Now he sat beside his Mary again; with a tremendous brush painted in more details of this entrancing picture. Every doubt, every difficulty he threw to tomorrow—that glad sea in which youth casts its every trouble. Was he sure he still had the refusal of this locum?—rather! but he would make certain, tomorrow. Was he sure they both could live upon the salary?-rather! he would prove it to-morrow. Could they really get married at a registrar's within a few days?-rather! he'd fix that up to-morrow. As to the money necessary for the marriage, necessary to tide over the days till the locum was taken up, why, he knew he could borrow that—from the Dean or from Professor Wyvern—to- morrow.

They were upon the very crest and flood of their delight when George noted the gathering dusk.

"I say, it's getting late!" he exclaimed. "I must fix it up with Mrs. Pinking. We've made no arrangement with her yet."

Mary agreed: "Yes, dear." She went on, pretty eyes shining, face aglow: "Oh, Georgie, think of the last time you brought me here! I had nothing to expect but going out to work again; and you weren't qualified. And now—now, although we've lost our little Runnygate home" (she could not stop a tiny sigh), "we're actually going to be married in a few days! Georgie, I shan't sleep for hoping everything will turn out all right to-morrow."

"It will," George told her. "It will. Right as rain, old girl."

Her great sigh of contentment advertised the drink she took of that sparkling future. "Think of us being together always in a week or so— belonging! Where will you stay till then? Quite close. Get a room quite close, Georgie?"

He stared at her. "Why, you old goose, I'm not going."

She echoed him: "Not going?"

"Of course not. I'm going to get a bedroom here, and we'll have all our meals and everything in here. We're not going to part again, Marykins. Not much!"

That maddening handicap beneath which the sweetest women trudge shackled Mary, deluged this joy.

"Oh, Georgie!" she said; and again trembled, "Oh, Georgie!"

My impulsive George scented the damp. "Well?" he asked. "Well? Whatever's—?"

"Oh, Georgie, you can't have a room here. We can't have all our meals together here?"

He realised the trouble. He broke out: "Why ever not? Why ever—?"

"It wouldn't be right! Georgie, it wouldn't be right!"

Her impulsive George choked for words. "Not right! 'Pon my soul, Mary, I simply don't understand you sometimes. Not right! Why isn't it right?"

It was so difficult to tell. "You don't understand, dear—"

"No, I'm damned if I do. I'm sorry, Mary, but you are so funny, you women. It's so exasperating after the—the devil of a day I've had. Just when I've fixed up everything you turn round and"—he threw out an angry hand—"Why isn't it right?"

This poor little Mary clung to her little principles. "Don't you see? we're engaged, dear; and being engaged, we oughtn't to live alone like this. People would—"

He began to rave. Certainly he had had a devil of a day; and this was a maddening buffet.

"People!" he cried. "People! People! You're always thinking of people, you women! Who's to know? Who on earth's to know?"

The instinct of generations of training gave her the instinctive reply in the instinctive sweet little tone: "We should know, Georgie," she said.

He flung up his arms: "Oh, good God!"

He swallowed his boiling irritation; laughed 'spite himself; went to his Mary. "Mary, don't be such an utter, utter goose. It's too, too ridiculous."

She took his kiss; but she held her stupid little ground.

"It wouldn't be right, Georgie, really!"

Her George clanged the bell with a furious stroke that brought Mrs. Pinking in panic up the stairs. Holding himself very straight, speaking in sentences short and hard, paying to his Mary no smallest attention, he made the arrangements. Miss Humfray would take on her bedroom again. By the week. If Mrs. Pinking would be so kind as to allow them the same terms. He thanked her. That was settled, then. He would look in in the morning. He would say good night, Mrs. Pinking.

Mrs. Pinking gave him good night; busied herself with the tea-things.

Her presence enabled this brutal George to preserve his stony bearing; denied his pretty Mary opportunity to melt him with her tears.

Hard as flint, "Well, good night," he said to her. "I'll look in to- morrow morning."

Upon a little sniff, "Good night," she whispered; strangled an "Oh, George! George!"

She followed him to the door. He was down the stairs before she could command her voice for: "Where shall you go, George?"

With the reckless fury of one who sets forth to plunge into the river, he called back, "I? I? Oh, anywhere—anywhere. Who cares where I go?"

The hall door slammed.

* * * * *

Late into that night while a young woman sobbed her pretty eyes out upon a pillow in a back room of Meath Street, Battersea, a young man, who furiously had been pacing London, paced and repaced the street from end to end, gazing the windows of the house where she lay. This young man muttered, gesticulated, groaned. "Oh, damn!" was his song. "Oh, Mary! Oh, what a cursed brute I am!"

It was a bitter ending to a fearful day.



CHAPTER VII.

Mr. William Wyvern In Meath Street.



I.

George spent the night—such of it as remained after his bitter moanings outside his Mary's lodging—with the Mr. Franklyn who had accompanied him on that little "stroll up west" that had terminated in the cab adventure nearly three months before. Of all his student friends who would give him a bed, Mr. Franklyn, because in a way associated with his Mary, had come most prominently into his mind. That same association gave him a lead from which to pour out his reply to Mr. Franklyn's rallying, as they sat at supper, upon his gloom.

"You remember that day after the July exam, when we went up west together?" he began.

Mr. Franklyn remembered; in some gloom shook his head over the recollection. "That waitress you left me with in the shop," said Mr. Franklyn sadly, "she—"

"Oh, hang the waitress! Listen, Franklyn, After I left you I turned up past the Marble Arch—" He proceeded with some account of the love between him and his Mary; skipped all details relating to the cat; came to the impending marriage; sought advice upon the prospects of a man marrying on a locum's earnings.

Mr. Franklyn listened with great sympathy. "It's a rum thing you should be placed like that, George," he said. "I'm in just the same position."

George exclaimed eagerly—in love, youth warms to a companion—"You are!"

"Well, not exactly," Mr. Franklyn admitted. "Very nearly. I've got myself into a brute of a fix over a girl in the lager-beer garden at Earl's Court. She—"

George bounced from the table, seized his hat. "Who cares a damn about your lager-beer girls?" he shouted; slammed from the house.

It was then, while Mr. Franklyn laboriously indited a letter in reply to one received from the lager-beer girl's mother, that George paced Meath Street.



II.

At breakfast with Mr. Franklyn upon the following morning, he was in brighter trim—apologised for his over-night abruptness; apologised for the hasty meal he was making; announced that he was off to see his Mary.

As he lit his pipe, "I'll see you at hospital this morning some time, old chap," he said. "I shall dash in to fix up with the Dean about taking Bingham's place in that practice up in Yorkshire."

Mr. Franklyn prodded for another slice of bacon. "You can't, old chap," he remarked. "That's filled."

George shouted: "Filled! What do you mean?"

"Why, taken—gone. Simpson's got it—ten days ago."

An icy chill smote my poor George. After the dreadful loss of Runnygate everything had depended upon this appointment with its salary considerably above the average.

"Simpson! Simmy got it!" he shouted. "What the blazes does Simmy mean by taking it? He knew I was after it."

"My good lad, you never came near the place after you'd qualified. If Simmy hadn't taken it someone else would. Bingham was in a hurry."

Blankly George stared before him. At length, "I suppose there are several other jobs going?" he asked.

"None on the Dean's list," said Mr. Franklyn. "I was looking at it last night."

Beneath this new distress George postponed the burning desire to clasp his Mary in his arms and beg forgiveness. He hurried to hospital; made for the Dean's office. Here disaster was confirmed. Simpson had already taken the Yorkshire place; the Dean had no other posts on his lists. "Only this Runnygate practice," he said. "I haven't seen you since you qualified. Can you raise the price?"

George, rising and making for the door, could only shake his head. There was something at his throat that forbade speech. Runnygate and all that Runnygate meant—the dear little home, the tight little practice, the tremendous future—was a bitter picture now that it was so utterly lost; now that even this place in Yorkshire was also gone.

He shook his head.

"Great pity!" the Dean told him. "I've kept it for you. Lawrence, the man who's leaving it, is coming to see me at five this evening. I shall have to help him find another purchaser."



III.

The infernal something in George's throat gripped the harder as he took his way to his Mary. He cursed himself for that hideous cat enterprise. Had he never undertaken it, had he continued instead to entreat and implore, there was always the chance that his uncle would have relented and advanced the money sufficient for Runnygate.

As things were, he stood for ever damned in his uncle's eyes; further, by his folly he had encompassed his darling Mary's ejection from a home where she might comfortably have stayed till he was in position to marry her; further, he had just missed the assistantship which, to his present frame of mind, seemed the sole post in the world that would give him sufficient upon which to call his Mary wife.

The desperate thoughts augmented his fearful remorse at his treatment of her overnight. Arrived at Meath Street, admitted by Mrs. Pinking, he bounded up the stairs, tremendous in his agony of love.

His Mary had her pretty nose pressed flat against the window. With dim eyes she had been gazing for her George in the opposite direction from that he had approached.

He closed the door behind him.

"Mary!" he called, arms outstretched.

Into them she flung herself.

They locked in a hug so desperate as only love itself could have borne.

He poured out his remorse; beside him on the sofa she patted those brown hands. He told his gloomy tale; she patted the more lovingly— assured him that, if the Yorkshire place had failed, something equally good would turn up.

But he was in desperate despondency. "It's all that infernal cat, Mary," he groaned; she kissed that knotted forehead.

He asked her: "By the way, where's that other brute?—the beast we brought here with us?"

She peered low. "I've just fed the poor thing."

Attracted by her movement, that orange cat which had wrought the fearful disaster came forth from beneath the table.

"G-r-r-r!" George growled; stamped his foot.

The orange cat again took shelter.

"Ah, don't frighten it, dear," Mary told him. "It's done no harm."

George rose. He was too tremendously moved to contain himself while seated. "Done no harm!" he cried. He took a step to the window. "Done no—" He stopped short. "Oh, Lord! I say, Mary! Oh, Lord! here's Bill!"

Mary fluttered to his side; saw Bill Wyvern disappear beneath the porch of the door.

A knock; shuffling in the passage; footsteps up the stairs.

"By Gad! I'd forgotten all about old Bill," George said.

Then Bill entered.



CHAPTER VIII.

Abishag The Shunamite In Meath Street.



I.

The most tremendous crises between man and man commonly begin with exchange of the customary banalities. Charlotte Corday gave Marat "Bonsoir, citoyen," ere she drove her knife. This was no cloak to hide her purpose. We are so much creatures of convention that the man who sets out, hell in breast, to avenge himself upon another, cannot forbear to give him greeting before ever he comes upon the matter between them.

George, involuntarily straightening his back as he remembered how desperately he had hoodwinked this Bill, had upon a fool's errand packed him to that inn, as involuntarily passed him the customary words.

"Hullo, Bill!" he said. "How on earth did you know I was here?"

He awaited the burst of reproach; the torrent of fury.

These did not come. About Bill's mouth, as from George to Mary he glanced, there were the lines of amusement; no menace lay in his clear blue eyes.

"Went to look for you at the hospital," Bill replied. "Met that man Franklyn, and he told me you very probably were here."

George pushed ahead with the banalities. "Surprised to see Miss Humfray here?" he asked. "You met her, of course, at my uncle's while- -while"—this was dangerous ground, and he hurried over it—"while I was away," he said quickly; blew his nose.

Bill told him: "Yes. Not a bit surprised." The creases of amusement became more evident. He shook Mary's hand.

"Ah!" George said. "Um! Quite so. Sit down, Bill."

They took seats. Constraint was upon these people; each sat upon the extreme edge of the chair selected.

After a pause, "You've been to Herons' Holt, then?" George remarked.

"Yesterday. Yesterday night."

"Ah! Yesterday. Thursday, so to speak. Um! Margaret quite well?"

"Quite."

The deadly pause came on again. Mary looked appealing to her George. George, his right boot in a patch of sunlight, earnestly was watching it as, twisting it this way and that, the polish caught the rays.

It lay with herself to make a thrust through this fearful silence. Upon a timid little squeak she shot out: "Mr. Marrapit quite well?"

"Quite," Bill told her. "Quite. A little bit—" He checked; again the silence fell.

Mary no longer could endure it. Impulsively leaning forward, arms outstretched, hands clasped, "Oh, Mr. Wyvern!" she cried. "You're not angry with George, are you? He couldn't help sending you to that inn, could he?"

Constraint fled. "Of course I'm not," Bill declared. "Not a bit. I've come here to congratulate you both. I—"

George sprang forward; grasped Bill's hand. "Good old buck!" he cried. "Good old Bill! I'm awfully sorry, Bill. You're a stunner, Bill. Isn't he a stunner, Mary?"

"He is a stunner," Mary agreed.

The stunner, red beneath this praise, warmly returned George's grip. When they released, "I say, George, you are an ass, you know," he said. "Why on earth didn't you tell me what you were up to?"

"You weren't there, old man, when it began. You were in London. How on earth was I to know your paper would come plunging into the business?" The memory of the pains that paper had caused him swept all else from George's mind. Indignation seized him. "It was a scandalous bit of work, Bill. 'Pon my soul it's simply shameful that a newspaper can go and interfere in a purely private matter like that. Yes, it is, Mary. Don't you interrupt. Bill understands. I don't blame you, Bill; you were doing your duty. I blame the editor. What did he want to push into it for? I tell you that paper drove me up and down the country till I was pretty well dead. It's all very well for you to grin, Bill."

"I'm not grinning."

"You are grinning." George threw a bitter note into his declamations. "Of course, you can afford to grin. What was agony to me was hot stuff for you. I expect you've made your reputation over this show. Everything's turned out all right for you—"

Bill took that bitter note. "Rather!" he broke in. "Rather! I pulled it off, didn't I? I found the rotten cat, didn't I? I wasn't made a fool of for two days in a country inn, was I? I've not got the sack all through you, have I?"

George instantly forgot his personal sorrows. "Oh, I say, Bill, you haven't, have you?"

Bill, not expecting the interruption, confessed a little lamely: "No, I haven't. I haven't—as it turns out. But I might have—if it wasn't for—" He paused a moment; sadly said, "Anyway, just as I thought I'd got her, I've lost Margaret again."

In those fierce days when her Bill was the Daily Special Commissioner, Margaret had confided in Mary the promise Mr. Marrapit had made should Bill find the cat. Now Mary was filled with sympathy. "Oh, Mr. Wyvern!" she cried, "I am sorry! What has happened? How do you know? Do tell us everything of when you went to Herons' Holt last night."

Bill took a chair. He said gloomily: "There's not much to tell. I felt I couldn't wait at that infernal inn any longer, so I left the detective in charge, went to the inn where we'd found George, didn't see him, and came back to Herons' Holt. I saw old Marrapit for about two minutes in the hall. He foamed at me all about George, foamed out that I was one of George's friends, and foamed me out of the door before I could get in a word. Said I never was to come near the place again. I asked him about Margaret, and he had a kind of fit—a kind of fit."

George said softly: "I know what you mean, old man."

"A kind of fit," Bill gloomily repeated. Then he struck one clenched fist into the palm of the other hand. "And hang it!" he cried, "I've won her! According to the bargain old Marrapit made with me, I've won her. If it had not been for me you wouldn't have taken the cat to that hut in the wood, and if you hadn't taken it there Marrapit wouldn't have it now. It's through me he got it, isn't it?"

"Bill," George told him, "it is. You rotted my show all right. No mistake about that."

It was a fearful situation as between these two young men. In silence, in gloom, they gazed each upon the ground.

Bill took a glance at George's face; turned hurriedly from the despair there stamped; set his eyes upon my pretty Mary. He gave a sigh.

"But, George, old man, you've come out of it the better," he said. "You've lost the money you wanted, but you've got your—you've got Miss Humfray. I've lost my—I've lost Margaret."

In great melancholy George rose; crossed to his Mary; sat upon the arm of her chair; caressed her pretty shoulders.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Bill. Bill, we're in a most fearful hole. We haven't got a sou, and I've got no work. You're doing well. You're making money. You're bound to get Margaret in time. As for us—"

Bill was deeply stirred. "I say, I am sorry," he told them. He sat up very straight. "Look here, don't get down on your luck. Come out and have lunch with me and tell me just how you're fixed. If a small loan will do you any good I'm certain my guv'nor will stand it. He likes you awfully, George. Come on. I shan't see you again otherwise for some time. I'm off on another Special Commissioner job for the Daily, you know."

George gave a slight shudder. "Oh? Thank goodness, I'm not the object of it this time. What is it?"

"What is it? Why, you've seen the Daily this morning, haven't you?"

"I'll never open the infernal thing again."

Bill did not heed the aspersion. "It's really rather funny, you know," he went on. "Look here." He tugged at his pocket; produced a Daily.

A pencil dislodged by the paper fell to the ground; rolled beneath the table.

Bill stooped after it. The cat that lay there, disturbed, walked forth—arching its proud orange back.



II.

With eyes that goggled tremendously Bill stared at it; with a finger that shook he pointed at it; turned his head to George. "George," he asked, "whose cat is that?"

George looked at Mary; gave a bitter little laugh. "I suppose it's ours," he replied. "Eh, Mary?"

A sad little smile his Mary gave, "I suppose it is," she agreed.

From one to the other Bill looked, suspicion in those goggling eyes.

"You suppose it is?" he emphasised. Again he swiftly looked from George to Mary; again stared at the splendid orange form. "George," he said sharply—"George, what is that cat's name?"

George regarded him with a whimsical smile. "Bill, you old duffer, you don't think it's the Rose, do you?"

Yet more sharply than before Bill spoke. "George, is that cat's name Abishag?"

"Abishag? What an awful—"

Bill turned from him with an impatient gesture. He called to the cat, "Abishag! Abishag!"

With upreared tail the fine creature trotted to him.

"Good Lord!" George broke out. "Is that your cat, Bill?"

Bill turned upon him. "My cat! You know thundering well it's not my cat."

"But it knows you, Mr. Wyvern," Mary told him wonderingly.

There was sorrow, a look of pity in this young man's eyes as reproachfully he regarded my Mary.

He swung round upon George. "George, you've made a fool of me once—"

"I don't know what on earth's the matter with you," George told him.

With knitted brows Bill for a moment searched his face. "I ask you point-blank," he said slowly. "Did you steal this cat, George?"

George struck the stern young man upon the back. "Is that what you're driving at, you old ass? Stole it! D'you suppose I'll ever touch a cat again? That's the infernal cat Mrs. Major left in that hut when she hooked off the Rose. Marrapit told you, didn't he?"

Into a chair Bill collapsed—legs thrust straight before him, head against the cushioned back. He gasped. "George, this is a licker, a fair licker." Enormously this staggered man swelled as he inhaled a tremendous breath; upon a vast sigh he let it go. "That cat—" he said. He got to his legs and paced the room; astonished, Mary and George regarded him. "That cat—I'll bet my life that's the cat!"



III.

My Mary was trembling before this fearful agitation. For support she took her George's hand. "Oh, Mr. Wyvern!" she cried, "whatever is it? Have we got into another awful trouble through those dreadful, dreadful cats?"

"Look at the Daily," Bill said. "Look at the Daily. George, give me a cigarette. I must smoke. This is an absolute licker."

My frightened Mary jumped for the paper where it had fallen; spread it upon the table; opened it. "Oh, George!" she cried. "Oh, George!"; pressed a pretty finger upon these flaming words:

ANOTHER CAT OUTRAGE.

AMAZING STORY.

MR. VIVIAN HOWARD'S FAMOUS PET

STOLEN WHILE BACK TURNED.

"DAILY" OFFER.

500 POUNDS FOR OUR READERS.

My Mary's golden head, my George's head of brown, pressed and nudged as with bulging eyes they read the crisp, telling paragraphs that followed in a column of leaded type.

Readers of the Daily, it appeared, would be astonished to learn that the abduction of Mr. Marrapit's famous cat, the Rose of Sharon— concerning the recovery of which all hope had now been abandoned—had been followed by a similar outrage of a nature even more sensational, more daring.

Mr. Vivian Howard, the famous author and dramatist, whose new novel, "Amy Martin," Daily readers need not be reminded, was to start in the Daily as a feuilleton on Monday week, had been robbed of his famous cat "Abishag the Shunamite."

The whole reading public were well aware of Mr. Howard's devotion to this valuable pet. Scarcely a portrait of Mr. Howard was extant that did not show Abishag the Shunamite by his side.

It was a melancholy coincidence that in the interview granted to the Daily by Mr. Howard last Saturday he had told that Abishag had sat upon his table while every single word of the manuscript of "Amy Martin" was penned. He had admitted that she was his mascot. Without her presence he could not compose a line. Daily readers would imagine, then, Mr. Howard's prostration at his appalling loss.

The occurrence had taken place on Monday night. As Daily readers were well aware, Mr. Howard had for some weeks been staying at the house of his widowed mother in Sussex Gardens. Nightly at nine it had been his custom to stroll round the gardens before settling down for three hours' work upon "Amy Martin." During his stroll Abishag would slip into the gardens, meeting her master upon his completion of the circuit.

According to this practice, Mr. Howard, on Monday night, had followed his usual custom. He believed he might possibly have walked a little slower than usual as he was pondering deeply over his final revise of the proof of "Amy Martin." Otherwise his programme was identical with its usual performance. But upon his return the cat was not to be found.

Theories, suggestions, investigations that had already been made, followed. The Daily abundantly proved that the cat had not strayed but had been deliberately stolen by someone well acquainted with Mr. Howard's nightly promenade; pointed out that this second outrage showed that no one possessing a valuable cat was safe from the machinations of a desperate gang; asked, Where are the police? and concluded with the pica sub-head:

"DAILY" OFFER.

The Daily, it appeared, on behalf of the whole reading public of Great Britain, the Colonies, America, and the many Continental countries into whose tongues Mr. Howard's novels had been translated, offered 500 pounds to the person who would return, or secure the return of, Abishag the Shunamite, and thus restore peace to the heart of England's premier novelist, whose new story, "Amy Martin," would start in the Daily on Monday week.

A sketch-map of Sussex Gardens, entitled "Scene of the Outrage," showed, by means of dotted lines, (A) Route taken by Mr. Vivian Howard; (B) Route into Gardens taken by cat; (C) Supposed route taken by thief.

Mr. Henry T. Bitt had achieved a mammoth splash.



IV.

The golden head and the head of brown lifted simultaneously from the paper; stared towards Bill, pacing, smoking.

Tremendous possibilities flickered in George's mind; made his voice husky. "Bill," he asked, "do you believe that cat is this Abishag— Vivian Howard's Abishag?"

Bill nodded absently. This man's thoughts were afar—revolving this situation he had named "licker." "Look at the description," he said. "Look at the cat. It knows its name, doesn't it? I've seen a life-size painting of Abishag. It's a cert."

George dropped upon the sofa; his thoughts, too, rushed afar.

Tremendous possibilities danced a wild jig in his Mary's pretty head; trembled her voice. "Oh, Mr. Wyvern!" she appealed, "what does it mean? What does it mean—for us?"

"It's a licker," Bill told her. "It's a fair licker."

Mary dropped by her George's side; to his her thoughts rushed.

Presently Bill threw away his cigarette; faced George. He said slowly: "Mrs. Major must have stolen this cat, George. But how did she get it? She's been at Herons' Holt the last week."

Mary gave a little jump. "Oh, Mr. Wyvern, she went up to town on Monday till Tuesday."

Bill struck a hand upon the table. "That fixes it. By gum, that fixes it! I tell you what it is, George. I tell you what it is. I believe— yes, I believe she'd seen this cat before, knew it was like the Rose, and meant to have palmed it off on old Marrapit herself so as to get him to take her back. Margaret told me all about her getting the sack. I bet my life that's it. By gum, what a splash for the Daily!" And upon this fine thought the young man stood with sparkling eyes.

George timidly touched the castles he had been building: "Bill, where do I—where do Mary and I come in?"

Bill clapped his hands together. "Why, my good old buck, don't you see?-don't you realise?-you get this L500. Just do you, eh?"

"Runnygate!" George burst out with a violent jerk; clasped his Mary in an immense hug.

"Runnygate!" came thickly from his Mary, face squashed against this splendid fellow.

When they unlocked my blushing Mary suddenly paled: "Oh, but you, Mr. Wyvern—you found it really."

"Not much," Bill declared. "Not likely. You found it. I couldn't have the reward, anyway. I'm one of the staff." He repeated the fine words: "One of the staff."

She made to thank him. "Besides," he interrupted her, "I'll make a lot out of it. I'm doing awfully well. The chief was awfully pleased with the way I ran that Rose of Sharon job. Of course this is twice as big a splash, because Vivian Howard's mixed up in it. Look what a boost it is for our new serial—look what a tremendous ad. it is for the paper! Directly Howard came to us the editor dropped the Rose like a hot coal; plumped for this and put me in charge. Now I've pulled it off, just think how bucked up he'll be! It's a licker, George—a licker all round."

"Bill," George said, "I can't speak about it. My head's whirling. I believe it's a dream."

Indeed this George had rushed through so much in the past hours, was now suddenly come upon so much, that the excitement, as he attempted realisation, was of stunning effect. He sat white, head in hands.

"Jolly soon show you!" Bill cried. "Come to the office straight away. Bring the cat. I was to meet the chief and Vivian Howard there at twelve."

George sprang to his feet; ruddy again of face. "Come on!" he cried. "Bill, if it isn't his Abishag, if there's any hitch, I'll—I'll—oh, Mary, don't build too highly on this, old girl!"

"Shall I come, Georgie?"

George hesitated. "Better not. Better not, if you don't mind. I couldn't bear to see your face if Vivian Howard says it isn't the cat."

White-faced, between tears and smiles, his Mary waved from the window as George, cat under arm, turned the corner with Bill.



CHAPTER IX

Excursions In A Newspaper Office.



I.

Silent, white and stern of face, occupied with immense thoughts, the young men sat as the cab they had found outside Battersea Park station sped them towards Fleet Street.

They were upon the Embankment, rattling beneath Hungerford Bridge, when from the tangle of his plans Bill at last drew a thread; weaved it to words. "George, we mustn't tell the chief anything about your being mixed up with the other cat outrage—the Rose. It might be awkward."

George shifted the hand that firmly held Abishag on the seat between them; squeezed that fine creature's head to him with his arm; with his handkerchief wiped his sweating palms.

"It's going to be awkward," he said—"damned awkward! I see that. Oh, Bill!"

He groaned. This young man was in desperate agitation.

"Buck up," Bill told him. "This is a cert. Safe as houses."

"All very well for you, Bill. I seem to have been living one gigantic lie all the past week."

"Well, you have, you know," Bill granted. "By gum, you have! But you aren't now. You didn't steal this cat. You found it just as anyone else might have found it. All I tell you is: Don't say anything about the Rose. Don't open your mouth, in fact. Leave the gassing to me."

It was upon this repeated injunction that my poor George tottered up the stairs of the Daily office, cat in arm, in Bill's wake.



II.

Bill rapped upon Mr. Bitt's door; poked in his head at the answering call; motioned my trembling George to wait; stepped over the threshold.

Mr. Bitt sat behind a broad table; before him, deep in an armchair, smoking a cigarette, lay Mr. Vivian Howard.

"Ah! Wyvern," spoke Mr. Bitt. "Mr. Howard, this is Mr. Wyvern, one of my brightest young men. From to-day he takes in hand this business."

Mr. Vivian Howard did not rise; stretched a white hand to Bill. This man had an appreciation of the position he had won. This man stood for English literature. Within a wide estimate of public opinion, and within that immense estimate of him that was his own, this man stood for literature. In a manner worthy of his proud standing this man comported himself. The talents that were his belonged to the nation, and very freely he gave them to the people. This man did not deny himself to the crowd as another might have denied himself. Of him it never could be said that he missed opportunity to let the public feed upon him. This man made such opportunities. Where excitement was, there this man, pausing between his novels, would step in. If a murder-trial had the public attention this man would write upon that trial; if interest were fixed upon a trade dispute this man would by some means draw that interest upon himself. Nothing was too small for this man. Walking the public places he did not shrink from recognition; he gladly permitted it. Not once but many times, coming upon a stranger reading one of his novels, he had announced himself; autographed the copy. This man's character was wholly in keeping with his gifts.

Yet beautifully he could preserve the dignity that was his right. Preserving it now, he gave his hand to Bill but did not move his position.

"It is a great pleasure to me to meet you, sir," Bill told him.

"You have only lately joined the ranks of journalism, Mr. Bitt tells me," Mr. Vivian Howard graciously replied. "It is the stepping-stone to literature. Never forget that. Never lose sight of that. I shall watch your career with the greatest interest."

Mr. Bitt broke in a trifle impatiently: "Well, well, we must keep to business just now. Mr. Howard will kindly give us a daily interview, Wyvern, until the feuilleton starts, or until the cat is found. You'd better—"

Bill took a pace back; faced them both. "No need," he cried in bursting words. "The cat is found!"

The cigarette dropped from Mr. Vivian Howard's lip to his waistcoat. He brushed at it violently; burnt his fingers; brushed again; swore with a ferocity that would have astonished his admirers; sprang to his feet amid a little shower of sparks and cloud of ash. "Found!" he exclaimed; jabbed a burnt finger in his mouth and thickly repeated, "Found!"

Mr. Bitt simultaneously rose. "Found?" cried Mr. Bitt. "What the—"

"I have the finder here," Bill told them; stepped to the door.

On legs that shook my agitated George advanced.

Mr. Vivian Howard drew forth his suffering finger with a loud pop; made three hasty strides to George; took the cat. "Abishag!" he cried in ecstasy, "Abishag!"

In very gloomy tones Mr. Bitt announced that he was bust. "Well, I'm bust!" he said. "I'm bust. It is your cat, eh?"

Mr. Vivian Howard nodded the head he was bending over his Abishag.

Bill signalled to George a swift wink. George drew a handkerchief; wiped from his face the beaded agony.

Mr. Bitt dropped heavily into his seat. "Of course I'm very glad, Mr. Howard," he announced stonily. "Very glad. At the same time—at the same time—" He turned upon George with a note that was almost savage. "You, sir!" he cried.

George started painfully.

"How the—How did you come to find this cat?"

George forced his pocket handkerchief into his trousers pocket; rammed it down; cleared his throat; ran a finger round the inside of his collar; cleared again; said nothing.

Bill hurried to the rescue. "Like this, sir. Let me tell you. This gentleman was at Paltley Hill, a place on the South-Western. He used to live there. He found the cat in a deserted kind of hut, took charge of it. I happened to meet him and brought him along. By Jove, sir, only published this morning and found within a few hours! It's pretty good, isn't it?"

Mr. Bitt spoke with great disgust. "Pretty good!" he cried bitterly. "Pretty good!" He had no fit words in which to express his feeling. "Kindly step in there a moment," he addressed George.

George trembled into the adjoining room indicated; closed the door.

Mr. Bitt turned to Mr. Vivian Howard. "It will always be a great pleasure to me," he told the great novelist, "to think that the Daily was the means of restoring your cat."

"I never shall forget it," Mr. Vivian Howard assured him. The famous author placed himself upon the couch, caressed Abishag the Shunamite upon his lap. "Never shall forget it. It was more than good of you, Mr. Bitt, to take up the matter and offer so handsome a reward. It was public-spirited."

Mr. Bitt's deprecatory little laugh had a rueful note.

He nerved himself to step upon the delicate ground that lay between him and his purpose. This man had not known Mr. Vivian Howard sufficiently long to put to him directly that the reward was offered, and gladly agreed to by Mr. Howard, for purposes of respective self- advertisement agreeable at once to the paper and to the man who stood for English literature. He nerved himself:

"When you say public-spirited, Mr. Howard, you use the right term. I do not attempt to deny that I fully appreciated that this reward for your cat, and the interview you agreed to give us, would greatly benefit our paper. Why should I deny it? We editors must be business men first, nowadays; journalists afterwards. But I do ask you to believe me, Mr. Howard, that in offering this reward, in arousing this interest, I had in view also a matter that has been my aim since I was at College."

Mr. Bitt's college was Rosa Glen College, 156 Farmer Road, Peckham; but he preferred the briefer designation.

"The aim," he continued, gathering courage as he detected in Mr. Vivian Howard's face a look which seemed to show that the famous author was advancing upon the delicate ground to meet him, "the aim of attracting the people to good literature."

Mr. Vivian Howard, as standing for that literature, took the implied compliment with a bow. "I congratulate you, Mr. Bitt."

"Now, the Daily is young," Mr. Bitt earnestly continued. "The Daily has yet to make its way. If your 'Amy Martin' starts in normal circumstances a week hence, it will mean that this contribution to our highest literature will fall only to a comparatively small circle of people. But if—but if, as I had hoped, we had morning by morning attracted more and more readers by the great interest taken in your loss, 'Amy Martin' would then have introduced our best fiction to a public twice or thrice as large as our present circulation represents."

"You mean—?" the great author inquired.

"I mean," Mr. Bitt told him, "that for this reason I cannot but regret that the excitement aroused should disappear with our issue of to- morrow. I mean, Mr. Howard, that for the reason I have named I do think it is almost our duty—our duty, for the reason I have named—to conceal the cat's recovery for—er—for a day or so."

Mr. Bitt blew his nose violently to conceal his agitation. This man was now in the precise centre of the delicate ground; was in considerable fear that it might open and swallow him.

But Mr. Vivian Howard's reply made that ground of rock-like solidity.

"As you put the matter, Mr. Bitt, I must say I agree. It would be false modesty on my part to pretend I do not recognise the worth of 'Amy Martin,' and the desirability of introducing it as widely as possible. Certainly that could best have been accomplished by Abishag not having been recovered so soon. But as it is—I do not see what can be done. You do not, of course, suggest deliberate deception of the public?"

"Certainly not!" cried Mr. Bitt with virtuous warmth. Since this was precisely what he did suggest and most earnestly desired, he repeated his denial: "Certainly not! At the same time—"

"One moment," Mr. Vivian Howard interrupted. "This cat was obviously stolen by someone and placed in the hut where it was found. Very well. We prosecute. We prosecute, and I could give you every morning my views on the guilt or otherwise—"

Mr. Bitt shook his head. "I had thought of that. It won't do. It won't do, Mr. Howard. For one thing, a rigorous prosecution and sentence might create bad feeling against the paper. You have no idea how curious the public is in that way. For another, you, as the injured party, ought not to comment; and certainly I could not publish your views. The matter would be sub judice directly arrest was made; and I once got into very serious trouble over a sub judice matter—very serious trouble indeed. I shall not touch the law, Mr. Howard. It is unwise. At the same time, I think the thief should be made to suffer— be given a thorough fright. Now, if we inform the public that practically our Special Commissioner has his hand on the cat—which will be perfectly true—and is almost certain as to the identity of the thief—if we keep this up for the few days necessary for the publication of those magnificent articles of yours on 'What my Loss means to Me,' we shall be accomplishing three excellent objects. We shall be terrifying an evil-doer—we may take it for granted he reads the Daily; we shall be giving the public those articles which most certainly ought not to be lost to literature; and we shall be widening the sphere of influence of 'Amy Martin.'"

Mr. Vivian Howard did not hesitate. "It is impossible to override your arguments, Mr. Bitt. I think we shall be doing right."

Mr. Bitt concealed his immense joy. "I am convinced of it, Mr. Howard," he said. "Convinced. The modern editor and the man of letters of your standing have enormous responsibilities."

Impelled by the virtuous public duty they were performing, the two men silently grasped hands.



CHAPTER X.

A Perfectly Splendid Chapter.

Mr. Bitt turned to Bill; indicated the door behind which my poor George was wrestling in prayer. "The only difficulty is with that chap in there. He knows the cat is found! How can we—"

"If you will leave that to me, sir," Bill told him, "I think I can arrange it without difficulty."

"Or danger?" added Mr. Vivian Howard, who, standing for English literature, would not lightly imperil his integrity.

"Or the least danger," Bill affirmed. "He's a kind of friend of mine— did I mention that, sir? I'll fix it up in a minute."

He stepped briskly to George; closed the door behind him.

George said faintly: "Say it quick, Bill. Quick."

"You've got it, old man. Got it."

George rose to his feet; stretched his arms aloft; wildly waved them. The tremendous shout for which he opened his mouth was stayed upon his lips by Bill's warning finger. He hurled himself on a couch; rolled in ecstasy.

Rapidly Bill outlined the proposals. Then he struck a heavy hand upon George's shoulder. "And I've got it too!" he cried in an exultant whisper. "I've got it too! I've got Margaret!"

"Margaret! However—?"

"Like this. Plain as a fiddle-stick. To-morrow, when we get out this story about practically having our hand on the thief, I shall go bang down to Marrapit with the paper and tell him I know it was Mrs. Major who took the cat. You can imagine the state that'll put 'em both in. Then—then, my boy, I shall say 'Let Margy and me carry on and fix it up forthwith, and I'll promise Mrs. Major shall never hear a word more about the matter.' He'll agree like a shot. The chief's not going to prosecute, you see; so neither Mrs. Major nor you ever will hear a word more. George, we've done it! Done it! You've got your Mary and I've got my Margy!"

With swelling bosoms, staring eyes, upon this tremendous happening the two young men clasped hands; stood heavily breathing. These men were glimpsing heaven.

When they unlocked, George said: "There's one thing, Bill. Go in and tell that precious pair they can hold over the discovery till they please and that I shall never breathe a word. But tell 'em this: I don't agree unless I have my cheque right away."

Bill advised no stipulations.

George stood firm: "I don't care a snap, Bill. I will have it now. I've been badgered about quite enough. I want to feel safe. I'll either lose it all or have it all. No more uncertainty. Anything might happen during the week, for all I know."

Bill took the message.

Upon immediate payment Mr. Bitt at first stuck. "He might turn back on us, or start blackmailing us. He may have stolen the cat himself for all we know."

"All the more likely, in that case, to keep his mouth shut," commented Mr. Vivian Howard. Despite he stood for literature, this man had strong business instincts.

Bill urged compliance. He knew this finder of the cat; would speak for him as for himself.

Mr. Bitt put a quill into his inkstand; took George's name; wrote a slip; handed it to Bill. "Take that to the cashier, Wyvern. He'll give you the cheque. Clear your friend out. Eh? No—no need for me to see him again. Of course you must get his story of how he found the cat, to use when the 'What my Loss means to Me' articles run out. Then come back and we'll fix up to-morrow's account."

A cabman drove to St. Peter's Hospital a seemingly insane young man, who bounded into the cab with a piece of paper in his hand; who sang and rattled his heels upon the foot-board, shouted to passers-by; who paid with two half-crowns; who bounded, paper still fluttering in hand, up the steps of the Dean's entrance with a wild and tremendous whoop.

George had scarcely explained to the Dean an incoherent story of L500 won through a newspaper competition, when the Mr. Lawrence, M.R.C.S., L.R.C.P., whose practice was at Runnygate, arrived.

Informally the purchase was at once arranged; a further meeting settled. George bolted to another cab; drove to Meath Street by way of the florist near Victoria Station; took aboard an immense basket of flowers.

At the house he gathered the flowers beneath his arm; on the way upstairs shifted them to his hands; flung wide the door.

His Mary, white, a tooth on a trembling lip, her pretty hands clasped, was before him. In a great whirling shower he flung the blossoms about her; then took her in his arms.

"Runnygate, Mary! Darling old girl, Runnygate!"

He kissed his Mary.

Last Shots from the Bridge.

If you had patience for another peep from the bridge that I can build, you might catch a glimpse or so.

Bending over you might see Bill seated at the editor's table of the editor's room of a monstrously successful monthly magazine of most monstrous fiction that Mr. Bitt's directors have started; Margaret, that sentimental young woman, by her husband's side is correcting the proofs of a poem signed "Margaret Wyvern." It is of the most exquisite melancholy.

Bending over you might see George upon one of the summer evenings when, his duties through, he is taking his Mary for a drive in the country behind that rising seaside resort Runnygate. They are plunging along in a tremendous dogcart drawn by an immense horse. George is fully occupied with his steed; Mary, peeping at constant intervals through the veil that hides the clear blue eyes and the ridiculous little turned-up nose of her baby, at every corner says: "Oh, George! Georgie, do be careful! We were on one wheel then, I know we were!" But along the level the wind riots at her pretty curls as she sits up very straight and very proud, smiling at this splendid fellow beside her.

Bending over you might see the garden of Herons' Holt, Mr. Fletcher leading from the house the fat white pony and tubby wide car which Mrs. Marrapit, formerly Mrs. Major, has prevailed upon her husband to buy. The pony has all the docile qualities of a blind sheep, but Mr. Fletcher is in great terror of it. When, while being groomed, it suddenly lifts its head, Mr. Fletcher drops his curry-comb and retires from the stall at great speed. "It's 'ard," says Mr. Fletcher—"damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a 'orse-breaker."

THE END.