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.”