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.”