As stealthily as he had come, but far more rapidly, thanking Heaven that still no light showed through any cranny of the mansion, he loped back, shut the window down again with infinite precautions and even then dreaded a slight sound, put his dumb confederate back, released it of its bandages, slipped on the cover of the cage, and crept up to bed. * * * * * * * So true it is that once in every man's life comes an opportunity and that in every man some talent, however unsuspected, lurks. CHAPTER FOURTEEN Sunday morning had dawned brilliant, had grown in splendour. The mist had gone. A low but clear and even glorious sun flashed heaven athwart the snowy levels and transfigured the winter sky. The Home Secretary came down to breakfast late, and no wonder! Marjorie came down to breakfast late, and no wonder! Tommy and Vic came down late, and no wonder! The Professor and Aunt Amelia had met at the table before anyone else was about. If she expected a flirtation, she was disappointed. If he expected a quiet reading of the Sunday newspaper, he was more bitterly disappointed still. The advent of the late comers was a relief. Last of all drifted in, heavy-eyed but big with mastery achieved, the Collop. At that breakfast very little was said. McTaggart was getting used to the rich. He lit a pipe. But he stood mum. Victoria Mosel and Tom Galton met in Marking Room. "Vic," said Tommy Galton, "who do you think has got it?" He lounged back in the absurdly low, fat chair, letting himself go all loose, as is the habit of your hard-riding man--especially those who pull horses--and looking down at her calves after the admirable breeding of our day. "You haven't, anyhow, Tommy!" lisped Victoria Mosel, in spite of the hanging cigarette. "I've got that much!" "Thank God for that! Spread it!" said Galton. "Thank me, too," said Vic. "All right. Thank _you_, too. Damn you! Who's got it?" Victoria Mosel turned round, spat the fragment of the cigarette into the fire, and lit another one. "I'm thinking," she said. "The natural thing," said Galton, shutting his eyes, "would be that putrid fellah McTaggart: the journalist fellah!" "_He_ hasn't got it," said Vic decidedly. "And he's not so putrid, either. Nothin' like as putrid as you are!" "That's neither here nor there. He's putrid, all right. Shall I tell you who's got it?" "You don't know," said Vic. "Lie away." "Old Footle's got it," said Tommy, with decision. "Cousin Bill. It may be sewn into his sagging skin: but he's got it." Victoria Mosel looked at him curiously through her half-closed buttonhole eyes. "Go on!" she said. "I saw him take it," said Galton. "I saw him with my own eyes." "And you told the chief, I suppose?" said Vic, with a sneer. "Yes, I told him," answered Tommy determinedly.