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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg