Once Aboard the Lugger Part 61

"Your--your extraordinary grasp of the case astonishes me," George exclaimed.

"Experience, sir, experience," said Mr. Brunger airily. Addressing Mr.

Marrapit, "We must put both methods to work," he continued. "I shall now go to town, look up the chief breeders and set members of my trained staff to track them. Also I must advertise this reward. With a cat of such value we cannot use half measures. Shall we say one hundred pounds to start with?"

"Barley water!" gasped Mr. Marrapit. "Barley water!"

George sprang to the sideboard where always stood a jug of Mr.

Marrapit's favourite refreshment. Mr. Marrapit drank, agitation rattling the gla.s.s against his teeth.

"Think what it means to you, sir," persuaded Mr. Brunger, a little alarmed at the effects of his proposal.

The detective's tone had a very earnest note, for he was thinking with considerable gratification what the hundred pounds would mean to himself. On previous occasions he had urged rewards from his clients, put Mr. Issy Jago in the way of securing them, and paid that gentleman a percentage.

"Think what it means to you," he repeated. "What is a hundred pounds or thrice that sum against the restoration of your cat? Come, what is it, sir?"

"Ruin," answered Mr. Marrapit, gulping barley water. "Ruin."

Mr. Brunger urged gravely: "Oh, don't say that, sir. Think what our dumb pets are to us. I've got a blood-'ound at home myself that I'd give my life for if I lost--gladly. Surely they're more to us, our faithful friends, than mere--mere--"

"Pelf," supplied George, on a thin squeak that was shot out by the excitement of seeing events so l.u.s.tily playing his hand.

"Mere pelf," adopted Mr. Brunger.

Mr. Marrapit gulped heavily at the barley water; set his gaze upon a life-size portrait in oils of his darling Rose; with fine calm announced: "If it must be, it must be."

With masterly celerity Mr. Brunger drew forward pen and paper; scribbled; in three minutes had Mr. Marrapit's signed authority to offer one hundred pounds reward.

He put the doc.u.ment in his pocket; took up his hat. "To-morrow," he said after farewells, "I or one of my staff will return to scour the immediate neighbourhood. It has been done, you tell me, but only by amateurs. The skilled detective, sir, will see a needle where the amateur cannot discern a haystack."

VI.

He was gone. His last words had considerably alarmed George. No time was to be lost. All was working with a magic expediency, but the Rose must not be risked in the vicinity of one of these needle-observing detectives. She must be hurried away.

"Uncle," George said, "I did not say it while the detective was here-- I do not wish to raise your hopes; but I believe I have a clue. Do not question me," he added, raising a hand in terror lest Mr. Marrapit should begin examination. "I promise nothing. My ideas may be wholly imaginary. But I believe--I believe--oh, I believe I have a clue."

Mr. Marrapit rushed for the bell. "Recall the detective! You should have spoken. I will send Fletcher in pursuit."

George seized his uncle's arm. "On no account. That is why I did not speak before. I am convinced I can do better alone."

"You do not convince me. You are an amateur. We must have the skilled mind. Let me ring."

George was in terror. "No, no; do you not see it may be waste of time?

Let me at least make sure, then I will tell the detective. Meanwhile let him pursue other clues. Why send the trained mind on what may be a goose-chase?"

The argument had effect. Mr. Marrapit dropped into a chair.

George explained. To follow the clue necessitated, he said, instant departure--by train. He would write fullest details; would wire from time to time if necessary. His uncle must trust him implicitly. The detective must not be told until he gave the word.

Eager to clutch at any hope, Mr. Marrapit clutched at this. George was given money for expenses; at eight o'clock left the house. There had been no opportunity for words with his Mary. She did not even know that Mr. Marrapit had refused the money that was to mean marriage and Runnygate; she had not even danced with her George upon his success in his examination. Leaving the household upon his desperate clue, George could do no more than before them all bid her formal farewell. At half-past eight he is cramming the peerless Rose of Sharon into a basket taken from Mr. Fletcher's outhouses; at nine the villain is tramping the railway platform, in agony lest his burden shall mi-aow; at ten the monster is at Dippleford Admiral; at eleven the traitor is asleep in the bedroom of an inn, the agitated Rose uneasily slumbering upon his bed.

CHAPTER VII.

Terror At Dippleford Admiral.

I.

"Impress your client," was the maxim of Mr. David Brunger. "Make a splash and keep splashing," was that of Mr. Henry T. Bitt, editor of Fleet Street's new organ, the _Daily_.

Muddy pools were Mr. Bitt's speciality. His idea of the greatest possible splash was some stream, pure and beautiful to the casual eye, into which he could force his young men and set them trampling the bottom till the thick, unpleasant mud came clouding up whence it had long lain unsuspected. There was his splash, and then he would start to keep splashing. By every art and device the pool would be flogged till the muddy water went flying broadcast, staining this, that, and the other fair name to the nasty delight of Mr. Bitt's readers.

Scandal was Mr. Bitt's chief quest. Army scandal, navy scandal, political scandal, social scandal--these were the courses that Mr.

Bitt continuously strove to serve up to his readers. Failing them--if disappointingly in evidence on every side was the integrity and the honour for which Mr. Bitt raved and bawled when in the thick of splashing a muddy pool,--then, argued Mr. Bitt, catch hold of something trivial and splash it, flog it, placard it, into a sensational and semi-mysterious bait that would set the halfpennies rising like trout in an evening stream.

Bringing these principles-indeed they won him his appointment--to the editorship of the _Daily_, Mr. Bitt was set moody and irritable by the fact that he had no opportunity to exercise them over the first issue of the paper.

But while preparing for press upon the second night the chance came.

There was no scandal, no effective news; but there was matter for a sensational, semi-mysterious "leading story" in a tiny little sc.r.a.p of news dictated by Mr. David Brunger, laboriously copied out a dozen times by Mr. Issy Jago and left by that gentleman at the offices of as many newspapers.

Seven sub-editors "spiked" it, three made of it a "fill-par.," one gave it a headline and sent it up as an eight-line "news-par."; one, in the offices of the _Daily_, read it, laughed; spoke to the news-editor; finally carried it up to Mr. Bitt.

Mr. Bitt's journalistic nose gave one sniff. The thing was done. Some old idiot was actually offering the ridiculously large sum of one hundred pounds for the recovery of a cat. Here, out of the barren, un-newsy world, suddenly had sprung a seed that should grow to a forest.

The very thing. The _Daily_ was saved.

Away sped a reporter; and upon the following morning, bawling from the leading position of the princ.i.p.al page of the _Daily_, introducing a column and a quarter of leaded type, these headlines appeared:

COUNTRY HOUSE OUTRAGE.

VALUABLE CAT STOLEN.

SENSATIONAL STORY.

HUGE REWARD.

CHANCE FOR AMATEUR DETECTIVES.

All out of Mr. Issy Jago's tiny little paragraph.

_Daily_ readers revelled in it. It appeared that a gang of between five and a dozen men had surrounded the lonely but picturesque and beautiful country residence of Mr. Christopher Marrapit at Herons'

Holt, Paltley Hill, Surrey. Mr. Marrapit was an immensely wealthy retired merchant now leading a secluded life in the evening of his days. First among the costly art and other treasures of his house he placed a magnificent orange cat, "The Rose of Sharon," a winner whenever exhibited. The gang, bursting their way into the house, had stolen this cat, despite Mr. Marrapit's heroic defence, leaving the unfortunate gentleman senseless and bleeding on the hearth-rug. Mr.

Marrapit had offered 100 pounds reward for the recovery of his pet; and the _Daily_, under the heading "Catchy Clues," proceeded to tell its readers all over the country how best they might win this sum.

All out of Mr. Issy Jago's tiny little paragraph.