He paused brightly.
“It is your conundrum,” said Mr. Marrapit. “Solve it.”
George raised an impressive hand. “What, then? It was the thought of the risks that the cats I so loved had run whilst beneath the care of this woman.”
Mr. Marrapit's groan inspirited George. He was on the right track. He took Note 4. “I asked myself, Who is responsible for the jeopardy in which these creatures have been placed? Heaven knows, I said, what they may not have suffered. This woman may have neglected their food, she may have neglected their comforts. In a drunken fit she might have poisoned them, beat them, set furious dogs upon them.”
Mr. Marrapit writhed in anguish.
George acted as Note 4 bade him. He dropped his voice. “Let us trust, sir,” he said, “that none of these things has taken place.”
“Amen,” Mr. Marrapit murmured. “Amen.”
George's voice took a sterner note. “But, I asked myself, Who is responsible for those horrors that might have been, that may have been?”
Mr. Marrapit dropped his head upon his hands. He murmured: “I am. Peccavi.”
George rose in noble calm. He read Note 5; gave it with masterly effect: “No, sir. I am.”