arrived—"

The roaring confusion in George's brain went to a tingling silence; through it there came footsteps and a man's voice upon the stairs.

As the tracked criminal who hears his pursuer upon the threshold, as the fugitive from justice who feels upon his shoulder the sudden hand of arrest, as the poor wretch in the condemned cell when the hangman enters—as the feelings of these, so, at this sound, the emotions of my miserable George.

A dash must be made to flatten this hideous doom. Upon a sudden impulse he started forward. "Bill! Bill, old man, I want to tell you something. You don't know what the finding of this cat means to me. It—"

"I do know, old man," Bill earnestly assured him. "You're splendid, old man, splendid. I never dreamt you were so fond of your uncle. Old man, it means even more to me—it means Margaret and success. Here's Brunger. We three together, George. Nothing shall stop us."



IV.

The sagacious detective entered. George gave him a limp, damp hand.

"You don't look well," Mr. Brunger told him, after greetings.

"Just what I was saying," Bill joined.

Indeed, George looked far from well. Round-shouldered he sat upon the sofa, head in hands—a pallid face beneath a beaded brow staring out between them.

"It's the strain of this clue, Mr. Brunger," Bill continued. "He's on the track!"

"You are?" cried the detective.

"Right on," George said dully. "Right on the track."

"Is it a gang?"

"Two," George answered in the same voice. "Two gangs."

The sagacious detective thumped the table. "I said so. I knew it. I told you so, Mr. Wyvern. But two, eh? Two gangs. That's tough. One got the cat and the other after it, I presume?"

"No," said George. He was wildly thinking; to the conversation paying no attention.

"No? But, my dear sir, one of 'em must have the cat?"

George started to the necessities of the immediate situation; wondered what he had said; caught at Mr. Brunger's last word. "The cat? Another gang has got the cat."

"What, three gangs!" the detective cried.

"Three gangs," George affirmed.

"Two gangs you said at first," Mr. Brunger sharply reminded him.

My miserable George dug his fingers into his hair. "I meant three—I'd forgotten the other."

"Don't see how a man can forget a whole gang," objected the detective. He stared at George; frowned; produced his note-book. "Let us have the facts, sir."

As if drawn by the glare fixed upon him, George moved from the sofa to the table.

"Now, the facts," Mr. Brunger repeated. "Let's get these gangs settled first."

George took a chair. He had no plan. He plunged wildly. "Gang A, gang B, gang C, gang D—"

Mr. Brunger stopped short in the midst of his note.

"Why, that's four gangs!"

The twisting of George's legs beneath the table was sympathetic with the struggles of his bewildered mind. He said desperately, "Well, there are four gangs."

The detective threw down his pencil. "You're making a fool of me!" he cried. "First you said two gangs, then three gangs—"

"You're making a fool of yourself," George answered hotly. "If you knew anything about gangs you'd know they're always breaking up— quarrelling, and then rejoining, and then splitting again. If you can't follow, don't follow. Find the damned gangs yourself. You're a detective—I'm not. At least you say you are. You're a precious poor one, seems to me. You've not done much."

In his bewilderment and fear my unfortunate George had unwittingly hit upon an admirable policy. Since first Mr. Marrapit had called Mr. Brunger it had sunk in upon the Confidential Inquiry Agent that indeed he was a precious poor detective. In the five days that had passed he had not struck upon the glimmer of a notion regarding the whereabouts of the missing cat. This was no hiding in cupboard work, no marked coin work, no following the skittish wife of a greengrocer work. It was the real thing—real detective work, and it had found Mr. Brunger most lamentably wanting. Till now, however, none had suspected his perplexity. He had impressed his client—had bounced, noted, cross- examined, measured; and during every bounce, note, cross-examination and measurement fervently had prayed that luck—or the reward—would help him stumble upon something he could claim as outcome of his skill. George's violent attack alarmed him; he drew in his horns.

"Ah! don't be 'ot," he protested. "Don't be 'ot. Little misunderstanding, that's all. I follow you completely. Four gangs— I see. Four gangs. Now, sir."

It was George's turn for fear. "Four gangs—quite so. Well, what do you want me to tell you?"

"Start from the beginning, sir."

George started—plunged head-first. For five minutes he desperately gabbled while Mr. Brunger's pencil bounded along behind his splashing; words. Every time the pencil seemed to slacken, away again George would fly and away in pursuit the pencil would laboriously toil.

"Four gangs," George plunged along. "Gang A, gang B, gang C, gang D. Gang A breaks into the house and steals the cat. Gang B finds it gone and tracks down gang C."

"Tracks gang A, surely," panted Mr. Brunger. "Gang A had the cat."

"Gang B didn't know that. I tell you this is a devil of a complicated affair. Gang B tracks down gang C and finds gang D. They join. Call 'em gang B-D. Gang A loses the cat and gang C finds it. Gang C sells it to gang B-D, which is run by an American, as I said."

"Did you?" gasped Mr. Brunger without looking up.

"Certainly. Gang B-D hands it over to gang A by mistake, and gang A makes off with it. Gang C, very furious because it is gang A's great rival, starts in pursuit and gets it back again. Then gang B-D demands it, but gang A refuses to give it up."

"Gang C!" Mr. Brunger panted. "Gang C had got it from gang A."

"Yes, but gang A got it back again. Gang B-D—Look here," George broke off, "that's perfectly clear about the gangs, isn't it?"

"Perfectly," said Mr. Brunger, feeling that his reputation was gone unless he said so. "Wants a little studying, that's all. Most extraordinary story I ever heard of."

"I'm dashed if I understand a word of it," Bill put in. "Who are these gangs?"

George rose: "Bill, old man, I'll explain that another time. The fact is, we're wasting time by sitting here. I was very near the end when you two arrived. The cat is here—quite near here."

The detective and Bill sprang to their feet. George continued: "It's going to change hands either tonight or to-morrow. If you two will do just as I tell you and leave the rest to me, we shall bring off a capture. To-morrow evening I will explain everything."

The detective asked eagerly; "Is it a certainty?"

"Almost. It will be touch and go; but if we miss it this time it is a certainty for the immediate future. I swear this, that if you keep in touch with me you will be nearer the cat than you will ever get by yourselves."

Sincerity shone in his eyes from these words. The detective and Bill were fired with zeal.

"Take command, sir!" said Mr. Brunger.

"All right. Come with me. I will post you for the night. We have some distance to go. Don't question me. I must think."

"Not a question," said the detective: he was, indeed, too utterly bewildered.

George murmured "Thank heaven!"; took his hat; led the way into the street. In dogged silence the three tramped through the rain.



V.

George led for the Clifford Arms, some two miles distant. For the present he had but one object in view. He must get rid of Bill and this infernal detective; then he must speed the cat from Temple Colney.

As he walked he pushed out beyond the primary object of ridding himself of his companions; sought the future. In the first half-mile he decided that the game was up. He must deliver the Rose to his uncle immediately without waiting for the reward to be further raised. To hang on for the shadow would be, he felt, to lose the substance that would stand represented by Mr. Marrapit's gratitude.

But this preposterous buoyancy of youth! The rain that beat upon his face cooled his brow; seemed to cool his brain. Before the first mile was crossed he had vacillated from his purpose. When he said to his followers "Only another half-mile," his purpose was changed.

This preposterous corkiness of youth! It had lifted him up from the sea of misfortune in which he had nigh been drowned, and now he was assuring himself that, given he could hide the Rose where a sudden glimmering idea suggested, he would be safer than ever before. The two men who were most dangerous to him—the detective and the Daily's Special Commissioner at Paltley Hill, now slushing through the mud behind—were beneath his thumb. If he could keep them goose-chasing for a few days or so—!

The turn of a corner brought them in view of the Clifford Arms. George pointed: "I want you to spend the night there and to stay there till I come to-morrow. A man is there whom you must watch—the landlord."

"One of the gangs?" Mr. Brunger asked, hoarse excitement in his voice.

"Gang B—leader. Don't let him suspect you. Just watch him."

"Has he got the cat?"

With great impressiveness George looked at the detective, looked at Bill. Volumes of meaning in his tone: "Not yet!" he said.

Bill cried: "By Gad!" The detective rubbed his hands in keen anticipation.

They entered the inn. Bill gave a story of belated tourists. A room was engaged. In a quarter of an hour George was speeding back to Temple Colney.

At the post-office he stopped; purchased a letter-card; held his pen a while as he polished the glimmering idea that now had taken form; then wrote to his Mary:—

"My dearest girl in all the world,—You've never had a line from me all this time, but you can guess what a time I've been having. Dearest darling, listen and attend. This is most important. Our future depends upon it. Meet me to-morrow at 12.0 at that tumbled-down hut in the copse on the Shipley Road where we went that day just before my exam. Make any excuse to get away. You must be there. And don't tell a soul.

"Till to-morrow, my darling little Mary.—G."

He posted the card.



BOOK VI.

Of Paradise Lost and Found.



CHAPTER I.

Mrs. Major Bids For Paradise.



I.

Impossible to tell how far will spread the ripples from the lightest action that we may toss into the sea of life.

Life is a game of consequences. A throws a stone, and the widening ripples wreck the little boats of X and Y and Z who never have even heard of A. Every day and every night, every hour of every day and night, ripples from unknown splashes are setting towards us—perhaps to swamp us, perhaps to bear us into some pleasant stream. One calls it luck, another fate. "This is my just punishment," cries one. "By my good works I have merited this," exclaims another; but it is merely the ripple from some distant splash—merely consequences. Consequences.

A sleepy maid in Mr. City Merchant's suburban mansion leaves the dust-pan on the stairs after sweeping. That is the little action she has tossed into the sea of life, and the ripples will wreck a boat or two now snug and safe in a cheap and happy home many miles away. Mr. City Merchant trips over the dustpan, starts for office fuming with rage, vents his spleen upon Mr. City Clerk—dismisses him.

Mr. City Clerk seeks work in vain; the cheap but happy home he shares with pretty little Mrs. City Clerk and plump young Master City Clerk is abandoned for a dingy lodging. Grade by grade the lodging they must seek grows dingier. Now there is no food. Now they are getting desperate. Now pneumonia lays erstwhile plump Master City Clerk by the heels and carries him off—consequences, consequences; that is one boat wrecked. Now Mr. City Clerk is growing mad with despair; Mrs. City Clerk is well upon the road that Master City Clerk has followed. Mr. City Clerk steals, is caught, is imprisoned—consequences, consequences; another boat wrecked. Mrs. City Clerk does not hold out long, follows Master City Clerk—consequences, consequences. Three innocent craft smashed up because the housemaid left the dustpan on the stairs.



II.

Impossible to tell how far will speed the ripples from the lightest action that we may toss into the sea of life. Solely and wholly because George abducted the Rose of Sharon, Miss Pridham, who keeps the general drapery in Angel Street, Marylebone Road, sold a pair of green knitted slippers, each decorated with a red knitted blob, that had gazed melancholy from her shop window for close upon two years.

It was Mrs. Major who purchased them.

Since that terrible morning on which, throat and mouth parched, head painfully throbbing through the overnight entertainment of Old Tom, Mrs. Major had been driven from Mr. Marrapit's door, this doubly distressed gentlewoman had lived in retirement in a bed-sitting-room in Angel Street. She did not purpose immediately taking another situation. This woman had sipped the delights of Herons' Holt; her heart was there, and for a month or two, as, sighing over her lot, she determined, she would brood in solitude upon the paradise she had lost before challenging new fortunes.

The ripples of the abduction of the Rose reached her. This was a masterly woman, and instanter she took the tide upon the flood.

Mrs. Major was not a newspaper reader. The most important sheet of the Daily, however, she one day carried into her bed-sitting-room wrapped about a quartern of Old Tom. It was the day when first "Country House Outrage" shouted from the Daily's columns.

Idly scanning the report her eye chanced upon familiar names. A common mind would have been struck astonished and for some hours been left fluttering. Your masterly mind grasps at once and together a solution and its possibilities. Without pause for thought, without even sniff of the new quartern of Old Tom, Mrs. Major sought pen and paper; wrote with inspired pen to Mr. Marrapit:

"I do not even dare begin 'Dear Mr. Marrapit.' I have forfeited the right even to address you; but in the moment of your great tribulation something stronger than myself makes me take up my pen—"

Here Mrs. Major paused; read what she had written; without so much as a sigh tore the sheet and started afresh. That "something stronger than myself makes me" she felt to be a mistake. Something decidedly stronger than herself sat in the quartern bottle a few inches from her nose, and it occurred to her that a cruel mind might thus interpret her meaning. She tore the sheet. This was a masterly woman.

"I dare not even begin 'Dear Mr. Marrapit.' I have forfeited the right even to address you; but in the moment of your tribulation I feel that I must come forward with my sympathy. Oh, Mr. Marrapit, may I say with my aid? I feel I could help you if only I might come to dear, dear Herons' Holt. When I think of my angel darling Rose of Sharon straying far from the fold my heart bleeds. Oh, Mr. Marrapit, I cannot rest, I cannot live, while my darling is wandering on the hillside, or is stolen, and I am unable to search for her. Oh, Mr. Marrapit, think of me, I implore you, not as Mrs. Major, but as one whom your sweet darling Rose loved. If the Rose is anywhere near Herons' Holt, she would come to me if I called her, I feel sure, more readily than she would come to anyone else except yourself, and you are not strong enough to search as I would search. Oh, Mr. Marrapit, let me come to Herons' Holt in this terrible hour. Do not speak to me, do not look at me, Mr. Marrapit. I do not ask that. I only beg on my bended knees that you will let me lay myself at night even in the gardener's shed, so that I may be there to tend my lamb when she is found, and by day will be able to search for her. That is all I ask.

"Of myself I will say nothing. I will not force upon you the explanations of that dreadful night which you would not take from my trembling lips. I will not tell you that, maddened by the toothache, I was advised to hold a little drop of spirit in the tooth, and that, never having touched anything but water since I and my dear little brother promised my dying mother we would not, the spirit went to my head and made me as you saw me. I will not write any of those things, Mr. Marrapit; only, oh, Mr. Marrapit, I implore you to let me come and look for my Rose. Nor will I tell you how fondly, since I left you, I have thought of all your nobility of character and of your goodness to me, Mr. Marrapit. Wronged, I bear no resentment. I have received too much kindness at your hands. Ever since I left you I have thought of none but the Rose and you. Shall I prove that? I will, Mr. Marrapit—"

Here again Mrs. Major paused; thoughtfully scratched her head with her penholder. Like authors more experienced, her emotions had driven her pen to a point demanding a special solution which was not immediately forthcoming. She had galloped into a wood. How to get out of it?

Mrs. Major scratched thoughtfully; gazed at Old Tom; gazed round the room; on a happy inspiration gazed from the window. Miss Pridham's general drapery was immediately opposite. A bright patch of green in the window caught Mrs. Major's eye. She recognised it as the knitted slippers she had once or twice noticed in passing.

The very thing! Laying down her pen the masterly woman popped across to Miss Pridham's; in two minutes, leaving that lady delighted and one-and-eleven-three the richer, was back with the green knitted slippers with the red knitted blobs.

She took up her pen and continued:

"Ever since I left I have thought of none but the Rose and you. Shall I prove that? I will, Mr. Marrapit. Oh, Mr. Marrapit, I make so bold as to send you in a little parcel a pair of woollen slippers that I have knitted for you."

Mrs. Major examined them. Such sun as creeps into Angel Street, Marylebone Road, jealous of rival brightness had filched their first delicate tint of green, had stolen the first passionate scarlet of the red blobs. She continued:

"They are a little faded because on every stitch a bitter tear has fallen. Yes, Mr. Marrapit, my tears of sorrow have rained upon these slippers as I worked. Oh, Mr. Marrapit, they are not damp, however. Every evening since they were finished I have had my little fire lighted and have stood the slippers up against the fender; and then, sitting on the opposite side of the hearth, just as I used to sit for a few minutes with you after we had brought in the darling cats, I have imagined that your feet were in the slippers and have imagined that I am back where I have left my bleeding heart. I never meant to dare send them to you, Mr. Marrapit, but in this moment of your tribulation I make bold to do so. Do not open the parcel, Mr. Marrapit, if you would rather not. Hurl it on the fire and let the burning fiery furnace consume them, tears and all. But I feel I must send them, whatever their fate.

"Oh, Mr. Marrapit, let me come to Herons' Holt to find my darling Rose!—then without a word I will creep away and die.—LUCY MAJOR."



III.

Upon the following morning there sped to Mrs. Major from Herons' Holt a telegram bearing the message "Come."

Frantic to clutch at any straw that might bring to him this Rose, Mr. Marrapit eagerly clutched at Mrs. Major. He felt there to be much truth, in her contention that his Rose, if secreted near by, would come quicker at her call than at the call of another. His Rose had known and loved her for a full year. His Rose, refined cat, did not take quickly to strangers, and had not—he had noticed it—given herself to Miss Humfray. Therefore Mr. Marrapit eagerly clutched at Mrs. Major.

As to the remainder of her letter—it considerably perturbed him. Had he misjudged this woman, whom once he had held estimable? All the delectable peace of his household during her reign, as contrasted with the turmoil that now had taken its place, came back to him and smote his heart. He opened the slippers, noted the tear-stains. Had he misjudged her? What more likely than her story of the racking tooth that must be lulled with a little drop of spirit? Had he misjudged her? But as against that little drop of spirit, how account for the vast and empty bottle of Old Tom found in her room? Had he misjudged her?

In much conflict of mind this man paced the breakfast room, a green knitted slipper with red knitted blob in either hand.

It was thus that Margaret, entering, found him.

With a soft little laugh, "Oh, father!" she cried, "what have you got there?"

Mr. Marrapit raised the green knitted slippers with the red knitted blobs. "A contrite heart," he answered. "A stricken and a contrite heart."

He resumed his pacing. Margaret squeezed round the door which happily she had left ajar; fled breakfastless. Quick at poetic image though she was, the symbol of a contrite heart in a pair of green knitted slippers with red knitted blobs was not clear to this girl. In her father it alarmed her. This great sorrow was perchance turning his brain.

Mr. Marrapit laid the slippers upon his dressing-table; that afternoon greeted Mrs. Major with a circumspect reserve. Combining the vast and empty bottle of Old Tom with the fact that never had his judgment of man or matter failed him, he determined that Mrs. Major was guilty. But not wilfully guilty. Tempted to drown pain, she had succumbed; but the slippers were the sign of a contrite heart.

The masterly possessor of the contrite heart betrayed no signs of its flutterings and its exultant boundings at being once more in paradise. This was a masterly woman, and, masterly, she grasped at once her position—without hesitation started to play her part.

In Mr. Marrapit's study she stood humbly before him with bowed head; did not speak. Her only sounds were those of repressed emotion as Mr. Marrapit recited the history of the abduction. The white handkerchief she kept pressed against her chin punctuated the story with sudden little dabs first to one eye then the other. Little sniffs escaped her; little catches of the breath; tiny little moans.

She choked when he had finished: "Let me see—my darling's—bed."

Mr Marrapit led the way. Above the silk-lined box whence George had snatched the Rose, the masterly woman knelt. She fondled the silken coverlet; her lips moved. Suddenly she dashed her handkerchief to her eyes; with beautiful moans fled hurriedly to the bedroom that had been allotted her.

It was an exquisitely touching sight. Mr. Marrapit, greatly moved, went to his room; took out the green knitted slippers with the red knitted blobs. Had he misjudged this woman?

Ten minutes later he again encountered Mrs. Major. Now she was girt against the weather and against exercise. Beneath her chin were firmly knotted the strings of her sober bonnet; a short skirt hid nothing of the stout boots she had donned; her hand grasped the knob of a bludgeon-like umbrella.

The masterly woman had removed all traces of her emotion. In a voice humble yet strong, "I start to search, Mr. Marrapit," she said. "I will find the Rose if she is to be found."

So deep sincerity was in her speech, so strong she seemed, so restful in this crisis, that Mr. Marrapit, watching her stride the drive, again fell to pacing and cogitation—had he misjudged her? Almost unconsciously he moved upstairs to his room; drew those green slippers with red blobs from their drawer.



IV.

Had Mr. Marrapit doubted the sincerity of Mrs. Major's search, assuredly he would have misjudged her. In her diary that night the masterly woman inscribed:

"Am here; must stick."

Her best chance of sticking, as well she knew, lay in finding the Rose. Could she but place that creature's exquisite form in Mr. Marrapit's arms, she felt that her reward would be to win back to the paradise from which Old Tom had driven her.

Therefore most strenuously she scoured the countryside; pried into houses; popped her head into stable doors. This woman nothing spared herself; in the result, at the end of two days, was considerably dejected. For it was clear to her that the Rose had not strayed, but had been stolen; was not concealed in the vicinity of Herons' Holt, but had been spirited to the safety of many miles. She was driven to accept Mr. Brunger's opinion—the Rose had been stolen by some eager and unscrupulous breeder to be used for gross purposes.

It was upon the evening of the second day in paradise that this woman settled upon this gloomy conclusion. Gloomy it was, and desperately, sitting in her bedroom that night, the masterly woman battled for some way to circumvent it. To that entry made in her diary on the night of her arrival she had added two further sentences:

_"Hate that baby-faced Humfray chit."

"Certain cannot stick unless find cat."_

Opening her diary now she gazed upon these entries; chewed them. They were bitter to the taste. To agony at what she had lost was added mortification at seeing another in her place; and rankling in this huge wound was the poison of the knowledge that she could not win back. Circumstances were too strong. The cat was not to be found, and—stabbing thought—"certain cannot stick unless find cat."

This way and that the masterly woman twisted in search of a means to circumvent her position. It might be done by accomplishing the overthrow of this baby-faced chit. If the baby-faced chit could be made to displease Mr. Marrapit and be turned out, it would surely be possible, being ready at hand, to take her place. But how could the baby-faced chit be made to err?

This way and that Mrs. Major twisted and could find no means. Always she was forced back to the brick-wall fact—salvation lay only in finding the cat. That would accomplish everything. She would have succeeded where the baby-faced chit had failed; she would have proved her devotion; she, would have earned, not a doubt of it, the reward of re-entry into paradise that Mr. Marrapit in his gratitude would more than offer—would press upon her.

But the cat was not to be found.

Beating up against the desperate barrier of that thought, Mrs. Major groaned aloud as she paced the room, threw up her arms in her despair. The action caused her to swerve; with hideous violence she crashed her stockinged foot against the leg of the wash-stand.

Impossible to tell how far will spread the ripples of the lightest action we may toss upon the sea of life. The stunning agony in this woman's toes, as, hopping to the bed, she sat and nursed them, with the swiftness of thought presented to her a solution of her difficulty that struck her staring with excitement.

Her first thought in her throbbing pain was of remedy for the bruise. "Bruise" brought involuntarily to her mind the picture of a chemist's shop in the Edgware Road, not far from Angel Street, whose window she had seen filled with little boxes of "Bruisine," the newest specific for abrasions. Thence her thoughts, by direct passage, jumped to the time when last she had noticed the shop—she had been returning from a stroll by way of Sussex Gardens. And it was while mentally retracing that walk down Sussex Gardens that Mrs. Major lit plump upon the solution of her difficulty. She had noticed, let out for a run from No. 506, an orange cat that was so precisely the image of the Rose of Sharon that she had stopped to stroke it for dear memory's sake. Often since then she had spoken to it; every time had been the more struck by its extraordinary resemblance to the Rose. She had reflected that, seen together, she could not have told them apart.

Mrs. Major forgot the throbbing of her abrased toes. Her brows knitted by concentration of thought, very slowly the masterly woman concluded her disrobing. Each private garment that she stripped and laid aside marked a forward step in the indomitable purpose she had conceived. As her fingers drew the most private from her person, leaving it naked, so from her plan did her masterly mind draw the last veil that filmed it, leaving it clear. When the Jaeger nightdress fell comfortably about her, her purpose too was presentable and warm.

Every day and every night, every hour of every day and night, ripples from unknown splashes are setting towards us. From this masterly woman, in process of toilet, ripples were setting towards a modest and unsuspecting cat lying in sweet slumber at 506 Sussex Gardens, off the Edgware Road.

For the masterly woman had thus determined—she would have that cat that was the Rose's second self. The Rose was in the hands of some villain breeder and would never be returned; small fear of discovery under that head. This cat was the Rose's second self; differences that Mr. Marrapit might discover, lack of affection that he might notice, could be attributed to the adventures through which the Rose had passed since her abduction. Under this head, indeed, Mrs. Major did not anticipate great difficulty. Similar cats are more similar than similar dogs. They have not, as dogs have, the distinguishing marks of character and demonstrativeness. In any event, as the masterly woman assured herself, she ran no peril even if her plot failed. She would say she had found the cat, and if Mr. Marrapit were convinced it was not his Rose—well, she had made a mistake, that was all.



V.

Upon the morrow, playing her hand with masterly skill, Mrs. Major sought interview with Mr. Marrapit. With telling dabs of her pocket handkerchief at her eyes, with telling sniffs of her masterly nose, she expressed the fear that she had outstayed his kindness in receiving her. He had granted her request—he had let her come to Herons' Holt; but two days had passed and she had not found his Rose. True, if she had longer she could more thoroughly search; but as an honest woman she must admit that she had been given her chance, had failed.

Upon a wailing note she ended: "I must go."

"Cancel that intention," Mr. Marrapit told her. Her honesty smote this man. Had he misjudged her?

She smothered a sniff in her handkerchief: "I must go. I must go. I have seen that you regard me with suspicion. Oh, you have reason, I know; but I cannot bear it."

"Remove that impression," spoke Mr. Marrapit. He had misjudged this woman; he was convinced of it.

Mrs. Major gave her answer in the form of two smothered sniffs and a third that, eluding her handkerchief, escaped free and loud—a telling sniff that advertised her distress; wrung Mr. Marrapit's emotions.

He continued: "Mrs. Major, at a future time we will discuss the painful affair to which you make reference. At present I am too preoccupied by the calamity that has desolated my hearth. Meanwhile, I suspend judgment. I place suspicion behind me. I regard you only as she whom my Rose loved."

"Do you wish me to stay a little longer?" asked Mrs. Major, trembling.

"That is my wish. Continue to prosecute your search."

Trembling yet more violently Mrs. Major said: "I will stay. I had not dared to suppose I might stop more than two days. I brought nothing with me. May I go to London to get clothes? I will return to-morrow morning."

"Why not to-night?"

"Early to-morrow would be more convenient. I have other things to do in London."

"To-morrow, then," Mr. Marrapit agreed.

At the door Mrs. Major turned. Her great success at this interview emboldened her to a second stroke. "There is one other thing I would like to say, if I dared."

"Be fearless."

She plunged. "If Heaven should grant that I may find the Rose, I implore you not to distress me by offering me the reward you are holding out. I could not take it. I know you can ill afford it. Further than that, to have the joy of giving you back your Rose would be reward enough for me. And to know that she was safe with you, though I—I should never see her again, that would make me happy till the end of my days."

Her nobility smote Mr. Marrapit. Cruelly, shamefully, he had misjudged her. Her handkerchief pressed to her eyes, very gently Mrs. Major closed the door; very soberly mounted the stairs.

Out of earshot, she walked briskly to her room; drew forth her diary; in a bold hand inscribed:

"Absolutely certain shall stick."

The masterly woman lunched in town.



CHAPTER II.

Mrs. Major Finds The Lock.



I.

By six o'clock Mrs. Major had all ready for her adventure. In the little room at Angel Street she deposited a newly purchased basket; at eight o'clock started for Sussex Gardens.

Twice, while passing down the terrace at about nine, she had seen the cat she now pursued let out for what was doubtless its nightly run.

On each occasion she had observed the same order of events, and she judged them to be of regular occurrence. Out from No. 506 had stepped a tall man, long-haired, soft-hatted, poetically bearded. Behind him had followed the cat. The cat had trotted across the road to the gardens; the tall man had walked slowly round the enclosure. Returning, he had called. The cat had walked soberly forth from the railings and the pair had re-entered the house.

II.

Matters fell this night precisely as the sapient woman had conjectured. Shortly before nine she took up position against the railings in a dark patch that marked the middle point between two lamps, some doors above 506. No tremor agitated her form; in action this woman was most masterly.

A church clock struck a full clear note, another and another. The after-humming of the ninth had scarcely died when the blackness that lay beneath the fanlight of 506 was split by a thin rod of yellow light. Instantly this widened, served for a moment to silhouette a tall figure, then vanished as the door slammed. The tall figure stepped on to the pavement; a cat at its feet trod sedately across the road. The tall figure turned; in a moment was meditatively pacing the pavement opposite where Mrs. Major stood.

Mrs. Major gave him twenty yards. Then she hurried along the railings to where the cat had tripped. Six feet inwards, delicately scratching the soil beneath a bush, she espied it.

The masterly woman pressed her face between the rails; stretched a snapping finger and thumb; in an intense voice murmured, "Tweetikins puss!"

Tweetikins puss continued thoughtfully to turn the soil. This was a nicely mannered cat.

"Tweety little puss!" cooed Mrs. Major. "Tweety pussikins! puss, puss!"

Tweety pussikins turned to regard her. Mrs. Major moistened her finger and thumb; snapped frantically. "Puss, puss—tweety pussy!"

Tweety pussy advanced till the snapping fingers were within an inch of its nose.

"Pussikins, pussikins!" implored Mrs. Major.

Pussikins very deliberately seated itself; coiled its fine tail about its feet; regarded Mrs. Major with a sphinx-like air.

Mrs. Major pressed till the iron railings cut her shoulders. She stretched the forefinger of her extended arm; at great peril of slipping forward and rasping her nose along the rails effected to scratch the top of the sphinx's head.

"Puss, puss! Tweety, tweety puss!"

By not so much as a blink did tweety puss stir a muscle.

Mrs. Major was in considerable pain. Her bent legs were cramped; the railings bit her shoulder; her neck ached: "Tweety little puss! Tweety puss! Puss! Drat the beast!"

In great physical agony and in heightening mental distress—since time was fleeting and the cat as statuesque as ever,—Mrs. Major again dratted it twice with marked sincerity and a third time as a sharp sound advertised the splitting of a secret portion of her wear against the tremendous strain her unnatural position placed upon it. Unable longer to endure the pain of her outstretched arm, she dropped her hand to earth; with a masterly effort resumed her smiling face and silky tone. Repeating her endearing cooings, she scratched the soil, enticing to some hidden mystery.

The demon of curiosity impelled this cat's doom. For a moment it eyed the scratching fingers; then stretched forward its head to investigation.

The time for gentle methods was gone. Mrs. Major gripped the downy scruff of the doomed creature's neck; dragged the surprised animal forward; rudely urged it through the railings; tucked it beneath her cloak; sped down the road in the same direction that the tall figure had taken.

But where the tall figure had turned round the gardens Mrs. Major kept straight. Along a main street, into a by-street, round a turning, across a square, up a terrace, over the Edgware Road—so into the bed-sitting-room at Angel Street.



III.

Speeding by train to Herons' Holt upon the following morning, beside her the basket wherein lay the key that was to open paradise, Mrs. Major slightly altered her plans. It had been her intention at once to burst upon Mr. Marrapit with her prize—at once to put to desperate test whether or no he would accept it as the Rose. But before Paltley Hill was reached the masterly woman had modified this order. The cat she had abducted was so much the facsimile of the Rose that for the first time it occurred to her that, like the Rose, it might be valuable, and that a noisy hue and cry might be raised upon its loss.

If this so happened, and especially if Mr. Marrapit were doubtful that the cat was his Rose, it would be dangerous to let him know that she had made her discovery in London. Supposing he heard that a London cat, similar to the Rose in appearance, were missing, and remembered that this cat—of which from the first he had had doubts—was filched from London? That might turn success into failure. The chances of such events were remote, but the masterly woman determined to run no risks. She decided that on arrival at

Paltley Hill she would conceal her cat; on the morrow, starting out from Herons' Hill to renew her search, would find it and with it come bounding to the house.

As to where she should hide it she had no difficulty in determining. She knew of but one place, and she was convinced she could not have known a better. The ruined hut in the copse off the Shipley Road, whither in the dear, dead days beyond recall she had stolen for Old Tommish purposes, was in every way safe and suitable. None visited there at ordinary times; now that the country-side was no longer being searched for the Rose save by herself, it was as safe as ever. She would leave her cat there this day and night.

Upon this determination the remarkable woman acted; before proceeding to Herons' Holt secured her cat in that inner room of the hut where, but a few days previously, the Rose herself had lain.

When she reached the house a maid told her that Mr. Marrapit was closeted with young Mr. Wyvern.



IV.

During the afternoon Mrs. Major visited her cat, taking it milk. That evening, Mary and Margaret being elsewhere together, she was able to enjoy a quiet hour with Mr. Marrapit.

He was heavily depressed: "A week has passed, Mrs. Major. Something tells me I never again will see my Rose. This day I have sent young Mr. Wyvern and Mr. Brunger after my nephew George. The clue he claims to know is my last chance. I have no faith in it. Put not your trust—" Mr. Marrapit allowed a melancholy sigh to conclude his sentence. This man had suffered much.

Mrs. Major clasped her hands. "Oh, do not give up hope, Mr. Marrapit. Something tells me you will see her—soon, very soon."

Mr. Marrapit sighed. "You are always encouraging, Mrs. Major."

"Something tells me that I have reason to be, Mr. Marrapit. Last night I dreamed that the Rose was found." The encouraging woman leaned forward; said impressively, "I dreamed that I found her."

Mr. Marrapit did not respond to her tone. Melancholy had this man in leaden grip. "I lose hope," he said. "Man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward. Do not trust in dreams."

"Oh, but I do!" Mrs. Major said with girlish impulsiveness. "I do. I always have. My dreams so often come true. Do not lose hope, Mr. Marrapit." She continued with a beautiful air of timidity: "Oh, Mr. Marrapit, I know I am only here on sufferance, but your careworn air emboldens me to suggest—it might keep your poor mind from thinking—a game of backgammon such as we used to play before—" She sighed.

"I should like it," Mr. Marrapit answered.

Mrs. Major arranged the board; drew Mr. Marrapit's favourite chair to the table; rattled the dice. After a few moves, "Oh, you're not beating me as you used to," she said archly.

"I am out of practice," Mr. Marrapit confessed.

Mrs. Major paused in the act of throwing her dice. "Out of practice! But surely Miss Humfray plays with you?"

"She does not."

Mrs. Major gave a sigh that suggested more than she dared say.

She sighed again when the game was concluded. Mr. Marrapit sat on. "Quite like old times," Mrs. Major murmured. "Good night, Mr. Marrapit; and don't lose hope. Remember my dream."

"Quite like old times," Mr. Marrapit murmured.

The masterly woman ascended the stairs rubbing her hands.



V.

Mrs. Major ate an excellent breakfast upon the following morning. She was upon the very threshold of winning into paradise, but not a tremor of nervousness did she betray or feel. This was a superb woman.

At eleven she left the house and took a walk—rehearsing the manner in which she had arranged to burst in upon Mr. Marrapit with the cat, checking again the arguments with which she would counter and lull any doubts he might raise.

At twelve she entered the hut.

Mrs. Major was in the very act of leaving the building, the cat beneath her arm, when a sound of voices and footsteps held her upon the threshold. She listened; the sounds drew near. She closed the door; the sounds, now loud, approached the hut. She ran to the inner room; a hand was laid upon the outer latch. She closed the door; applied her eye to a crack; George and Mary entered.



CHAPTER III.

Mrs. Major Gets The Key.

George carried a basket. He laid it upon the floor. Then he turned and kissed his Mary. He put his arms about her; held her to him for a moment in a tremendous hug; pressed his lips to hers; held her away, drinking love from her pretty eyes; again kissed her and again hugged.

She gasped: "I shall crack in half in a minute if you will be so ridiculous."

He laughed; let her free. He led to the tottering bench that stood across the room, sat her there, and taking her little gloved hand patted it between his.

"Fine, Mary," he said, "to see you again! Fine! It seems months!"

"Years," Mary whispered, giving one of the patting hands a little squeeze. "Years. And you never sent me a line. I've not had a word with you since you came up on the lawn that day and said you had passed your exam. You simply bolted off, you know."

"You got my letter, though, this morning?" George said. He dropped her hand; fumbled in his pocket for his pipe. He was becoming a little nervous at the matter before him.

Mary told him: "Well, that was nothing. It was such a frantic letter! What is all the mystery about?"

"I'll tell you the whole story." George got from the bench and began to pace, filling his pipe.

With a tender little smile Mary watched her George's dear face. Then, as he still paced, lit his pipe, gustily puffed, but did not speak, a tiny troubled pucker came between her eyes. There was a suspicion of a silly little tremor in her voice when at last she asked: "Anything wrong, old man?"

George inhaled a vast breath of smoke; let it go in a misty cloud. With a quick action he laid his pipe upon the table; sprang to her side. His right arm he put about her, in his left hand he clasped both hers. "Nothing wrong," he cried brightly; "not a bit wrong. Mary, it's a game, a plot, a dickens of a game."

"Well, tell me," she said, beaming.

"It wants your help."

"Well, tell me, tell me, stupid."

"You will help?"

"Of course, if I can. Oh, do tell me, Georgie!"

"I'll show you, that's quicker."

He sprang to the basket; unstrapped the lid; threw it back. A most exquisite orange head upreared. A queenly back arched. A beautiful figure stepped forth.

"George!" Mary cried. "George! The Rose! You've found her!"

George gave a nervous little crack of laughter. "I never lost her."

"Never lost her! No, but she's been—"

"I've had her all the time!"

"All the—"

"I took her!"

"You took her! You—took her! Oh, George, speak sense! Whatever can you mean?" Mary had jumped to her feet when first the Rose stepped forth; now was close to her George—face a little white, perplexed; hands clasped.

He cried: "Sweetest dove of a Mary, don't talk like that. Sit down and I'll tell you."

"But what have you done?—what have you done?"

The true woman was in that question. How they jostle us, these women, with their timid little flutterings when we are trying to put a case before them in our manlike way!—first spoiling their palate with all the sugar, so that they may not taste the powder.

"I'll tell you what I've done if you'll only sit down."

She went to the seat.

"Now laugh, Mary. You simply must laugh. I can't tell you while you look like that. Laugh, or I shall tickle you."

She laughed merrily—over her first bewilderment. "But, Georgie, it's something fearful that you've done, isn't it?"

He sat beside her; took her hands. "It's terrific. Look here. From the beginning. When I told old Marrapit I'd passed my exam. I asked for that 500 pounds—you know—to start us."

She nodded.

"He refused. He got in an awful state at the bare idea. I asked him to lend it—he got worse. Mary, he simply would not give or advance a penny: you know what that meant?"

The dejected droop of her mouth gave answer.

"Well, then, I concocted a plot. Old Wyvern helped me—Professor Wyvern, you know. I thought that if I took his cat, his beloved Rose, and lay low with her for a bit, he would—"

"Oh, George!"

"Well?"

"Nothing—finish."

"—He would be certain to offer a reward. And I guessed he wouldn't mind what he paid. So I thought I'd take the cat and hang on till he offered L500, or till I thought he'd be so glad to get the Rose back that he'd do what I want out of pure gratitude. Then I'd bring it back and get the money—say I'd found it, you see, and—and—wait a bit— for heaven's sake don't speak yet." George saw his Mary was bursting with words; as he judged the look in her eyes they were words he had reason to fear. Shirking their hurt, he hurried along. "Don't speak yet. Get the money, and then we'd save up and pay him back and then tell him. There!"

She burst out: "But, George—how could you? Oh, it's wrong—it's awful! Why, do you know what people would call you? They'd say you're a—yes, they'd say you're a—"

He snatched the terrible word from her lips with a kiss.

"They'd say I was a fool if I let Marrapit do me out of what is my own. That's the point, Mary. It's my money. I'm only trying to get what is my own. I felt all along you would see that; otherwise—" He hesitated. He was in difficulties. Manlike, he suddenly essayed to shoot the responsibility upon the woman. "—Otherwise I wouldn't have done it," he ended.

His Mary had the wit to slip from the net, to dig him a vital thrust with the trident: "If you thought that, why didn't you tell me?"

The thrust staggered him; set him blustering: "Tell you! Tell you! How could I tell you? I did it on the spur of the moment."

"You could have written. Oh, Georgie, it's wrong. It is wrong."

He took up the famous sex attack. "Wrong! Wrong! That's just like a woman to say that! You won't listen to reason. You jump at a thing and shut your eyes and your ears."

"I will listen to reason. But you haven't got any reason. If you had, why didn't you tell me before you did it?"

He continued the sex assault; flung out a declamatory hand. "There you go! Why didn't I tell you? I've told you why. I tell you I did it on the spur of the moment—"

But she still struggled. "Yes, that's just it. You didn't think. Now that you are thinking you must see it in its proper light. You must see it's wrong."

"I don't. I don't in the least."

"Well, why are you getting in such a state about it?"

"I'm not getting in a state!"

"You are." His Mary fumbled at her waist-belt. "You are. You're— saying—all sorts—of—things. You—said—I—was—just—like—a— woman." Out came this preposterous Mary's pocket handkerchief; into it went Mary's little nose.

George sprang to her. "Oh, Mary! Oh, I say, don't cry, old girl!"

The nose came out for a minute, a very shiny little nose. "I can't help crying. This is an—an awful business." The shiny little nose disappeared again.

George tried to pull away the handkerchief, tried to put his face against hers. A bony little shoulder poked obstinately up and prevented him. He burst out desperately. "Oh, damn! Oh, what a beast I am! I'm always making you cry. Oh, damn! Oh, Mary! I can't do anything right. I've had an awful time these days—and I was longing to see you,—and now I've called you names and been a brute."

His Mary gulped the tears that were making the shiny little nose every minute more shiny. Never could she bear to hear her George accuse himself. Upon a tremendous sniff, "You haven't been a brute," she said, "—a bit. It's my—my fault for annoying you when I don't properly understand. Perhaps I don't understand."

He put an arm about her. "You don't, Mary. Really and truly you don't. Let me tell you. Don't say a word till I've done. I'll tell you first why I've brought the Rose here. You see, I can't keep her anywhere else. I'm being chased about all over England. Bill and that infernal detective are after me now, and I simply must hide the beastly cat where it will be safe. Well, it's safest here—here, right under their noses, where nobody will ever look because everyone thinks it miles away by now. I can't stop near it, because I must be away on this clue they think I've got—especially now I've got mixed up with the detectives: see? So I want you just to come up from the house every day and feed the cat. You'll be perfectly safe, and it can't be for very long. You would do that, wouldn't you? Oh, Mary, think what it means to us!"

She polished the shiny little nose: "I'd do anything that would help you. But, Georgie, it's not right; it's wrong. Oh, it is wrong! I don't care what you say."

"But you haven't heard what I've got to say."

"I have. I've been listening for hours."

"No, no, Mary. No, I haven't explained yet. You're too serious about it. It isn't a bit serious. It's only a frightful rag. And nobody will suffer, because he'll get his money back. And, think—think what it means. Now, do listen!"

She listened, and her George poured forth a flood of arguments that were all mixed and tangled with love. She could not separate the two. This argument that he was right was delectably sugared with the knowledge that the thing was done for her; that delicious picture of the future, when it was swallowed, proved to be an argument in favour of his purpose. Love and argument, argument and love—she could not separate them, and they combined into a most exquisite sweetmeat. The arm her George had about her was a base advantage over her. How doubt her George was right when against her she could feel his heart! How be wiser than he when both her hands were in that dear brown fist?

She was almost won when with a "So there you are!" he concluded. She had been won if she had much longer remained beneath the drug of his dear, gay, earnest words.

But when he ceased she came to. The little awakening sigh she gave was the little fluttering sigh of a patient when the anesthetic leaves the senses clear.

She looked at her George. Horrible to dim the sparkling in those dear eyes, radiant with excitement, with love. Yet she did it. The goody- goody little soul of her put its hands about the little weakness of her and held it tight.

She said: "I do, do see what you mean, Georgie. But I do, do think it's wrong."

And then the little hands and the brown fist changed places. For she put one hand below the fist, and with the other patted as she gave her little homily—goody-goody little arguments, Sunday-school little arguments, mother-and-child little arguments. And very timidly she concluded: "You are not angry, Georgie, are you?"

This splendid George of hers gave her a tremendous kiss. "You're a little saint; you're a little idiot; you're a little angel; you're a little goose," he told her. "But I love you all the more for it, although I'd like to shake you. I would like to shake you, Mary. You're ruining the finest joke that ever was tried; and you're ruining our only chance of marrying; and goodness only knows what's going to happen now."

She laughed ever so happily. It was intoxicating to bend this dear George; intoxicating to have the love that came of bending him.

"But I am right, am I not?" she asked.

George said: "Look here, saint and goose. I'm simply not going to chuck the thing and all our happiness like this. I'll make a bargain. Saint and goose, we'll say you are right, but you shall have one night to think over it. One night. And this afternoon you will go to Professor Wyvern and tell him everything and hear what he thinks about it—what an outsider thinks: see? Yes, that's it. Don't even spend a night over it. Have a talk with Professor Wyvern, and if you still think I ought to chuck it, write to me at once, and to-morrow I'll come down and creep in unto my uncle with the cat, and say: 'Uncle, I have sinned.' There, Mary, that's agreed, isn't it?"

"That's agreed," she joined. "Yes, that's fair."

He looked at his watch. "I must cut. I must catch the one-thirty train. I must calm Bill and the 'tec. in case you—Mary, do weigh whatever Wyvern says, won't you?"

She promised; gave her George her hope that the Professor would make her see differently.

"That's splendid of you!" George cried. "Saint and goose, that's sweet of you. Mary, I'm sure he will. Look here, I must fly; come half-way to the station. The cat's all right here. Pop up and feed her this afternoon."

They pressed the door behind them; hurried down the path.

It was precisely as they turned from the lane into the high-road, that Mrs. Major, a cat beneath her arm, went bounding wildly through the copse towards Herons' Holt.



CHAPTER IV.

George Has A Shot At Paradise.



I.

Two hours after George, leaving his Mary near Paltley Hill railway station, had got back to his inn at Temple Colney, a very agitated young man booked from Temple Colney to Paltley Hill and was now speeding between them in the train.

He had the carriage to himself. Sometimes he sat, hands deep in pockets, legs thrust before him, staring with wide and frightened eyes at the opposite seat. Sometimes he paced wildly from door to door, chin sunk on breast, in his eyes still that look of frantic apprehension. Sometimes he would snatch from his pocket a telegram; glare at it; pucker his brows over it; groan over it.

George was this feverish young man.

On his table in his room at the inn he had found this telegram awaiting him. He had broken the envelope, had read, and immediately a tickling feeling over his scalp had sent a dreadful shiver through his frame:

"Return at once. Cat found.—Marrapit."

He had plumped into a chair.

For a space the capacity for thought was gone. In his brain was only a heavy drumming that numbed. Beneath the window a laden cart went thumping by—thump, thump; thump, thump—cat found; cat found. The cart drubbed away and was lost. Then the heavy ticking of the clock edged into his senses—tick, tock; tick, tock—cat found; cat found.

Then thought came.

Cat found!—then all was lost. Cat found!—then some damned prowling idiot had chanced upon the hut.

This miserable George had felt certain that Professor Wyvern's arguments would overcome his Mary's scruples. That little meeting with his Mary had made him the more desperately anxious for success so that he might win her and have her. And now—cat found!—all over. Cat found! His pains for nothing!

Then came the support of a hope, and to this, hurrying back to the station, speeding now in the train, most desperately he clung. The Rose, he struggled to assure himself, had not been found at all. It was impossible that anyone had been to the hut. Some idiot had found a cat that answered to the Rose's description, and had telegraphed the discovery to his uncle; or someone had brought a cat to his uncle and his uncle was himself temporarily deluded.

Wildly praying that this might be so, George leaped from the train at Paltley Hill; went rushing to the hut. Outside, for full ten minutes he dared not push the door. What if he saw no Rose? What if all were indeed lost?

He braced himself; pushed; entered.

At once he gave a whoop, and another whoop, and a third. He snapped his fingers; cavorted through the steps of a wild dance that considerably alarmed the noble cat that watched him.

For there was the Rose!



II.

When George had indulged his transports till he was calmer, he took a moment's swift thought to decide his action.

Since someone was bouncing a spurious Rose on his uncle, he must delay, he decided, no longer—must dash in with the true Rose at once. Surely his uncle's delight would be sufficient to arouse in him the gratitude that would produce the sum necessary for Runnygate!

Previously, when he had reflected upon the plan he should follow on restoring the cat, he had been a little alarmed at the difficulties he foresaw. Chief among them was the fact that his uncle, and the detective, and heaven knew who else besides, would require a plausible and circumstantial story of how the Rose had been found—might wish to prosecute the thief. How to invent this story had caused George enormous anxiety. He shuddered whenever he thought upon it; had steadily put it behind him till the matter must be faced.

But this and all other difficulties he now sent flying. The relief of freedom from the badgering he had endured since he abducted the Rose; the enormous relief of finding that the Rose was not, after all, gone from the hut; the tearing excitement of the thought that he had his very fingers upon success—these combined to make him reckless of truth and blind to doubts. He relied upon his uncle's transports of delight on recovering the Rose—he felt that in the delirious excitement of that joy everything must go well and unquestioned with him who had brought it about. As to his Mary's scruples—time enough for them when the matter was done.

This was George's feeling at the end of his rapid cogitation. A heartless chuckle he gave as he thought of Bill and Mr. Brunger at the inn, closely dogging the landlord; then he seized the cat and in a second was bounding through the copse to Herons' Holt as Mrs. Major, a short space ago, had bounded before him.



CHAPTER V.

Of Twin Cats: Of Ananias And Of Sapphira.



I.

The maid who opened the door told George that the master awaited him in the study.

Nothing of George's excitement had left him during the rush down to the house. His right arm tucked about the cat he carried, with his left hand impulsively he pushed open the door; with a spring eagerly entered.

Even as he stepped over the threshold the bubbling words that filled his mouth melted; did not shape. In the atmosphere of the apartment there was that sinister element of some unseen force which we detect by medium of the almost atrophied sense that in dogs we call instinct. As dogs will check and grow suspicious in the presence of death that they cannot see, but feel, so my George checked and was struck apprehensive by the sudden sensation of an invisible calamity.

The quick glance he gave increased the sudden chill of his spirits. He saw Mr. Marrapit standing against the mantelshelf—dressing-gowned, hands behind back, face most intensely grim; his glance shifted and he froze, for it rested upon Mrs. Major—hidden by a table from the waist downwards, prim, bolt upright in a chair, face most intensely grim; his eyes passed her and now goggled in new bewilderment, for they took in his Mary—seated upon the extreme edge of the sofa, a white tooth upon lower lip, face most intensely woebegone.

George stood perfectly still.

Like the full, deep note of a huge bell, Mr. Marrapit's voice came booming through the fearful atmosphere.

"Well?" boomed Mr. Marrapit.

The cat beneath George's arm wriggled.

Boom and wriggle touched George back to action from the fear into which the invisible something and the fearful panorama of faces had struck him.

After all—let have happened what might have happened—he had the cat!

He swung the creature round into his hands; outstretched it. He took a step forward. "Uncle!" he cried, "uncle, I have found the Rose!"

"Hem!" said Mrs. Major on a short jerk.

From Mary there came a violent double sniff.

George stood perfectly still; the unseen horror he felt to be rushing upon him, but it remained invisible. With considerably less confidence he repeated:

"The Rose, uncle."

"Hem!" said Mrs. Major on a yet shorter jerk; from Mary a double sniff yet more violent.

Mr. Marrapit raised a white hand.

"Hark!" said Mr. Marrapit.

Alarmed, his nerves unstrung, with straining ears George listened. The tense atmosphere made him ajump for outward sounds.

"Hark!" boomed Mr. Marrapit; lowered the warning hand; at George directed a long finger. "Are you not afraid that you will hear upon the threshold the footsteps of the young men who will come in, wind you up, and carry you out?"

"What on earth—?" George asked.

Mr. Marrapit poked the extended finger towards him. "Ananias!" he boomed. He poked at my quivering Mary. "Sapphira!"

"Hem!" said Mrs. Major. "Hem!"

George recovered. "Is this a joke?" he asked. "I tell you—look for yourself—I have found the Rose."

Mr. Marrapit stooped to Mrs. Major's lap, hidden by the table. With a most queenly creature in his arms he stood upright. "Here is the Rose," said he.

Instantly George forgot all that had immediately passed. Instantly he remembered that a bogus Rose was what he fully expected to see. Instantly fear fled. Instantly assurance returned.

In a full and confident note, "Uncle," he said, "you have been deceived!"

His words let loose a torrent upon him.

Mr. Marrapit with one arm clasped to his breast the cat he had raised from Mrs. Major's lap. Alternately raising and lowering the other hand, his white hair seeming to stream, his eyes flashing, he took on, to George's eyes, the appearance of an enraged prophet bellowing over the cities of the Plain.

"I have been deceived!" he cried. "You are right. Though you have the forked tongue of an adder, yet you speak truly. I have been deceived. Woe is me for I have been most wickedly deceived by those who eat of my bread, who lie beneath my roof. I have cherished vipers in my bosom, and they have stung me. Bitterly have I been deceived."

He paused. A low moan from Mrs. Major, handkerchief to eyes, voiced the effect of his speech upon her; in racking sniffs Mary's emotion found vent. But upon George the outburst had a cooling result—he was certain of his ground.

He said solidly: "That's all rot."

"Rot!" cried Mr. Marrapit.

"Yes, rot. You work yourself up into such a state when you get like this, that you don't know what you're talking about—vipers and all that kind of thing. When you've calmed down and understand things, perhaps you'll be sorry. I tell you you've been deceived. That's not the Rose you've got hold of. This is the Rose. Someone has made a fool of you. Someone—"

Between two violent sniffs, "Oh, George, don't, don't!" came from his Mary.

Startled, George checked.

"Monster, be careful," said Mr. Marrapit. "Beware how much deeper you enmire yourself in the morass of your evil. Put down that miserable creature you hold. I place Mrs. Major's Rose beside it. Look upon them."

George looked. With staring eyes he gazed upon the two cats. With arched tails they advanced to exchange compliments, and the nearer they stood together the less Rose-like became the cat he had brought into the room. For the cat that Mr. Marrapit had produced—Mrs. Major's cat, as he called it—was the Rose herself; could be none other, and none other (when thus placed alongside) could be she.

Struck unconscious to his surroundings by this appalling spectacle, George slowly stooped towards the cats as though hypnotised by the orange coats. His eyes goggled further from his head; the blood went thumping in his temples. He was aghast and horror-struck with the stupefaction that comes of effort to disbelieve the eyes. But he did disbelieve his eyes. How possibly trust them when from the Rose's very bed he had taken the Rose herself and held her till now when he produced her? He did disbelieve his eyes.

He gave Mrs. Major's cat a careless pat. By an effort throwing a careless tone into his voice, "A very good imitation," he said. "Not at all unlike the Rose!"

Mr. Marrapit became an alarming sight. He intook an enormous breath that swelled him dangerously. He opened his lips and the air rushed out with roaring sound. Again he inspired, raised his clenched hands above his head, stood like some great tottering image upon the brink of internal explosion.

As upon a sudden thought, he checked the bursting words that threatened from his lips; allowed his pent-up breath to escape inarticulate; to his normal size and appearance shrank back when it was gone.

With an air of ebbing doubt, "Not at all unlike?" he questioned.

George replied briskly. He forced himself to take confidence, though every moment made yet more difficult the struggle to disbelieve what his eyes told him. "Not at all unlike," he affirmed. "Very similar, in fact. Yes, I should say very similar indeed."

Still in the same tone of one who is being reluctantly convinced, Mr. Marrapit again played Echo's part: "Very similar indeed? You grant that?"

"Certainly," George admitted frankly. "Certainly. I do not wonder you were mistaken."

"Nor I," Mr. Marrapit smoothly replied. "Indeed, in Mrs. Major's cat I detect certain signs which my Rose has long borne but which she has no longer, if the cat you bring is she?"

"Eh?" said George.

"Certain signs," Mr. Marrapit repeated, with the smoothness of flowing oil, "which I recollect in my Rose. The mark, for example, where her left ear was abrased by Mr. Wyvern's blood-thirsty bull-terrier."

George stooped to the cats. Pointing, he cried triumphantly: "Yes, and there is the mark!"

"Yes," Mr. Marrapit pronounced mildly. "Yes, but you are now looking at Mrs. Major's cat."

"Hem!" said Mrs. Major. "Hem!"

Like one who has stepped upon hot iron George started back, stared aghast. A further "hem," with which a chuckle was mixed, came from Mrs. Major; from my collapsed Mary upon the edge of the sofa a sniff that was mingled groan and sob.

George put a hand to his head. This young man's senses were ajostle and awhirl. Well he remembered that mark which by disastrous blunder he had indicated on Mrs, Major's cat; vainly he sought it on his own. Yet his was the Rose. Was this a nightmare, then, and no true thing? He put his hand to his head.

"Looking at Mrs. Major's cat," repeated Mr. Marrapit, his tone smooth as the trickle of oil.

George fought on. "Quite so. Quite so. I know that. That is what makes it so extraordinary—that this cat which you call Mrs. Major's and think is the Rose should have the very mark that our Rose had."

"But our Rose has not—if that is she."

"Ah! not now," George said impressively. "Not now. It healed. Healed months ago. Don't you remember my saying one morning, 'The Rose's ear is quite healed now'?"

"I do not, sir," snapped Mr. Marrapit, with alarming sharpness.

"Oh!" said George. "Oh!"

"Hem!" fired Mrs. Major. "Hem! Hem!"

"That tail," spoke Mr. Marrapit, a sinister hardness now behind the oiliness. "Mark those tails."

George marked. To this young man's disordered mind the room took on the appearance of a forest of waving tails.

"Well?" rapped Mr. Marrapit. "You note those tails? Mrs. Major's cat has a verdant tail, a bush-like tail. Yours has a rat tail. Do you recollect my pride in the luxuriousness of the Rose's tail?"

George blundered along the path he had chosen. "Formerly," he said, "not latterly. Latterly, if you remember, there was a remarkable falling off in the Rose's tail. Her tail moulted. It shed hairs. I remember worrying over it. I remember—"

A voice from the sofa froze him. "Oh, George, don't, don't!" moaned his Mary.

Recovering his horror, he turned stiffly upon her. "If you mean me, Miss Humfray, you forget yourself. I do not understand you. Kindly recollect that I have another name."

The hideous frown he bent upon his Mary might well have advertised the sincerity of his rebuke. He faced Mr. Marrapit, blundered on. "I remember noticing how thin the Rose's tail was getting." He gathered confidence, pushed ahead. "You have forgotten those little points, sir. Upset by your loss you have jumped at the first cat like the Rose that you have seen." He took new courage, became impressive. "You are making a fearful mistake, sir—an awful mistake. A mistake at which you will shudder when you look back—"

"Incredible!"

Mr. Marrapit, swelling as a few moments earlier he had swollen, this time burst to speech. He raised his clenched fists; in immense volume of sound exploded. "Incredible!"

George misinterpreted; was shaken, but hurried on. "It is. I admit it. It is an incredible likeness. But look again, sir."

Mr. Marrapit gave instead a confused scream.

Alarmed, George made as if to plunge on with further protests. "George! George!" from his Mary checked him. Furious, he turned upon her; and in that moment Mr. Marrapit, recovering words, turned to Mrs. Major.

"As you have restored my treasure to my house, Mrs. Major, so now silence this iniquitous man by telling him what you have told me. I implore speed. Silence him. Utterly confound him. Stop him from further perjury before an outraged Creator rains thunderbolts upon this roof."

With a telling "Hem!" the masterly woman cleared for action. "I will, Mr. Marrapit," she bowed. She murmured "Rosie, Rosie, ickle Rosie!" The cat Mr. Marrapit had lifted from her lap sprang back to that enticing cushion.

Gently stroking its queenly back, to the soft accompaniment of its majestic purr, in acid-tipped accents she began to speak.

She pointed at the cat that now sat at George's crime-steeped boots. "When I was out this morning I found that cat in a little copse on the Shipley Road. At first I thought it was our darling Rose. Suddenly I heard voices. I did not wish to be seen, because, dear Mr. Marrapit, if it was the Rose I had found, I wanted to bring it to you alone—to be the first to make you happy. So I slipped into a disused hut that stands there. Footsteps approached the door and I went into an inner room."

Mrs. Major paused; shot a stabbing smile at George.

And now my miserable George realised. Now, visible at last, there rushed upon him, grappled him, strangled him, the sinister something whose presence he had scented on entering the apartment. No sound came from this stricken man. He could not speak, nor move, nor think. Rooted he remained; dully gazed at the thin lips whence poured the flood that engulfed and that was utterly to wreck him.

The masterly woman continued. She indicated the rooted figure in the middle of the room, the collapsed heap upon the sofa's edge. "Those two entered. He had a basket. Oh, what were my feelings when out of it he took our darling Rose!"

For the space of two minutes the masterly woman advertised the emotions she had suffered by burying her face in the Rose's coat; rocking gently.

Emerging, she gulped her agitation; proceeded. "I need not repeat again all the dreadful story I heard, Mr. Marrapit? Surely I need not?"

"You need not," Mr. Marrapit told her. "You need not."

With a masterly half-smile, expressive of gratitude through great suffering, Mrs. Major thanked him. "Indeed," she went on, "I did not hear the whole of it. It was so dreadful, I was so horrified, that I think I fainted. Yes, I fainted. But I heard them discuss how he had stolen the Rose so they might marry on the reward when it was big enough. He had kept the darling till then; now it was her turn to take charge of it—"

Mrs. Major ceased with a jerk, drew in her legs preparatory to flight.

For the rooted figure had sprung alarmingly to life. George would not have his darling Mary blackened. He took a stride to Mrs. Major; his pose threatened her. "That's untrue!" he thundered.

"Ho!" exclaimed Mrs. Major. "Ho! A liar to my face! Ho!"

"And you are a liar," George stormed, "when you say—"

"Silence!" commanded Mr. Marrapit. "Do not anger heaven yet further. Can you still deny—?"

"No!" George said very loudly. "No! No! I deny nothing. But that woman's a liar when she says Miss Humfray discussed the business with me, or that it was Miss Humfray's turn to take the damned cat. Miss Humfray knew nothing about it till I told her. When she heard she said it was wrong and tried to make me take the cat back to you."

In his wrath George had advanced close to Mrs. Major. He stretched a violent finger to an inch from her nose. "That's true, isn't it? Have the grace to admit that."

Indomitable of purpose, the masterly woman pressed back her head as far as the chair would allow, tightened her lips.

The violent finger followed. "Say it's true!" George boiled.

His Mary implored: "Oh, George, don't, don't!"

The furious young man flamed on to her. "Be quiet!"

Mr. Marrapit began a sound. The furious young man flamed to him: "You be quiet, too!" He thrust the dreadful finger at Mrs. Major. "Now speak the truth. Had Miss Humfray anything to do with it?"

This tremendous George had temporary command of the room. The masterly woman for once quailed. "I didn't hear that part," she said.

George drew in the fearful finger. "That's as good as the truth—from you." He rounded upon Mr. Marrapit. "You understand that. This has been my show."

"A blackguard show," pronounced Mr. Marrapit. "A monstrous and an impious show. A—"

"I don't want to hear that. Whatever it is you are the cause of it. If you had done your duty with my mother's money—"

A figure passed the open French windows along the path. Mr. Marrapit shouted "Fletcher!" The gardener entered.

"But you've betrayed your trust," George shouted. He liked the fine phrase and repeated it. "You've betrayed your trust!"

Mr. Marrapit assumed his most collected air. "Silence. Silence, man of sin. Leave the house. Return thanks where thanks are due if I do not hound the law upon you. Take that girl. That miserable cat take. Hence!"

Mary got to her feet, put a hand on her George's arm. "Do come, dear."

The wild young man shook her off. "I'll go when it pleases me!" he shouted at Mr. Marrapit.

"You shall be arrested," Mr. Marrapit returned. He addressed Mary. "Place that cat in that basket Carry it away."

George stood, heaving, panting, boiling for effective words, while his Mary did as bade. Awful visions of her George, fettered between policemen, trembled her pretty fingers. At last she had the basket strapped, raised it.

"Come, George," she said; and to Mr. Marrapit, "I'm so sorry, Mr. Marrapit. I—"

It gave her furious George a vent. "Sorry! What are you sorry about? What have you done?" He roared over to Mrs. Major: "What other lies have you been telling?" He lashed himself at Mr. Marrapit. "Set the law on me? I jolly well hope you will. It will all come out then how you've behaved—how you've treated me. How you've betrayed—"

"Fletcher," Mr. Marrapit interrupted, "remove that man. Take him out. Thrust him from the house."

"Me?" said Mr. Fletcher. "Me thrust him? I'm a gardener, I am; not a—"

"Duty or dismissal," pronounced Mr. Marrapit. "Take choice." He turned to the window. "Come, Mrs. Major."

George dashed for him. "You're not going till I've done with you!"

Violence was in his tone, passion in his face.

Alarmed, "Beware how you touch me!" called Mr. Marrapit; caught Mr. Fletcher, thrust him forward. "Grapple him!" cried Mr. Marrapit.

Mr. Fletcher was violently impelled against George; to save a fall clutched him. "Don't make a scene, Mr. George," he implored.

George pushed him away. Mr. Fletcher trod back heavily upon Mr. Marrapit's foot. Mr. Marrapit screamed shrilly, plunged backwards into a cabinet, overturned it, sat heavily upon its debris.

A laugh overcame George's fury. He swung on his heel; called "Come" to his Mary; stalked from the house.

As they passed through the gate, "Oh, Georgie!" his Mary breathed. "Oh, Georgie!"

He raged on to her: "What on earth made you say you were sorry? You've no spirit, Mary! No spirit!"

The tremendous young man stalked ahead with huge strides.

* * * * *

In deep melancholy, sore beneath the correction Mr. Marrapit had heaped upon him, Mr. Fletcher wandered from the study; turned as he reached the path. "Me grapple him!" said Mr. Fletcher. "Me a craven! Me thrust him from the house! It's 'ard—damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a Ju-jitsu."



CHAPTER VI.

Agony In Meath Street.



I.

Silent, gloom-ridden, my sniffing Mary, my black-browed George laboured to the station. Silent they sat upon a bench waiting the London train.

George bought his Mary a piece of chocolate from the automatic machine; she was a forlorn picture as with tiny nibbles she ate it, tears in her pretty eyes. In the restaurant George bought himself a huge cigar. This man was a desperate spectacle as with huge puffs he smoked, hands deep in pockets, legs thrust straight, brows horribly knitted.

They had no words.

The train came in. George found an empty compartment; helped his poor Mary to a corner; roughly dumped the cat-basket upon the rack; moodily plumped opposite his Mary.

They had no words.

It was as the train moved from the third stop that Mary, putting a giant sniff upon her emotions, asked her George: "Wher—where are we going, dear?"

It was not until the fifth stop that George made answer. "Those Battersea digs," he told her.

They had no words.

At Queen's Road station gloomily they alighted; silently laboured to the house of Mrs. Pinking.

George answered her surprise. "Miss Humfray will have these rooms again, Mrs. Pinking, if you will be so kind; and I—" He checked. "Could you let us have some tea, Mrs. Pinking? Afterwards I'll have a talk with you. We've got into a—We're very tired. If you could just let us have some tea, then I'll explain."

In silence they ate and drank. George was half turned from the table, gloomily gazing from the window. Tiny sniffs came from his Mary; he had no words for her; looked away.

But presently there was a most dreadful choking sound. He sprang around. Most painfully his Mary was spluttering over a cup of tea. With trembling hands she put down the cup; her face was red, convulsively working.

George half rose to her. "Don't cry, darling Mary-kins. Don't cry."

She set down the cup; swallowed; gasped, "I'm not crying—I'm la- laughing," and into a pipe of gayest mirth she went.

Gloom gathered its sackcloth skirts; scuttled from the room.

George roared with laughter; rocked and roared again. When he could get a catch upon his mirth there was the clear pipe of his Mary's glee, clear, compelling, setting him off again. When she would gasp for breath there was her dear George, head in those brown hands, shaking with tremendous laughter—and she must start again.

She gasped: "George! If you could have seen yourself standing there telling those awful stories—!"

He gasped: "When I mistook the cats—!"

She gasped: "Mr. Marrapit's face—!"

He gasped: "Mrs. Major's—!"

The exhaustion of their mirth gave them pause at last. George wiped his running eyes; Mary tremendously blew her little nose, patted her gold hair where it eagerly straggled.

"I feel better after that," George said.

She told him, "So do I—heaps. It's no good being miserable over what is past, is it, dear?"

"Not a bit; not the slightest. Come and sit on the sofa and let's see where we are." She put that golden head upon his manly shoulder; he fetched his right arm about her; she nursed her hands upon the brown fist that came into her lap; that other brown hand he set upon the three.

Together they viewed their prospects—gloomy pictures.

"But we're fairly in the cart," George summed up. "We are, you know."

His ridiculous Mary gave him that lovers' ridiculous specific. "We've got each other," she told him, snuggling to him.

George kissed her. He fumbled in his pockets. "I've got just about three pounds—over from what Marrapit gave me for the clue-hunting. I say, Mary, it's pretty awful."

She snuggled the closer.

Early evening, tip-toeing through the window, was drawing her dusky hangings about the room when at length George withdrew the brown hands; stirred.



II.

Upon a little sigh Mary let go the string that held the dreams she had been dreaming. Like a great gay bundle of many-coloured toy balloons suddenly released, they soared away. She came to the desperate present; noted her George filling his pipe.

He got upon his legs; paced the floor, puffing.

It was his characteristic pose when he was most tremendous. She watched this tremendous fellow adoringly.

He told her: "I've settled it all, Marykins. I've fixed it all up. We'll pull through right as rain." He caught the admiring glance in his Mary's eye; inhaled and gusted forth a huge breath of smoke; repeated the fine sentence. "We'll pull through right as rain."

"Dear George!" she softly applauded.

He pushed ahead. "There's this locum tenens I was going to take up in the North. I haven't offed that yet—haven't refused it, I mean. Well, I shall take it. The screw's pretty rotten, but up in the North—in the North, you know—well, it's not like London. It's cheap— frightfully cheap. You can live on next to nothing—"

She pushed out the irritating, practical, womanish side of her. "Can you? How do you know, Georgie?"

We men hate these pokes at our knowledge; women will not understand generalisations. George jerked back: "How do I know? Oh, don't interrupt like that, Mary. Everybody knows that living is cheap in the North—in the North."

"Of course," she excused herself. "Of course, dear, I see."

"Well, where was I? Frightfully cheap, so the screw won't matter. I'll take the job, dearest. I'll take it for next month. And—listen—we'll marry and go up there together and live in some ripping little rooms. There!"

She was flaming pink; could only breathe: "Georgie, dear!"

He stopped his pacing to give her a squeezing hug, a kiss upon the top of the gold hair. Then he went through the steps of a wild dance. "Marry!" he cried. "Marry, old girl, and let everybody go hang! We'll have to work it through a registrar. I'm not quite sure how it's done, but I'll find out tomorrow. I know you both have to have been resident in the place for a week or so—I'll fix all that. Then we'll peg along up in the North; and we'll look out for whatever turns up, and we'll save, and in time we'll buy a practice just like Runnygate."