“Join the searchers. Scour the grounds. Search every shrub. Climb every tree.” The agonised man led downstairs. “I found the window open,” he moaned. “Night by night, year in year out, I have shut it. Impossible that I forgot. If I forgot, the Rose is in the garden or in the vicinity. If I did not forget, the window was forced--the Rose was stolen. A detective shall decide.” George grew quite cold. Employment of a detective had not occurred to him. They were at the front door. He put a hand on Mr. Marrapit's arm. “Oh, not a detective. Don't get a detective.” “If need be I will get forty detectives. I will blacken the countryside with detectives.” George grew quite hot. “Uncle, let us keep this private. Leave it with me. Rely on me. I will find your cat.” “Into the garden,” cried Mr. Marrapit. “Join the searchers. They have failed once. Lead, animate, encourage.” “And you won't get a detective?” Mr. Marrapit did not reply. He had opened the hall door; Mr. Fletcher in the middle distance approached moodily. Mr. Marrapit thrust out a hand. “Back! Back!” he cried hoarsely. Wearily Mr. Fletcher gave answer. “It's no use, Mr. Marrapit. It's no good saying 'back.' I've been back. I've been back and I've been front and I've been both sides. I've looked here, I've looked there; I've looked up, I've looked down. I'm giddy with looking.” He approached; stood before them. Woe heavily draped herself about this man. “Oh, easily discouraged!” Mr. Marrapit cried. “Oh, infirm of purpose! Back, faint-heart! Do not say die.” Faint-heart mopped a streaming brow. “But I do say die. I do say die, Mr. Marrapit, and I damn well shall die if I go creepin' and crawlin' and hissin' much longer. It's 'ard--damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a cobra.” Mr. Marrapit slammed the door. George hurried out of sight; in the kitchen garden sat down to think. He was frightened. Thus far the plot had not worked well. Detectives! He gave an hour to the search he was ostensibly conducting; when he again entered the house was more easy-minded. Employed in meditation that hour gave him back his coolness of the night. Rudely awakened, given no time in which firmly to plant his feet, securely to get a purchase with his hands before the storm burst, he had been whirled along helpless and bewildered before Mr. Marrapit's gusty agony. Instead of resisting the torrent, directing its course, he had been caught where it surged fiercest, hurled down-stream. In the vulgar simile of his reflections he was rotting the whole show. But now he had steadied himself. He girded his loins against the part he had to play; with new determination and confidence entered the house. II. There was no breakfast at Herons' Holt that morning. When George, dressed, bathed and shaved, sought out his uncle, it was to find Mr. Marrapit in the study. The distracted man was pacing the floor, a closely written sheet of paper in his hands. He turned upon George.