“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.”